Silent Fall (24 page)

And what about his real father? Did he know about Dylan? And if he did, why hadn't he come forward?

Was the man someone his father knew? A friend of the family? The mailman, the butcher, the next-door neighbor?

Dylan rolled his neck around on his shoulders, wishing he could do more than speculate. He wanted to take action. He wanted to shake the truth out of someone.

"Dylan?"

Catherine's voice was hesitant, unsure. He turned and saw her standing a few feet away. He beckoned her forward. "I'm all right."

"How could you be?"

He smiled, surprising both of them.

"Are you sure you heard what I said earlier?" she queried.

"He's not my father. That's the best news I've received in the past twenty-three years. He's not my father. I can't stop saying it."

"I thought you'd be hurt."

"That I'm not related to a bully? Not for a second. I'm incredibly relieved."

"Well, then I'm glad I told you," she said, smiling back at him. "I can't believe in all the years that passed your grandmother never said anything. Especially when you tried to tell her that your father was hitting you. She must have known why he picked on you and not on Jake. Why didn't she do something? Quite frankly, I'm annoyed with her. If she weren't in a rest home, I'd tell her so."

"I'm sure you would."

"She was a grown woman and you were a child, and she should have protected you, even if it meant turning on her own son."

"I guess she didn't want to see it," Dylan said. "Love is blind."

"Real love isn't blind. It's honest, accepting, generous."

"I don't know what real love is. I sure as hell haven't seen it in my life. And I don't think you have either, have you?"

She hesitated for a second too long. "No, I guess not."

Catherine was lying to him, but he didn't want to call her on it. Like his grandmother, sometimes he preferred to stick his head in the sand. "Well, I don't have the energy or the time to be angry with my grandmother anymore. I can't change the past. However, I would like to know what happened to my mother after she left, and who my real father is. Do you know?"

"No, there was nothing else in the journal. I'm sorry."

Dylan was disappointed, but he would find out what happened before this was all over. He was determined to uncover every last secret. He glanced at the island that was getting bigger as they drew closer. "I have the strangest feeling she's there, and that's why we're on this ferry. You feel it, too, don't you, Catherine?" She looked away from him, a sure sign she didn't want him to see what she was thinking. "What's wrong? What are you trying to hide from me?"

She sighed. "Nothing, really. I think I heard your mother's voice in my dreams last night. She said to stay away, that it's not who you think, it's never who you think. I didn't know what she meant, or really if it was even her. Usually the visions are longer, more vivid; this was just a voice. It could have been Erica's voice or someone else's. Or it could have just been my imagination."

He didn't know what to make of her latest prophecy, but her words left him uneasy. "It's too late to turn back now."

"Is it? We don't have to get off the boat. We could go back to Anacortes and never set foot on that island."

"You know me better than that. I don't run away. I'm going to face whatever or whoever is on that island if it's the last thing I do."

"Then I will, too," she said, moving over to join him at the rail. "But let's not make it the last thing either one of us does, okay?"

Chapter 18

Thirty minutes later Dylan felt unexpectedly nervous as they got into their car and waited to drive off the ferry. He rarely thought about the past, because it usually pissed him off. Now he had a lot more to consider, and his instincts told him that while he might not find all the answers he was seeking on this island, he would find at least a few. This was where his mother had brought them every summer. They'd spent long days on the beach, summer nights barbecuing. He could hear the sounds of his childhood in his head, the adults talking as the kids roasted marshmallows or chased the dogs into the water. He remembered his mother playing music late into the night while he tried to fall asleep in the twin bed next to his brother.

Sometimes he'd gotten up, crept to the door, and watched his mother rocking back and forth in the porch swing, staring out at the ocean. Sometimes he'd gone out to join her, curling up in her lap while she stroked his hair and told him stories.
God!
An ache settled in his stomach that grew into a knot as he thought about her. He'd pushed all those good times away, but now they were storming back.

And what about those nights when he'd heard a male voice out on the porch, the clink of glasses, soft laughter and whispers? Had his mother had an affair with someone on the island? They'd spent time with several families. There had also been men who worked only in the summers, renting boats, lifeguarding, leading hikes up into the hills. Had one of those men drawn his mother's interest, given her the love and comfort she hadn't found at home?

Dylan wanted to know everything, and he wanted to know it now. Honking his horn impatiently at the car that had stalled in front of him released a little of his tension, but made Catherine roll her eyes.

"It's not that guy's fault." She tipped her head to the teenager who was having trouble getting his car into gear.

"I know, but I'm in a hurry. I want to get to the house."

"Do you think it will look the same?" she asked.

In his heart he thought it would be exactly the same, but his head told him different. Twenty-three years had gone by, and he had no idea what had happened to the house after his mother left. She certainly could have sold it. Or she could have come here to lick her wounds.

"I'm surprised you never considered that your mother might have run here," Catherine said, echoing his thoughts.

He was getting used to having her read his mind. He was beginning to find it somewhat comforting not to have to explain himself all the time. She knew what he knew. "I did consider it," he admitted. "But I never did anything about it. A few months ago, when Jake and Sarah got back together, I told him I was going to look for our mother, that I thought it was time, but then I returned to work and the Ravino case broke, and I put it aside again, like I'd put it aside a hundred times before. A part of me didn't really want to know. I wasn't ready. I don't know if I'm ready now, but here we are."

They found the house easily, right past the bridge, left on Falcon, flowers in the window box. The flowers were yellow daisies now, but Dylan knew he was at the right place. He parked at the curb, taking a minute to absorb the sight before him. The house hadn't changed all that much. It was a simple three-bedroom, one-story pale yellow house that faced a private beach shared by the six other homes in the neighborhood. New paint had been applied sometime in the past five years. The lawn had been mowed recently. Someone was taking care of the property; that was clear.

He didn't feel any emotion until his gaze lit on the porch swing, until in his mind he could see his mother rocking back and forth, one leg tucked under her, one foot tapping the ground. She'd loved to sit on that swing during the daytime, reading a book, glancing up occasionally to watch them playing on the tire swing that hung from a nearby tree. The tire was gone now, and the kids who'd played on it were all grown up.

"Are you getting out?" Catherine asked hesitantly.

He realized he'd been sitting in the car for a while. Maybe he wasn't quite as ready to face his past as he'd thought. "I don't know what I'm worried about," he said.

"You're worried that your mother will answer that door."

"Well, there is that."

"Or worse, that she won't be there, that you still won't know what happened to her."

"Do I even need to speak or can you just keep reading my mind?"

"Some of that was just a guess. Frankly I don't know how you're still functioning after everything you've learned today. I'd probably be in bed, hiding under the covers and hoping it was another bad dream."

"A part of me does hope that," he admitted. "It feels like a dream, being in a place where I was actually happy. There was peace in this house. I can't remember my father ever coming here. I think my mother asked him, but he never had time." He paused, thinking about the clues that had led them here. "Why would my father give Erica a key to this place? And don't tell me it's because he wanted to have an affair with her in this house. That isn't logical. It's far away. It's remote."

"Which would make it ideal for an affair, and I don't have to remind you that we're not dealing with logical people. What's happening to you is not about facts; it's about emotion. It's about love and hate. If your mother betrayed your father here, and you were the result of that betrayal, he might have wanted to punish you in a similar way by sleeping with someone you'd been

with."

"That's sick."

"I agree. That doesn't make it untrue."

"Erica wouldn't have slept with both of us." He let out a sigh, knowing that he really had no idea what Erica would have done. "Maybe she would have if the price was right."

"Well, if it's any consolation, he's not your real father."

"That's going to take a while to sink in."

"Do you want me to find out if anyone is home?" Catherine offered.

"No, this is my deal. I'll do it." He got out of the car before he could change his mind, but his steps slowed as he drew closer to the house. It was inevitable that he would eventually get there. He finally had no choice but to ring the bell. He heard it peal through the small house, followed by silence. He felt an intense and immediate letdown. "No one's home. We've come all this way, and no one's here." He shook his head in disgust. "I'm getting in even if I have to break the door down."

"Maybe it won't come to that. There might be an open window." She turned the knob. "Or an open door. It's not locked."

Dylan was surprised. It was too easy. "This isn't right."

"You think it's a trap?"

"It sure as hell could be." He glanced around, considering his options. Was it possible that whoever owned the house now had simply left it open? Were they just down at the beach, out for a bike ride? There was no way to know, and he hadn't come all this way to turn around now. "We might as well check it out. I'll go first." After a momentary hesitation he entered the house, feeling as if he were stepping back in time. Then the feeling passed.

The furniture was different. Gone were the old couch and love seat, replaced by sleek sofas in warm burgundy leather, antique lamps and tables. He didn't recognize one piece. The kitchen had been remodeled with granite countertops and oak cabinets. He opened the refrigerator. It was empty save for a carton of milk, its expiration date today. Someone had been here recently. Who?

He walked over to the bedroom he'd once shared with Jake. A queen-size bed had replaced the twins. A cream-colored comforter covered the mattress. Did the house still even belong to his mother? Or had his father taken it over? He had to have been the one to give Erica the key.

When Dylan returned to the living room he found Catherine rifling through the drawer of a desk. She pulled out a piece of paper, her eyes narrowing.

"What did you find?"

"A rental agreement. It looks like Farrington Realtors handles the vacation rentals for the owner."

"Who is . . . ?" Dylan asked, taking the paper from her hand. He skimmed the memo, which simply recapped the open rental periods, one of which covered the current week, but there was no clue as to who actually owned the house. Was it Richard Sanders? Had he held on to the property all these years? It seemed unimaginable. "Is there anything else in that drawer?"

"A local telephone directory, restaurant menus, local churches, tourist activities," Catherine muttered as she ran through a file folder. As she set it back into the drawer, she pulled out an old newspaper.

Dylan's pulse quickened at the sight of the yellowing paper. "That's from the past."

"Yes," Catherine agreed, her gaze skimming the page. When she looked at Dylan there was pain in her eyes. "Oh, God!"

"What is it?"

She handed him the newspaper. It took him a moment to realize he was looking at the obituaries. A name jumped out at him:
Olivia Sanders.

Olivia Sanders was dead.

His heart stopped. His breath caught in his chest. He couldn't make a sound.

His mother was dead.

She'd died twenty-three years ago. His gaze fixed on the date. It couldn't have been more than two months after she'd left them. She'd come here, and she'd died here. How? He read through the brief notice, which listed the cause of death as accidental drowning. The notice said that Olivia was survived by her husband and two children. There was nothing else.

How could that have happened? His mother had been an excellent swimmer. She couldn't have drowned. She'd grown up on the island. She'd taught swimming lessons. Something was wrong.

"This can't be right," he said, looking at Catherine.

"I'm sorry, Dylan. I know you wanted to find her alive."

"But she knew how to swim. She wouldn't have drowned."

"Maybe she was on a boat or something, or she got caught in a riptide, had an unexpected cramp."

"Or someone killed her and made it appear as if she had drowned." He waited for Catherine to challenge his words, but her silence told him she was thinking the same thing. He looked into her eyes. "If she never came back, no one would ever challenge his story; no one would ever know the truth about his marriage, or about me."

"Except your real father," she pointed out.

"If he knew. Who's to say my mother told him? He could have been left in the dark. He certainly never came looking for me."

"He had to know if he gave blood when you were sick, if that's when the truth came out."

"Right. So he just didn't want anything to do with me." He shrugged. "Well, I'll think about him later. I have to find out what happened to my mother."

"Dylan," she said, cutting him off, "don't you want to take a minute?"

"To do what?"

"To grieve."

"I already mourned her leaving."

"But it's different now. You know she didn't willingly leave you."

"Yes, she did. Okay, maybe she got kicked out, but she did leave. And she came here."

"But she didn't stay away all this time. She might have intended to come back. She just didn't have the chance."

"We'll never know," he said flatly. "I can't trust this newspaper because too many lies have already been told."

"Do you think someone planted it here?"

"It's certainly not a coincidence that a newspaper from twenty-three years ago is conveniently found in a drawer in an open house. Someone wanted me to see that. It has to be my father. He kept this house and rented it out to make money, because that's what he does."

"Or because he felt some guilt at your mother's death," Catherine interjected.

Dylan immediately shook his head. "Richard Sanders doesn't feel guilt. He doesn't feel anything. He has no heart."

"I'm sure you're right, but you're the logic guy, Dylan, and it isn't logical for your father to hang on to a piece of property that belonged to your mother, a woman he supposedly hated."

"I guess I won't know the answer to that until I confront him, but first things first. If my mother died here, then she's buried on this island. I want to find her grave. I want to see it for myself. I want to make sure this isn't just a fake obituary."

"There's a cemetery on the island?"

"For the longtime residents, yes. It's by the church. We used to walk by it every Sunday. Jake told me that the ghosts would come out and grab me if I was bad."

Catherine smiled. "Nice big brother."

"That was before he knew that I really was the bad kid."

"No, you weren't. Your father hated you for reasons that had nothing to do with you. None of this was ever about you. It was about them—your parents, their messed-up relationship."

"Whatever. I just want to find her grave. I want to see her name written in stone. Only then will I believe she's gone. Otherwise this could all be part of his plan to torture me." Dylan didn't think that was really the case, but he had to make certain of each fact as it came to him. And to be honest, it was easier to concentrate on the facts than the feelings swirling inside him. He'd deal with them later.

As they left the house and walked out to the street, Dylan paused, trying to remember which way the cemetery was. Down the street to the right, he thought. "We can walk. It's not far. Just a couple of blocks."

He'd thought it would be an easy walk, but each step forward took him back in time. He remembered the cracked sidewalk where he'd fallen and broken his little finger, the bushes he'd hidden behind when they'd played hide-and-seek in the twilight hours. He remembered learning how to ride a bike, stopping his downward speed by running onto the lawn of the house at the end of the block.

There had been few rules on the island. Everyone had known one another, left their doors open, shared meals. The kids had run together in a wild pack. He wondered if it was still so idyllic, so close-knit, or if the renters had taken over, turning it into a tourist destination more than a real family neighborhood.

"I want to talk to some of the neighbors when we come back," he said. "Someone might remember my mother and might know more about what really happened to her."

"She died, Dylan. That's what really happened to her."