a sepia-toned photo of the Wharton foundry in Ohio, the source of the family’s wealth. Beside it was a large oil portrait of three generations of Wharton men. Where were the women? In the background, of course, managing the households, hosting gatherings, leading charity drives, all in service to the powerful men they’d married.
Her mother had a college degree, though she’d never used it in the workplace. She’d met Abbott at the college bar where she worked to support herself at the state college. She’d come from a working-class family of seven children, which seemed to shame her, since she rarely spoke of them and never visited.
Tara couldn’t imagine living in a man’s shadow like her mother did, glorying in the role. Had her parents ever been in love? Maybe in the early years. Tara hoped so. A loveless marriage seemed so bleak. Would Tara ever marry? It seemed impossible at times. Marriage required faith and trust. The whole idea of love made her uneasy. She didn’t understand it. She might not be capable of it. That thought made her ache, like ice on a sensitive tooth.
There were two books on the desk—probably the last two books he’d read. The Selfish Gene, by Richard Dawkins, and a more scientific-looking book about genetics. Shifting them to one side, she noticed a photo under the glass that protected the desk’s surface. It was her favorite picture of her father. He and Sean Ryland grinned at each other over the Wharton assembly line, where they held up the jet engine part they’d built together. They looked so young, so excited, like the future before them would be forever bright.
It hadn’t turned out that way for Dylan’s father when his business failed. Had her father exploited him, paid too little for his company? She didn’t want to believe that. He’d bailed out a friend, risked money that could have gone down the drain. Besides, the feud was over, thanks to Dylan. No matter what Dylan might have done in the larger world, that was a remarkable feat. He’d healed a decade-long wound between two old friends. And he’d managed it before her father was killed.
Tara reached for the file drawer, where she expected to find insurance papers, then saw deep gouges around the lock. The drawer had been pried open. She pulled it open quickly. It was empty inside save for some loose paper clips, a restaurant receipt, a blank message slip and a business card for Randall Scott, ESQ. Where were the files? Had her mother taken them out? Why? Very odd.
Stymied, she checked the drawers for a Rolodex or datebook that might have the insurance agency information. She found nothing but unopened office supplies. She turned on the computer, but it was password protected.
Beneath the desk, she saw a phone charger plugged into a power strip. At least there was that. She attached the cord to her father’s flip phone and activated it.
On the screen was a text message from Faye the day of the accident.
Nothing changes. Let it go.
Tara’s heart raced. Here was a clue. What had her father been doing that Faye wanted him to stop? Or had she been discouraged that he’d failed to make a change? She had no idea. Her father had not replied to the text. She checked his voice mail. There were no messages, new or old.
She really needed to check Faye’s phone. Where was it? In her office? She’d look when she went to Wharton on Wednesday. It might have fallen out in the car during the crash. When they located the car, she’d check.
First, she find the number of the insurance adjuster. She’d have to ask her mother when she woke up. Rachel had been sleeping a lot—drugging herself to escape her grief and worry about Faye. Tara would try to talk to her mother more, share the sadness somehow. That had to help, didn’t it?
“You into his liquor again?” Judith leaned against the doorjamb, her arms folded, a half smile on her face. “Stay away from the guns this time.”
Tara winced. Judith was referring to a party Tara had held when her parents were out of town. She’d been fourteen. Her friends had wasted two bottles of pricey brandy, ignorantly mixing it with Hawaiian Punch. The worst thing was that a guy had opened the gun cabinet and taken out her great-grandfather’s custom-made shotgun—her father’s prized possession, which he never used. The parts are irreplaceable, he’d told her once, when she asked