by. He didn’t want Rachel to have to fetch it. It’s from the medical examiner.... It’s, you know...from the body. What Mr. Wharton had on. I don’t want your mother to see it.”
“No. That’s smart.” She took the sack, fighting queasiness, and carried it to her room. She had to see what clues might be here...her father’s wallet...possibly Faye’s phone. Steeling herself, she yanked the sack open, popping the staple. A sour, earthy smell filled her nose—moist earth, leaves and the metallic scent of blood.
On top were her father’s shoes. They were dusty, not bloody, thank God. Beneath them were tan slacks that had been cut apart. The waist area of the pants was stained with blood. The shirt below was crusty with it. So much blood. Her heart lurched in her chest. An envelope, also bloodstained, stuck out of his shirt pocket. She made out part of the return address—CGC Gen—before bile rose in the back of her throat. She turned her head, deciding to feel for what else was there. She touched a belt...coins...then a wallet, which she pulled out. It was clean. Thin, finely stitched and well worn. Inside she found several fresh twenties, a black American Express card, a driver’s license and a few photos—her father in cap and gown, a wedding picture, a family portrait with Faye as a toddler. No pictures of Tara, but then, these shots were quite old. Her father likely hadn’t changed anything since he first used the wallet.
The only other items in the wallet were two business cards. Looking at the first, she was startled to see her own name. Her father had kept her business card. She stared at it a long time, swallowing against a lump in her throat.
The second card was from a Randall Scott. She’d seen that name before...
In her father’s desk drawer. Yeah. This time, she noticed Family Law below the name. That was code for divorce lawyer, right? On the back of the card was written an appointment from three weeks ago.
What the hell? Her father had seen a divorce attorney? Why? Had something happened?
Her mother hadn’t said a word to her. Maybe she didn’t know. A divorce would have devastated her mother, whose social status meant everything to her. The stigma, the gossip, would be more than she could bear.
Tara felt chilled to the bone. Her father wanted a divorce? How serious had he been? She checked the clock: four-thirty. Still business hours. She called the number, asked for the billing office and told the bookkeeper she needed to confirm the total charges on Mr. Wharton’s account, holding her breath that the ruse would work.
It did. The bookkeeper told her that her father had seen the attorney at his office twice and had three phone conferences. That sounded serious, especially with her father as frugal as he was. There were no charges for filing fees, so he hadn’t done anything official yet at least.
Her parents hadn’t seemed close, but their marriage stood for something, a bond that mattered to the two of them. They’d been married almost forty years. Talk about standing the test of time.
But if her father was unhappy enough to take such drastic action...something terrible must have happened.
She remembered Bill Fallon and how solicitous he’d been of her mother. And her mother had talked about him in a strange dreamy voice. What if he’d been more than a friend to her?
No. Her mother would not cheat on her father. That would violate the social requirements of the life her mother had chosen.
Tara didn’t dare ask her mother about this. If she didn’t know that her husband wanted to end the marriage, Tara would rather die than tell her. Some truths caused useless harm.
Her head spun, but slowly, as if through fog. Dread seemed to press her into the floor, compressing her lungs. She had to sort this out, make some sense of it, clear her head, decide what to do about what she’d learned.
She needed Dylan. He would listen. He would help. Thank goodness they had dinner plans. He was her port in the storm even now.
* * *
WHEN TARA STEPPED into Ruby’s, Dylan felt a shift in the energy of the restaurant, similar to the way a theater audience reacted when the curtain opened. Conversations faded. Heads turned. Breaths were held. Tara’s striking beauty would draw attention anywhere, especially from men, but this was different. This was Wharton.
Everyone knew her or of her. They were curious, titillated, or envious.