“I’m not.” I interrupt again and I’m strangely calm, my heart thumping steadily instead of pounding like it did the last time I spoke to him. “What did you do to Gran?”
“Excuse me?”
“What did you do to make her disown you?”
A bitter edge creeps into his voice. “I’ve told you a hundred times. Not a damn thing.”
“I don’t believe you.” My mind’s eye is split in two; on one side, I see that old picture of Dad and Gran from Sweetfern, her smile glowing with maternal love and pride. On the other, I see Gran like she was today on the deck, her face full of remembered pain even before I spilled scalding coffee all over her. Do you think your father is a man worth knowing? “What happened to Kayla Dugas?”
“How the hell do you know who Kayla Dugas is?” he demands.
“People here keep talking about her.”
“She got drunk and crashed her car into a tree,” Dad says. He sounds impatient and irritable at the question, but not particularly rattled. So I try a different tack.
“What happened at Cutty Beach?” I ask.
A pause. “What happened—where? You’re all over the place tonight, Aubrey. You must be overtired. I think you should go to bed.”
“You put a beach just like it in your book. It’s the only place on Gull Cove Island you’ve ever written about. Why is that? Does it have anything to do with Matt Ryan drowning?”
Dad’s sharp, shocked inhale is loud in my ear. “How do you—? Aubrey, you need to get a grip. I don’t know why you’re suddenly fixating on decades-old tragedies, but what happened to Matt was a terrible accident and has nothing to do with my mother.”
“I think you’re wrong,” I say. I don’t know why I think that—there’s something creeping around the edge of my subconscious telling me so, but it’s refusing to show itself fully. My father is right about one thing: I am overtired. My eyelids are starting to droop like they did outside, but I force the sleepiness from my tone. “Why don’t you tell me what happened, Dad? What did you do? Be straight with me for once in your life.”
“Aubrey.” His voice is pure ice. “Nothing. Happened.”
“You’re lying,” I say, before I disconnect and drag the pillow back down to the mattress. I might be only seconds from crashing into sleep, but I’m sure I’m right.
* * *
—
When I wake up, Milly is sleeping soundly beside me. Whatever might’ve happened between her and Jonah wasn’t an all-nighter, at any rate. My phone is half buried under her hair, and I free it carefully and put it in my pocket. Then I slide out of bed and pad my way into the living room.
Uncle Archer isn’t on the futon anymore. He must’ve gotten up at some point in the night and made his way into his bedroom. There’s a red Solo cup on the end table, half full with clear liquid. I take a tentative sniff; definitely not water. I’m tempted to dump it, but I put it back down instead. My low-level interference won’t make a difference in the battle Uncle Archer is having with himself.
The house is silent except for the loud ticking of a grandfather clock in one corner. It’s eight o’clock, too early to wake anybody else. I go into the kitchen and search the cabinets until I find coffee and filters. I don’t need coffee in the morning, but I know Milly can’t function without it. Once I have a pot brewing, I slip on the sneakers I kicked off at the sliding glass door last night, and pull it open.
It’s beautiful outside. A perfect cool summer morning, the sky a brilliant blue swirled with wispy clouds. Last night, when we went looking for the grill, I noticed a bike propped against the wall of the garden shed. I can’t remember if the bike was locked up or not, but if it isn’t, I could ride around the neighborhood while everyone sleeps. Maybe even down to the nearest beach.
I grin when I see that the bike is free for the taking. The tires are nice and full, and the seat’s the perfect height for me. I wheel it out of the shed and into the backyard, feeling a hum of anticipation to get moving and stretch my legs. Probably the best memory I have of my father is him teaching me to ride a