the residence in Windermere, and that I thought Vera’s boy could be there.
Sharpe: Mr. Ivanoff, what did the officer at the station tell you?
Ivanoff: He said they wouldn’t be looking into my tip.
Sharpe: Why not?
Ivanoff: He said that the Kensingtons were some of the city’s most upstanding citizens.
Sharpe: Let the record state that we have a document from the Police Department proving that Mr. Ivanoff did make a call to the police station to report the crime. Mr. Ivanoff, what do you think really happened to Miss Ray that night?
Ivanoff: I think she traveled to that home to get help and they turned on her. That woman, whoever she was, put her in that boat knowing of the hole. When she could have saved Miss Ray, she didn’t. I hope she pays for what she did.
Sharpe: Thank you, Mr. Ivanoff. There will be no further questions.
I lifted my eyes from the last page with a heavy heart. The story had come into focus. My own husband’s family had been accomplice to one of the most tragic crimes in Seattle’s history, had covered it up, even. No wonder Edward Sharpe had kept the files hidden so long. Mr. Ivanoff had spelled things out in excruciating detail.
I fanned the remaining pages, and my eyes stopped when I read the medical examiner’s notes about Vera’s personal effects:
Found on Ms. Ray: A hair clip, a hotel key, and bracelet. All remitted to Mr. Charles Kensington on June 13, 1933.
Daniel’s father was a…Kensington.
I was supposed to meet Ethan for dinner in thirty minutes. Could I tell him? I remembered the break-in at Lillian’s home and quickly tucked the pages into the briefcase, slipping it under my desk. It would be safe there.
At the restaurant, Ethan ordered a bottle of 2001 merlot from a winery we both loved. “What’s the occasion?” I asked, noting the year of our wedding.
“Just being together these days is an occasion,” he said, smiling.
“I know,” I replied, taking a sip of wine.
“Hey.” He held up his glass. “You forgot to clink glasses. That’s bad luck.”
I tapped my glass against his. “There. The five-second rule applies.”
He smiled. “How have you been?”
At face value, it was a strange question for a husband to ask his wife, and yet we’d become so distant, it made sense.
“Well, I’ve been better,” I said, looking at the menu instead of into his eyes. The menu was safer.
I wanted to ask him about Cassandra, but I didn’t have the guts. “What’s good here?”
“The lamb is fantastic,” he said. “With the orzo. It has a light crust of—”
I slammed my menu down. “Since when are you a foodie? You were never a foodie. You used to pride yourself in being anti-foodie.”
Ethan looked startled.
“Don’t pretend that you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’ve been spending an awful lot of time with her. She’s rubbing off on you.”
“Claire, Cassandra’s just a friend. And since when do you take offense with me enjoying my food?”
I sighed. “I’m sorry,” I said, looking away. The restaurant was filled with couples. Happy couples. Why can’t we be happy? “I didn’t mean to attack you like that.”
“Can we start over?” he asked, setting his menu aside.
“Yes,” I replied. “Reset button.”
“Now, what can we talk about that’s safe? Work?”
I nodded apprehensively.
He took a sip of wine and then leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “How’s work? Got any good stories brewing?”
“Well,” I said, taking a long sip of wine and questioning whether to reveal the secret or not. “I’m working on a story that’s pretty fascinating.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, about a little boy who vanished in 1933, the day the snowstorm hit, just like the one we had this week.”
Ethan picked up a piece of bread and dipped it in the plate of olive oil between us. “Did you find out what happened to him?”
“Sort of,” I said. “It might actually shock you, if I tell you.”
“Try me,” he said, amused.
“Well,” I said slowly, “turns out, he’s a Kensington.”
Ethan stopped chewing the bread in his mouth, then swallowed the bite quickly. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a long story, but the short of it is that one of your great-greats had a fling with a poor woman. She got pregnant, and three years later, I think his sister abducted the boy. At least, I suspect that’s how it went.”
“My God,” he said. “Do you have names?”
I nodded. “The boy’s father was a man named Charles Kensington.”