Vicki Pettersson - The Given

Again, a memory shared by that demon seized her, though this one was Marin’s. In it, her aunt was secreting away a file from a room Kit recognized, her father’s study as it’d looked fourteen years earlier. And afterward? Marin had gently stroked Kit’s forehead as she slept, and said, “It’s for your own good.”

And that was why her father’s murder, always suspicious, was now a cold case.

Kit glanced away. She loved Marin, she missed her, and even understood her . . . but she couldn’t quite forgive her. Not yet. So instead of simply accepting the apology, she said, “It’s not too late, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“To come clean. To tell me the truth about my dad’s death.” Kit bit her lip. “And about the folder he sent you the day he died.”

Marin froze. “How do you know about that?”

A little demon told me .

“I think the real question is, after everything you just said, why aren’t you telling me about it now?”

Marin remained quiet.

“Let me make this a little easier on you,” Kit finally said, folding her hands together. “I know that my father sent you something, and I believe that something was the reason he was killed.”

It was the secret she’d been keeping from Grif, a nugget of information that she was hoarding for herself until she knew what to do about it . . . if anything at all.

“Now,” Kit said. “We can keep going down this path we’ve been on, with you professing to be sorry about the very thing you continue to do”— lie —“or you can tell me right now. What was in that folder?”

“Nothing.”

Kit shook her head. “I went back into the family archives and looked, Marin. I knew you wouldn’t leave something so important undocumented. You annotated it. You cross-fucking-referenced it. There was something in that folder that made you suspect my dad’s murder was more than a routine line-of-duty death.”

Marin’s chin lifted. “And it looks like I was right to hide it, wasn’t I?”

“Did it have anything to do with Barbara DiMartino?”

“You tell me.”

Kit stood, amazed. “Why are you stonewalling me on this?”

“Because in addition to putting up with your mother’s shit, I swore to her that I’d keep you safe.” Marin’s softness had disappeared and now she only glared. “And I’m keeping that promise, Kit. Even if it means protecting you from yourself.”

“He was murdered right after he left Sal DiMartino’s house,” Kit said, glaring back. “Did you really think I wasn’t going to put it together? That I wouldn’t find out?”

Marin just shook her head. “Some things are best left buried.”

“Like the DiMartinos? Like their feud with the Salernos?”

Like mysteries that spanned fifty whole years?

Marin just sat on her sofa, looking suddenly small . . . but resolute. She wasn’t going to speak.

Kit whirled away so fast she felt dizzy. “Fine. I’ll figure it out myself. I’ll also be out of your hair”—unspoken was, out of your life— “first thing in the morning.”

“Leave it alone, Kit,” Marin called from behind her.

“Oh, Marin.” Kit just shook her head, pausing with one hand on the doorjamb. “It’s like you don’t even know me at all.”

Grif moved in and out of his dreams like a fish swimming from light into shadows. Therefore his sleep was similarly clouded, and he woke late with a dry mouth and a pulsing behind his eyes. Already dressed, he headed downstairs to remedy both, and found Marin and Kit seated across from each other at the long dining-room table. Marin’s laptop was open between them, but the wedge of space that separated the women was made greater by their matching postures—stiff and straight, legs crossed so their bodies formed a V. Neither woman looked up as Grif headed to the kitchen, where he found Zicaro nibbling toast and perusing a stack of printouts over the top of his bifocals.

“It feels good to be on the beat again!” Zicaro said, voice too loud.

Grif motioned for Zicaro to turn up his hearing aid, then looked at him as he poured some coffee. “They put you to work?”

Zicaro nodded, and Grif’s gut automatically clenched. His inclination was to tuck people away somewhere safe while he pounded the pavement and did the heavy lifting. But Zicaro was nearly shaking with excitement as he showed Grif a printout of the Paris casino floor. Grif began to shake, too, when the old-timer went on to tell him about Kit’s midnight call and the threat to Marin’s life.

He hid his frown behind his mug. There was a time when Kit wouldn’t have hesitated to come to him first with a problem, even in the middle of the night. He knew he no longer had a right to expect it, yet he still wished she had, and not merely out of pride. Grif was already running out of time. It was now Monday, the original day on which Kit was scheduled to die, and though he believed his actions the previous day had altered that fate, he wasn’t taking any chances.

Besides, he hadn’t forgotten about Donel’s prophecy.

Lifting his large mug of coffee, he rejoined the women in the dining room.

“How did you first find out about Sunset?” Marin asked, without preamble and without looking up, as Grif pulled out a chair.

“ I found it,” boasted Zicaro, rolling in, toast balanced on his knees.

Grif helped him to the table and settled his papers before him, but pointed out, “No, you didn’t. You just happened to be living there when Justin Allen and company took over.” He turned back to Marin. “Why? What’d you find?”

“Wait till you see,” Kit said, finally looking up. She was already made up for the day, face powdered, eyes lined, dark hair pinned in front, the back tucked inside a crimson snood. He knew she always kept a change of clothes in the car, so didn’t wonder at that, but what had his breath catching in his chest was the excitement that brimmed beneath all that gloss.

Eyes shining, she motioned him over, her mouth curling up at one corner, a nearly forgotten look. It slid into his heart like a splinter, and he tried to forget it again as he sauntered over to stand behind her. She was just excited; the look wasn’t meant for him.

“Amelia shot these over a couple of hours ago. It’s only the contents of one flash drive so far, but it’s enough.”

“For what?”

Marin tapped the screen with her pencil. “To suss out the scam. Here’s the gist: the caregivers and therapists working at the Sunset Retirement Community are legit, but the management and the administrative staff? Not.” She looked up at Zicaro.

He nodded. “No one has been there longer than a year.”

“And the resident list has changed as well. Only those with health issues so debilitating that they overwhelm family members are admitted. More than that, most have no immediate family at all.”

“No one to advocate for them,” said Kit softly.

“The stated goal is to provide every resident with a gentle and dignified end to their life once it’s acknowledged that the end is, indeed, near. But there are various levels of ‘care’ going on at Sunset, with the most intensive care given to the terminal cases.”

“Not those with a chance of recovery?”

Marin shook her head. “I’ve begun a preliminary comparison between Sunset and Blue Diamond Medical, its biggest competitor in town, and the discrepancy in recovery rates is startling.”

“So more people are dying at Sunset?”

“No. I mean, that would be a big ol’ red flag, wouldn’t it? But they’re not getting better, either. In fact, they never leave. Instead, their lives are extended.”

“And so are their illnesses.” Kit reached over and shifted Marin’s laptop around so that both Grif and Zicaro could see the screen.