TWENTY-SIX

“No!”

“Just once. Just to see if you like it.”

“I don’t have to eat mud to know I won’t like the taste.”

“But it’s not mud,” Paul pointed out. “It’s salted caramel brownies. Look, I’m not saying your original recipe is bad . . .”

“Better not be. Because one, my original recipe is sublime, and two, there are several sharp knives within my reach. And you’re not wearing a cup.”

“Your recipe is transcendent! But maybe you could . . . just . . . kind of . . . mix it up a little?”

“Listen, you barbarian Horde of one, I have never jumped on a bandwagon in my life and I won’t start now.”

“You’re wearing Crocs to cook! How is that anything but bandwagoning?”

“Bandwagon isn’t a verb! And Crocs are classic! They’re ancient, like the high-heeled shoe, Crocs’ve been around—”

Archer leaned forward, the better to murmur. “Prepare to feel ancient,” he warned Angela and Leah.

“—since 2002!”

“Ouch.” From Leah.

“Yeah, that one smarts,” Angela said, then adding, “Paul, stop trying to fix something that isn’t broken.”

“Salted caramel frosting. Salted caramel cake. Salted caramel cupcakes. Salted caramel cheesecake. Salted caramel marshmallows. Salted caramel puppy chow.” Jack threw up his hands. “Salted caramel bark! Salted caramel frappés! Salted caramel martinis! Salted caramel roasted almonds. Salted caramel candles. Salted caramel caramel. Boring, boring, boring!”

“See, you were droning on, but all those things sounded great,” Paul said. He was in his usual Saturday midday attire: sweatpants, a faded green too-tight sweatshirt, bare feet, the red tape measure dangling over one shoulder (he occasionally used it as a belt). “Even the candle.”

“No salted caramel in this kitchen! Unless you make it yourself. In which case, I will yield territory long enough for you to be a salted caramel sheep. Following along with the salted caramel herd. And God help you if you leave me a sink full of caramel-coated dirty dishes. God. Help. You.”

Leah shook her head. “You guys ever notice that when someone repeats the same phrase over and over, the words lose their meaning pretty quickly?”

Archer was already shaking his head. “Leah, hon, all I heard, honest to God, the only thing I heard you say just now was ‘salted caramel, salted caramel, salted caramel, salted caramel.’”

Angela swallowed a giggle. “And, of course, now we’re all craving salted goddamned caramel.”

“Not my problem,” Jack snapped, turning back to his cookbook shelf with a huff. The brouhaha du jour had begun when he was flipping through his cookbooks to seek inspiration for a new dessert. Which, unfathomably, was Paul’s internal cue to make the horrific, misguided suggestion that rather than try something new, Jack should jazz up an old recipe.

They were seated around the turtle table—most of them, anyway; Mitchell and Jordan were at work. Emma Drake was at the other end of the house, having completed her daily chore (the mail) and now doing who knew what. She tended to break her fast early, before most of them were up, preferring toast and coffee because anything else slowed her down. “If I eat all that, I’ll get logy and just slouch around the house all day,” she explained. Which was terrifying to think of.

Jack had prepared a breakfast (as was his wont) that was delicious but (as wasn’t his wont) lacked his usual perfectionist/gourmet tendencies. Scrambled eggs but no dill. Bacon, but not thick-cut . . . the precooked kind you could zap in a microwave. Muffins, but not from scratch. Milk, but no lattes. Juice, but not fresh-squeezed.

Jesus. We really take this kid for granted. He’s phoning it in and it’s still a terrific meal.

“Thank you, Jack,” she said brightly, then drained her glass. “It’s all delicious as usual.”

“Goes without saying,” Archer said, his mouth full. He swallowed and added, “Leah, this kid, you wouldn’t believe it, he’s been good at this since he was five.”

“It shows,” she replied, smacking his hand when he went for the last of the bacon, then wolfing it down herself. Every Drake in the room had the same simultaneous thought: She’s perfect for us! Uh, Archer. Perfect for Archer.

Then. The fatal error. Archer, as he often did, kept talking. And, as often happened when Archer talked, disaster followed: “Jack, even on an off day your grub is outstanding.”

Angela froze. Leah glared at the father of her child. Paul quietly backed out of the kitchen. Everything seemed to slow down and simultaneously get sharper and louder.

Jack sloooowly turned away from the cookbooks. “‘Off day’?” he asked with deceptive pleasantness.

Archer was sloooowly getting out of his chair, doubtless ready to slip unobtrusively—or sprint—out of the kitchen. His exit was foiled when Leah seized his sleeve and yanked him back down. Her dagger-eyes were eloquent: You said it. You stay and deal with the fallout.

“I. Um. Yeah. You. I’m sorry? Jack? It was delicious and I attach no qualifier to that. Also, I’m sorry.”

Jack just looked at him.

Archer shifted to full-on babble: “So very very sorry. Completely sorry. Just incredibly, very terribly sorry. It’s a wonderful meal, look! My plate! Totally clean!”

Jack walked over to the turtle table. Archer did his level best not to cringe. “You’re right,” he said, inspecting Archer’s plate. “That’s pretty clean. All your plates are pretty clean.” He gifted Angela and Leah with an approving smile. “So doing the dishes should be easy, doncha think?”

“I would be happy to do the dishes,” Archer replied at once. This was a duty that rotated between Drakes; today was Paul’s day. Paul, at least, would be delighted that Archer’s mouth had once again raced ahead of his brain. “So, so happy to help any way I can with the dishes.”

“Good.” Jack looked at Leah for a long moment. “Are you . . . I should have asked this before. Is there anything I should be making for you, for the baby? I went online earlier and read up on prenatal nutrition—”

“Which is why you’ve been filling me full of vitamin C and green smoothies and whole grains and yogurt,” Leah replied with a warm smile. “Among other things. That is kind of you, Jack. I’ve eaten better in the last week than I have in the last month. I have paid for meals in Paris that weren’t as good as one of your midday snacks. Thank you.”

Jack ducked his head, suddenly shy, and Angela was struck—again—by how young he was. “’S no trouble,” he mumbled, and then went back to the cookbooks.

“Your youngest cousin is terrifying,” Leah mock-whispered to Archer.

“He didn’t scare me one bit. Now for the love of God, give me all your dirty dishes so I can start my soapy amends.”

Leah looks better, Angela thought, watching the couple laugh. A little more rested, a little less pale. If anything, Jacky was the one who looked aggrieved and tired, and not just because of Archer’s ill-timed idiocy.

Angela slipped out of her seat and went to him. “Jacky-oh, are you okay?”

“Course.”

“Because you seem—”

“Aggravated because I’m surrounded by Visigoths?”

“Something like that.” Argh, too early. Can’t remember what a Visigoth is. Sounds bad, though.

“Haven’t been sleeping well.” This was a mutter directly into Martha Stewart’s Cooking School, a hefty hardcover that could, if swung with enough force, kill a pony.

“For how long?”

A shrug.

A puberty thing? A stress thing? He doesn’t study but he still gets A’s and B’s. I don’t think it’s school. Which means it’s probably us.

“Do you—did you want to see a doctor? I’d be glad to make an appointment for you.” He’d just gotten his license, so she added what she hoped would be an incentive to health maintenance. “You could borrow my car and hit DQ after, if you wanted. I would only ask that you bring me a banana split Blizzard. And maybe a Dilly Bar.”

That earned her a faded smile, nothing like his usual wide grin. “You don’t have to take care of me, Angela. I’m fine. You’ve got enough to worry about.”

“That’s not true, I can always take on more things to worry about. Worrying is practically my superpower.”

He shook his head. “I’m okay. Uh. That cop, Detective Chambers? He had to shelve Dad’s case, right?”

Is that what this is about? “Yeah, Jack, I’m afraid so. That’s why he was over here the other night—he came to warn me it was likely, and yesterday he left me a voicemail to confirm.” That I definitely haven’t listened to two or three or ten times. “I hope I didn’t get your hopes up.”

“I didn’t think that about you,” he said quickly.

“I thought if we had a new investigator, and Leah, that the case might be— Well, it was a long shot. But I hope you understand why I thought it was worth trying.” At his nod, she added, “And don’t worry, I’m not giving up. And Jason—the detective—he’s going to keep me in the loop. If anything breaks, he’ll let us know right away. It won’t be like—”

“Klown.” Jack smiled again, a real one this time.

“No, he’s not like Klown.” Damn. That was going to stick now. She hoped none of them ever ran across Kline again, particularly in public, because that would get awkward in a hurry.

“That cop. Not Klown. The other one. He’s really sad sometimes.”

Angela blinked. “Oh? I think—I think that’s just the nature of his job, Jacky. He works homicide. He deals with dead bodies and grief every day.”

Jack slowly shook his head. “I don’t think it’s because of his job.”

“You’re right, Jack,” Leah called from the other side of the kitchen.

They both turned to her, surprised. Archer immediately pointed at Leah. “It was the Insighting eavesdropper! It wasn’t me this time!”

“Eavesdropper? They’re five feet away having a conversation in normal tones of voice.” Leah turned back to them. “Detective Jason Chambers has depression. Or maybe dysthymia. He’s had it for at least three lives.”

Jack seemed to find that gratifying for some reason. “I knew he was sad, I told you!”

Archer shook his head. “Leah, I will never get over how creepy and impressive that is. Ow! Don’t pinch. Fine, it’s just impressive. Not creepy at all.”

Angela realized she was gaping (her mouth had even fallen open a little, creating a sexy goldfish look, how embarrassing) and looked away before Leah caught her. The wonderfully be-socked Jason was coping with depression or—or the other thing Leah mentioned?

Mental note: Look up dysh—dys—find out how to spell that word and then look it up.

And he’d been enduring it for multiple lives? Was that why he was so composed and quiet and calm all the time? Was he trying to learn from his other lives, or just enduring until he got a reboot? She was dying to ask him about it. She was dying to ask him any number of things.

But. Why did Leah do that? Leah was a professional; she didn’t diagnose near-strangers, especially out loud, especially when they weren’t her client, and especially not with others in attendance. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Leah was showing off. And since she did know better, what the hell was going on?

“What the hell is going on?”

“Gah!” Angela turned and saw her mother standing in the doorway. Annnnnd my morning gets weirder. She’s dressed! And interacting with family! At 8:00 a.m., no less. That’s— Wait, why am I mentally bitching about this? This is great. I can actually discuss my concern for a family member with an engaged parent who is fully clothed. She stepped forward and lowered her voice. “Mom, I’m glad you’re here. Can we go into the other room so I can talk to you about J—”

“I don’t want to talk about Jacob or Jason or whatever cop you’ve got fumbling around like an impotent idiot.”

Angela blinked. Okay. Lots of errors in that statement, starting with the fact that I wanted to talk to her about her youngest son.

And “fumbling”? “Impotent”? That’s a lot of rancor for someone she’s never met.

“Well, then, I’ve got great news, Mom.” But before she could finish

(cheer up, it’s being shelved again! again)

her mother cut her off for the second time. “We talked about this.”

“I know, Mom, and the thing is—”

“I said I don’t want you going again.”

Angela paused. “Careful, Mom. That was almost forceful.”

Widow Drake’s eyes narrowed. “Can’t you see what it’s doing to your brother?”

“Which one?”

“I’m fine!” Paul bellowed from somewhere in the house. “Leave me out of it!”

“Look at him!” Her mother pointed to a startled-looking Jack, who had moved on from Martha Stewart and was now clutching James McNair’s Afternoon Delights: Coffeehouse Favorites to his chest. “He’s clearly not sleeping. This is a tough time of year for all of us, and you’re making it worse.”

Angela tilted her head to one side and studied her mother. “How am I, personally, making this time of year worse for ‘all of us’?”

“He’s dead. Let him stay dead.”

Er. What? “Mom—”

“Your visits are a waste of time. I don’t want you to go. Dennis doesn’t even want you to go.”

“Dennis,” she said carefully, “is doing someone else’s time. How can you be okay with that?”

“Because Dennis is okay with that.”

“And how can you be against trying to get justice for Dad?”

“Your father already got justice.”

“How— That makes no sense, Mom. At all.”

But she was already shaking her head. “I refuse to let this go on. No more visits. No more files, no more crime-scene photos. Just . . . enough with the meddling. Enough.”

“You know that whole ‘quit meddling’ thing is making you sound like a Scooby villain, right? It’s a bit creepy. What are you afraid of? What could come out that’s worse than Dad’s murder?”

Creepy Mom didn’t listen any better than Ghost Mom. “I’m putting an end to it, Angela.”

Angela was still studying her like Emma Drake was an intriguing amoeba on a microscope slide. “Good thing I’m an adult, then, and don’t have to tremble and obey.”

She never says “prison,” or “ICC.” It’s always “your visit” or “your trip.” I used to think she did that out of grief, that Dad’s loss was so painful to her, she couldn’t bear to talk about her bro-in-law languishing in prison. But now I wonder.

Suddenly conciliatory, her mother laid a hand on Angela’s sleeve. “I’m doing this for you, sweetie. You don’t have the strength to stop this unhealthy obsession on your own, so I’m taking things into my own hands.”

“Oh, is that what this is? You’re—uh—saving me? From myself? And also from crime-scene photos?”

A nod. “That’s exactly right.”

“Mom, I’m not the only one of us who wants closure. With the notable exception of, well, you, the whole family—” She turned to gesture to them, only to realize that at some point they’d all stolen out of the kitchen with a minimum of noise, the bums.

“COWWWWWWWWWAAAAAARRRRRDDDDDDSSSSS!”

By the time she’d calmed down, she realized her mother had left, too.