My mouth is bone dry. “I don’t think I am.”
“No.” Gran’s stare doesn’t waver. “He must be quite proud of you.”
Not really, I think, but I don’t say it.
She waits for a response, and when none comes, she lets out a small sigh. “At any rate, my curiosity has been satisfied. What I’d like to tell you now is that the ties I severed with my children twenty-four years ago are absolute. It was a mistake to allow you into my life, and it’s not one I’ll make again. I can’t force you to leave the island, of course, but I hope that you do. This is my home, and you are not welcome here.”
I was ready for this, so I’m not sure why her words land like a slap. Maybe it’s because I’ve never had anybody say, so plainly, what I’ve always felt about being part of the Story family. You are not welcome here.
Gran sips her tea while I grapple for an appropriate response. Finally, I just say what I’m thinking. “Don’t you even want to get to know us? Or our parents, the way they are now?”
My grandmother’s eyes are cool and appraising. “Do you think your father is a man worth knowing?” she asks.
My phone sits heavy in my pocket, full of all the reasons why he’s not. My father is a cheater, and a liar, and he’s never—not once—failed to put himself first in any given situation. But then I think back to the picture of him and Gran in Sweetfern: her hand placed lovingly on his cheek, both of them beaming real, genuine smiles. The kind I’ve never gotten from him, no matter how hard I tried to please him. “He could have been,” I say.
Gran refills her cup. “We don’t live in the world of ‘could have been,’ though, do we? We live in this world.”
“You made this world.” My directness surprises us both.
“I had no choice,” my grandmother replies, looking me up and down. “You should understand that. As I said, you strike me as a sensible girl.”
“Sensible,” I repeat. The word hangs between us, and I know what it really means. Docile. I’m the one who won’t cause trouble—who won’t try to manipulate her like JT, or challenge her like Milly. I’m the safe bet, someone who’ll swallow whatever she tells me and dutifully report it back. I have a sudden urge not to do what she expects and not to leave quietly. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll go. But maybe you can tell me one thing before I do?” She lifts both perfectly arched brows. “Is there something unusual about how Kayla Dugas died?”
I wish Milly were here to see the expression on Gran’s face. She stares at me in utter shock, putting her cup down so swiftly that tea sloshes onto her gloves. “How do you…,” she breathes. She makes a visible, mighty effort to compose herself. “What on earth are you talking about?”
I pause, not sure how much to reveal. I don’t want to get Hazel or Uncle Archer in trouble. To buy time, I reach for the carafe of coffee. But I’m too nervous to aim properly, and my hand knocks hard against its side. For a half second it tilts precariously, and I almost manage to right it. Then it topples, spilling its scalding contents directly onto Gran.
“Good Lord!” The words are shrieked as my grandmother rises in an instant, ripping off the gloves that got the worst of it and holding her skirt away from her body. I stare at the mess for a few horrified seconds before I have the presence of mind to jump up myself.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it! I’m so sorry!” I babble, shoving my napkin at her.
“Mildred?” Theresa appears in the doorway. “What happened?” Then she takes in the scene and rushes to the table, dumping ice from an otherwise empty glass into a napkin and wrapping the napkin around Gran’s hands. “Are you burned?”
“I may be,” Gran says tightly.
“Let’s get you somewhere where I can take a look,” Theresa says. She turns toward me. “Aubrey, please show yourself out. Now.”
“Okay,” I gulp. Gran’s face is a mask of pain. “I really am sorry.”
Theresa hustles Gran inside, and I try to retrace my steps. I make a wrong turn, though, ending up in a library-like room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a massive desk stationed directly in front of the windows. There’s an ornately carved side table right inside the door, holding a variety of vases and decorative bowls. When I glance over them, I spot something familiar nestled inside a bronze salver—a slim silver card, just like the one the chauffeur used to open the gates leading to Catmint House.
I don’t think twice. I just do what Gran would never have expected of me, and slip it into my pocket.
By five o’clock on Sunday, I’ve officially missed my ferry back to Hyannis. I’m not sure what comes next in the big scheme of things, but for the here and now we’re having a cookout. Which seems strangely normal given the past twenty-four hours, but it’s summer and we have to eat.
“I’m not much of a cook,” Archer says, flipping burgers on the grill he found in the gardening shed and managed to start up. “But these are hard to get wrong.”
Milly and Aubrey are here too, brought over in the resort Jeep by Efram. Carson Fine finally confiscated the keys, which would’ve come across as a Donald Camden move if he hadn’t immediately handed them over to Efram so he could give the girls a ride. I wish I’d had a chance to say good-bye to Carson, who all in all was a pretty great boss.
Efram declined Archer’s invitation to stay. “Seems like a family thing,” he said, then grinned at me. “And pseudo family. But thanks anyway.” Before he left, he helped me pull all the chairs that were strewn haphazardly around the yard into a circle on the concrete patio. Milly’s still not talking to me, but she’s sitting next to me, and I don’t think I’m wrong that her overall posture is less chilly than it was earlier today.
The wooden door on the fence enclosing the backyard rattles, then swings open to let a woman through. She’s dark-haired, maybe a little younger than Archer, and carrying a large, foil-wrapped pan.
“Oona!” Archer calls. “Thanks for coming. You didn’t have to bring anything, though.”
“Well,” the woman says, crossing over to the patio and putting her pan on the wrought-iron table. “I wasn’t entirely sure what you’d be feeding these poor kids.”
“I’m doing my best,” Archer claims, flipping a burger straight into the grass.
Oona shakes her head and smiles warmly at Milly and Aubrey. “Hello again, girls. I was sorry to hear how everything turned out at the gala.” My face flames with fresh guilt as she adds, “You both deserved better than that.”
I brace myself for another death glare from Milly, but it doesn’t come. She just tosses her hair and says, “At least we looked good while we were getting thrown out.”
Oona takes a seat and turns to me. “And you must be Jonah.”
“Yeah,” I say, grateful that she leaves it at that.
She leans forward, lifting the rock that’s been keeping the autopsy report from blowing off the table. “Is this what you wanted me to look at?” she asks Uncle Archer.
“Yeah,” he says, scooping up a burger and placing it carefully on an open bun sitting on a plate beside the grill. “Sorry if that’s weird, or morbid, but I couldn’t figure out why Dr. Baxter would want me to have it.” He repeats the process with another burger. “And Aubrey mentioned that my mother had a strange reaction to Kayla’s name this afternoon.”
“Strange how?” Oona asks, her eyes roving over the report.
“Well.” Aubrey purses her lips. “I asked if there was anything unusual about how Kayla died, and she seemed…I don’t know. Not surprised, exactly, like you would be if something like that came at you out of the blue. More as though she was alarmed that I’d asked. But I spilled coffee on her before she could answer.”
“That’s odd,” Oona says, still staring at the paper. “And so is this.”
Archer shuts off the grill and starts handing burgers around. “So is what?” he asks.
“This says Kayla had lorazepam in her system. That wasn’t in the report my family has.”
“Loraza-what?” I ask, before taking a big bite of my hamburger.
“Lorazepam. It’s a sedative, I believe,” Oona says, brow wrinkling. Milly has her phone out and is already looking it up.
“Yeah, it is,” she says.
Oona’s frown deepens. “I don’t understand. Kayla was a drinker—she was drinking that night, unfortunately—but she didn’t take drugs. I don’t know where she’d even get something like that. And why is it in this version of the report, but not ours?”
“What if…” Milly hesitates, toying with the edge of her hamburger bun. No one except me is eating. “What if someone gave it to her? The drug, I mean.” She darts a worried look toward Oona, who blanches. “And Dr. Baxter covered it up? He said he’d done ‘a grave injustice,’ didn’t he?”
“To me,” Archer says. “And I wasn’t…I mean, I cared about Kayla, of course I did, but if a grave injustice was done to any of us, it would’ve been Anders. He was gutted when she died. Even though she’d just dumped him again.”
“I remember that,” Oona says. She puts the autopsy report down with a trembling hand. “She went to see him at Harvard that Thanksgiving and came back so upset. She wouldn’t tell me why. All she would say is, ‘I have to talk to Mrs. Ryan.’ ”
“Mrs. Ryan?” Milly blinks. “My grandmother’s assistant?”
Oona nods. “Yes. I don’t know why. They weren’t particularly close. Kayla dated Theresa’s son briefly, but…” A corner of her mouth lifts in a wry smile. “It wasn’t the kind of relationship where they spent time with one another’s parents.”
“Wait. Hold up.” Milly looks like her brain is about to explode. “Mrs. Ryan has a son?”
“She did,” Archer corrects. “His name was Matt. He died, too. The year before Kayla.”
“So Anders dated Kayla, who dated Matt, and now…both Kayla and Matt are dead?” Milly asks. She turns wide eyes to Archer. “How did Matt die?”
“Drowned at Cutty Beach,” Archer says, and Aubrey makes a choking noise. He reaches over to pound her on the back before he realizes she’s not eating. “What’s wrong, Aubrey?”
“Cutty Beach?” she gasps. “My dad, he…he sort of wrote about that beach, in his book. And my mom said he’s never liked the place.”
“Well, Matt’s death was very traumatic,” Archer says. “It happened at a party, and we were all there. It was this wild, stormy night, and everyone had been drinking. No one realized Matt was gone until it was too late. We looked everywhere for him, and Allison got so worried that she insisted we call the cops, who ended up bringing in the Coast Guard, and…well. They searched all night, but didn’t find Matt’s body until the next day. It was horrible.” He runs a hand over his face. “Why are we talking about this, again? I’m losing track of the conversation.”
“I’m not sure either,” Oona says. She keeps getting paler. “But I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite. The idea that Kayla might have been drugged by someone—”
“We don’t know that she was,” Archer says quickly. “All we know is that Fred Baxter had two copies of an autopsy report. Maybe this version is a mistake.”
“Maybe,” Oona says, her expression troubled. “All these years, I’ve felt so guilty about Kayla’s death. I knew she was struggling with something, but instead of trying to help, I got angry with her for drinking too much. And then, to have her die like that…”
Archer turns tired, compassionate eyes toward Oona. “There’s nothing you could have done,” he says. “Nobody can stop a person who’s determined to drink from doing it.”
She holds his gaze, a sad smile playing across her lips. “Perhaps not. But they can try, can’t they?”
Uncle Archer nods off on the futon after Oona leaves, so Aubrey, Jonah, and I tackle cleanup from the cookout. There’s not much to it beyond scrubbing the grill, putting away the few utensils we used, and shoving paper cups and plates into a trash bag. When we finish, Jonah goes off in search of a bin to put the trash in, and Aubrey and I head back to the patio.
“I’m tired of sitting in these chairs,” Aubrey says, surveying their rigid metal backs with distaste. “They’re not very comfortable. Hang on a sec.” She slips into the house, and comes back a minute later holding a large, fluffy blanket. I help her spread it over a patch of grass, and we both collapse onto our backs, staring up at the stars.
“You know, it’s actually pretty nice here,” I say, a yawn creeping into my voice. “Too bad we’re leaving.”
“Yeah,” Aubrey sighs. Her knuckles knock lightly against my arm. “I’m going to miss you.”
A lump forms in my throat. “I’ll miss you, too.” We’re quiet for a few beats, lost in our own thoughts, until practical matters start creeping into mine. “Have you thought about how we’re going to get back to the dorms tonight?” I ask.
Aubrey giggles. “Not really. Maybe we could text Efram?” Her voice turns considering. “Or we could just stay here. There’s an extra room.”
“We don’t have anything to sleep in,” I object.
She plucks at her mesh shorts. “That’s only a problem for you.”
The grass rustles beside us, and I turn to see Jonah’s sneakers approaching the blanket. He pauses. “Is this just a cousin hangout?” he asks.
I sit up, brushing my hair behind my shoulders. Which is my instinctive, go-to, notice-my-hair flirt move. My subconscious isn’t mad at Jonah anymore. And maybe I’m not, either. “No. Come on, join us.”
He sprawls beside me, and Aubrey sits up too. Her phone falls out of her pocket when she does, along with a thin silver card. She retrieves the phone but doesn’t notice the card, so I pick it up and hand it to her. “You dropped this.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Even in the moonlight, I can see her grimace. “I forgot I took that.”
The guilt in her voice makes me pause. “Took what?”
“Um, so. It’s the keycard that opens the gate at Catmint House. I think. It looks just like the one the chauffeur used. I grabbed it out of Gran’s house when Mrs. Ryan told me to leave.”
“You took that?” I ask, as Jonah starts to laugh.
“Damn, Aubrey,” he says. “That’s some next-level petty revenge. Were you planning to go back in the middle of the night and loot the place?”
“I didn’t actually have a plan,” Aubrey admits. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.” She puts the keycard back in her pocket and stretches her arms over her head. “What a weird day. And night.”
“I can’t even keep track of all the stuff that came up,” Jonah says.
“Interesting how we keep going back to Anders, huh?” I ask. While we were cleaning up, I couldn’t stop thinking about my uncle’s smirk at the Summer Gala last night. How he seemed to almost relish telling all those lies.
I expect Jonah to loudly agree, considering how much he hates Uncle Anders. But he says, “Not just him.” I turn to him in surprise and he adds, “We keep going back to Theresa Ryan, too. And unlike Anders, she’s never left the island. She’s been here the whole time. Whispering in your grandmother’s ear.”
I shift on the blanket. “What are you saying?”
“Look, maybe the woman is—unbalanced. Maybe losing her son pushed her over the edge, so she did something to Kayla Dugas and made Dr. Baxter cover it up. And maybe your grandmother learned what it was, but she’s too dependent on Theresa to do anything about it. Like, she already cut ties with all her kids, so who else is gonna take care of her?” He shrugs at my dubious expression. “It’s no weirder than anything else that’s happened here over the past twenty years, is it?”
I have to admit he has a point. “But why would Mrs. Ryan hurt Kayla?”
“I don’t know,” Jonah says. “But your grandmother freaked when Aubrey broug
ht up her name, right? There’s something going on there.”
Aubrey tries unsuccessfully to suppress a massive yawn. “I’m exhausted, you guys. I can’t keep my eyes open. Do you mind if we crash here, Milly? That spare bed is calling my name. It’s a double, so we can share. I don’t kick, I promise.”
“Sure,” I say, plucking at the skirt of my red dress. It’s not ideal for sleeping in, but I guess I can handle it for one night.
Jonah takes in the gesture and says, “You can borrow something of mine if you want. It’s all clean,” he adds hastily.
“Yeah, okay,” I say, and Aubrey gets to her feet with a relieved sigh.
“I’m out, then. See you guys tomorrow.”
I watch until she opens the sliding glass door and slips through. Then I turn toward Jonah with a small smile. “Thanks for lending me a change of clothes. I wasn’t looking forward to sleeping in a dress.”
“Especially not a family heirloom, right?” Jonah says. I cock my head, puzzled, and he adds, “That’s your mother’s dress, isn’t it?”
I let out a surprised laugh. “Yeah, but how did you know?”
“You told us, that first day. You wore it on the ferry.”
“I can’t believe you remember that.”
“I remember more than that,” Jonah says. “You wore sunglasses, even though it was raining. You referred to me as a J. Crew model and a constipated gnome in almost the same sentence.” I snicker a little, because that was one of my better lines. “Then you bought us all gin and tonics, and tried to get us to spill some secrets. I had three. The first was that I’m not actually your cousin. The second was that your uncle led my parents into bankruptcy, and I had the ridiculous idea that I was going to make him pay for that.”
The Cousins Page 23