“It was a whirlwind romance,” she said. “That was what Natalie told me. I couldn’t understand the sudden rush to get married. But Natalie, well, she was an artist. She was unpredictable. She had, as you put it, these bursts of passion.”

It made no sense. None of this made any sense. Or maybe, for the first time, the confusion was leading to some kind of clarity.

“Where is Natalie?” I asked.

Julie tucked her hair behind her ear and looked off.

“Please tell me.”

“I don’t get any of this,” Julie said.

“I know. I want to help.”

“She warned me. She warned me not to tell you anything.”

I didn’t know how to reply to that.

“I think it’s best if you go now,” Julie said.

No chance, but maybe it was time to circle in from another direction, keep her off balance. “Where is your father?” I asked her.

When I’d first confronted her at the door, a slow stun had come to her face. Now it looked as though I’d slapped her. “What?”

“He taught at Lanford—in my department even. Where is he now?”

“What does he have to do with anything?”

Good question, I thought. Great question even. “Natalie never told me about him.”

“She didn’t?” Julie gave a halfhearted shrug. “Maybe you two weren’t as close as you thought.”

“She came with me to campus and she never said one word about him. Why?”

Julie considered that for a moment. “He left us twenty-five years ago, you know. I was five years old. Natalie was nine. I barely remember him.”

“Where did he go?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Please. Where did he go?”

“He ran off with a student, but that didn’t last. My mother . . . She never forgave him. He got remarried and started a new family.”

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care. My mother said he moved out west someplace. That’s all I know. I had no interest.”

“And Natalie?”

“What about her?”

“Did she have an interest in her father?”

“An interest? It wasn’t up to her. He ran off.”

“Did Natalie know where he was?”

“No. But . . . I think he’s the reason Natalie was always so screwed up when it came to men. When we were little, she was convinced that one day Dad would come back and we’d be a family. Even after he remarried. Even after he had other kids. He was no good, Mom said. He was dead to her—and me.”

“But not to Natalie.”

Julie didn’t reply. She seemed lost in a thought.

“What?” I asked.

“My mother is in a home now. Complications due to diabetes. I tried to care for her but . . .” Her voice faded away. “See, Mom never remarried. She never had a life. My father took all that away from her. And yet Natalie still longed for some kind of reconciliation. She still thought, I don’t know, that it wasn’t too late. Natalie was such a dreamer. It’s like finding Dad would prove a point—like then she could meet a man that would never leave and that would prove that Dad didn’t mean to leave us either.”

“Julie?”

“What?”

I made sure that she was looking directly into my eyes. “She met that man.”

Julie looked out her back window, blinked hard. A tear ran down her cheek.

“Where is Natalie?” I asked.

Julie shook her head.

“I won’t leave until you tell me. Please. If she still has no interest in seeing me—”

“Of course she has no interest,” Julie snapped, suddenly angry. “If she had an interest, wouldn’t she have contacted you on her own? You were right before.”

“About what?”

“About being delusional. About wearing those rose-tinted glasses.”

“Then help me take them off,” I said, unfazed. “Once and for all. Help me see the truth.”

I don’t know if my words reached her. I would not be dissuaded. I looked at her and maybe she saw that. Maybe that was why she finally caved.

“After the wedding, Natalie and Todd moved to Denmark,” Julie said. “That was their home, but they traveled a lot. Todd worked as a doctor for a charity. I forget the name of it. Something about beginnings maybe.”

“Fresh Start.”

“Yes, that’s it. So they traveled to poorer countries. Todd would do medical procedures on the needy. Natalie would do her artwork and teach. She loved it. They were happy. Or so I thought.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“At the wedding.”

“Wait. You haven’t seen your sister in six years?”

“That’s right. After the wedding, Natalie explained to me that her life with Todd was going to be a glorious journey. She warned me that it might be a long time before I saw her again.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “And you’ve never gone over and visited? She’s never come back?”

“No. Like I said, she warned me. I get postcards from Denmark. That’s it.”

“How about e-mail or talking on the phone?”

“She doesn’t have either. She thought that modern technology was clouding her thinking and harming her work.”

I made a face. “She told you that?”

“Yes.”

“And you bought it? What if there was an emergency?”

Julie shrugged. “This was the life she wanted.”

“Didn’t you find this arrangement odd?”

“Yes. In fact, I made a lot of the arguments you’re making now. But what could I do? She made it clear—this was what she wanted. This was the start of a whole new journey. Who was I to stand in the way?”

I shook my head in disbelief and to clear it. “When was the last time you got a postcard from her?”

“It’s been a while. Months, maybe half a year.”

I sat back. “So in reality, you don’t know where she is, do you?”

“I would say Denmark, but in truth, no, I guess I don’t. I also don’t understand how her husband could have been living with another woman in South Carolina or any of this. I mean, nothing makes sense anymore. I don’t know where she is.”

A sharp knock on the door startled us both. Julie actually reached for my hand as though she needed comfort. There was a second knock and then a voice called out.

“Jacob Fisher? This is the police. The house is surrounded. Come out with your hands in the air.”

Chapter 23

I refused to say a word until my attorney—Benedict—was present.

That took some time. The lead officer identified himself as Jim Mulholland of the New York Police Department. I couldn’t figure out that jurisdiction. Lanford College is in Massachusetts. I had killed Otto along Route 91 still within that state. I had ventured into Vermont and when they picked me up I was in New Jersey. Other than taking public transportation through Manhattan, I could not figure out how the NYPD could possibly be involved in this mess.

Mulholland was a burly man with a thick mustache that brought on visions of Magnum PI. He stressed that I was not under arrest and that I could leave anytime, but boy, they would really, really appreciate my cooperation. He chatted politely, if not inanely, as he drove me to a Midtown precinct. He offered me soda, coffee, sandwiches, whatever I wanted. I was suddenly hungry and accepted. I was about to dig in when I remembered that it was guilty men who ate in custody. I had read that somewhere. The guilty man knows what is going on, so he can sleep and eat. It is the innocent man who is too confused and nervous to do either.

Then again, which was I?

I ate the sandwich and even enjoyed every bite. Every once in a while, Mulholland or his partner, Susan Telesco, a tall blonde with jeans and a turtleneck, would try to engage me in conversation. I would shake them off and remind them that I had invoked my right to counsel. Three hours later, Benedict showed up. The four of us—Mulholland, Telesco, Benedict, and yours truly—sat around a table in an interrogation room that had been done up to not be overly intimidating. Of course it wasn’t as though I had a lot of experience in interrogation rooms, but I always expected them to be somewhat stark. This one was more a soft beige.