Page 94 of The Family Plot
“To be honest, that’s doubtful,” he says, “considering the fact thatwe’re talking about a possible forgery. But we should be able to determine, at least, whether or not Andy wrote it.”
“What was your update?” Mom asks. She folds her arms across her sweatshirt, trying to reposition her anxiety as impatience.
Elijah clears his throat, shifts his feet—preparing for something. “We recovered a partial fingerprint from one of the photographs beneath the shed. It appears whoever originally handled them was very careful.” His eyes sweep across us all. “But not careful enough. The print is a match for Daniel.”
My stunned silence is genuine. Even now, I haven’t gotten used to it, the fact that Dad was a killer. I’m shocked to hear Elijah say it, shocked that he figured it out so fast when I’ve lived for twenty-six years, never seeing the truth.
“What does that— What does that mean?” Mom asks.
“It means,” Elijah says, “that later today, we’re going to announce to the press that Daniel Lighthouse was the Blackburn Killer.”
Mom’s moans come quickly, the same horrified sounds she’s been making for days.
Unlike Charlie, who gives a scoff of anger, and Tate, who gasps like she’s gulping for breath, I don’t think Mom is acting. Tears wet her cheeks, her hand trembles against her mouth, and I see her still trying to process it all, still trying to detach her love from a man who never deserved it.
“Are… are you sure?” Tate asks. “How can you even tell with a print so old?”
“Actually, it’s fairly new. Our best guess is that it’s only a couple weeks old.”
“A couple weeks!” Mom cries. “But the murders stopped years ago!”
“Be that as it may,” Elijah replies, “it seems that Daniel still visitedthat room.” He hesitates, as if reluctant to continue. “Likely as a way to relive his kills.”
My body floods with cold. Mom yelps out another cry.
Squinting at Elijah, Charlie takes a step toward him. “How do we know you didn’t plant that print on the photo? For days now, our father’s been a sitting duck in the morgue.”
I stare at my brother. His bravado no longer sounds forced; his performance of outrage, disbelief, is wholly convincing. It frightens me a little, how well he’s committing to the fiction.
Ignoring the accusation, Elijah slides his attention onto me. “I understand this is devastating news,” he says, and I’m not sure what he sees on my face, but as he takes me in, concern softens his expression. His eyes become gentle with empathy, something his father never offered.
“I have some more questions for all of you,” he continues. “But first, I want to give you the opportunity to tell me… whatever you might want to tell me.”
“Like what?” Tate asks, her face pale.
“Anything you might have seen. Anything you might know. Information that could add to the evidence we have against your father. If you do know something, it would be in your best interest to tell me now.”
Again, his gaze touches mine.
Do I want to tell him? There’s still time. I could go back on my word.
Charlie’s confession clicks on in my mind, a filmstrip stuttering into motion, and I watch it play out in the shadowy colors of Andy’s final night: my brothers face each other, breathing hard, hurting from the same wounds, but only one of them survives. And is it fair that it’s Charlie, when he had longer to process what Dad did, and to try to make it right?
No. Of course it isn’t fair. Andy’s bones in the ground will never be fair.
But we made plans last night, the four of us. At the dining room table, over plates of pasta that Mom had undercooked, we decided we’re going to get off this island, spend some time together away from the house. It was Mom’s idea. “No Honorings,” she promised. “No murder stories. Just us.”
At first, it made me feel prickly, thinking of us trying to pretend we were a family like that: one who vacations together, staying up late with wine and games, laughing until we ache.
“It’s not a vacation,” Mom disagreed. “It’s a chance to know one another. Away from all this. We can fight. We can scream and cry. The three of you can yell at me until you can’t speak, I don’t care, I deserve that. Just as long as we’re together for a while. Somewhere safe.”
“Somewhere safe,” Charlie repeated, eyes cast away from Mom. “I think that’s the most motherly thing you’ve ever said.”
Mom shifted in her chair, looking both pleased and apologetic.
Chewing thoughtfully, Tate watched Charlie. “I think we should do it,” she said. Then she turned to me. “But you have to come, too, Dahlia. It’s not a family vacation—or a family… chance-to-know-each-other—if we’re not all there.”
“I don’t think I—”
