Of course, he’d been conditioned to. The less people knew about the things he cared for, yearned for—the less his father knew about them—the less likely they were to be stripped away. Or damaged by ridicule.
Keep away, Varen’s exterior had always said. But the black clothing and the sunglasses and the biting sharp tongue had only been part of an elaborate defense system meant to shut everyone out. Somehow Isobel had penetrated through its boundaries. Somehow she would need to do so again.
“Varen is the special one,” Isobel said, plucking the black-and-white picture from its frame.
“Is?” Darcy asked, eyes wide with sudden intensity, filled with equal parts hope and fear.
“I’m not here because of the note,” Isobel began. “I’m here because I need to know . . . about Madeline.”
Darcy’s expression changed, hardening with suspicion. “How do you know that name?”
“Varen. He . . . told me she left.”
“He told you that?”
“Nothing else. Not even when I asked. Why? What happened?”
“What does she have to do with this?” Darcy asked.
“You do know something.”
“Apparently a lot less than you,” Darcy said, her tone sharpening.
“I need to know what happened,” Isobel said.
“And I need to know what you know about Varen’s whereabouts. Where did you get that note? When did he give it to you? If you don’t start talking now, I’ll call the police.”
“Because they’ve been so much help so far.”
“If you know where he is—”
“You know where he is!” Isobel yelled. Catching herself, she lowered her voice again. “You said so yourself this morning.”
Darcy stiffened. Her hands clutched her elbows tighter.
Isobel could tell she wanted to talk, but something was holding her back. It was not the same something that had held her back before, though, that night in Varen’s room. Or minutes earlier, when Mr. Nethers had commanded her to post Varen’s car. This time, her fear stemmed not from her husband, but from having to admit—no, accept—that something more was at work, something she couldn’t explain or understand.
“I gave you that note today because I thought it was all over,” Isobel said. “Because I thought you deserved an answer. Confirmation of what you were trying to tell me you already knew. Because I thought you actually care—”
“I do care,” Darcy cut in. She pressed her hands to her heart. “So much. Joe does too. He’s beside himself. This whole thing, it’s tearing him apart. It’s tearing us apart. He just doesn’t—he can’t—he’s—”
“He’s what?” Isobel asked. “What excuses him? I mean, besides you.”
Darcy’s mouth fell open, but Isobel didn’t regret her words. Hadn’t Varen once confronted Isobel with a similar inquiry when she’d dismissed Brad’s behavior? Hadn’t he been right?
“Never mind,” Isobel said, glancing down at the picture. “Just . . . forget it. I should have known better than to come here. It’s obvious that you only care about looking like you care.”
Isobel left her place by the desk and started for the door, taking the photo with her.
“Madeline lives in Boston,” Darcy blurted.
Isobel stopped short. Slipper stood, fur prickling, ready to shoot through the gap as soon as it opened wide enough.
“She could write or call,” Darcy went on, and Isobel remained rooted, listening without moving. “But she doesn’t. She even took on a new legal name. Joe went digging years ago. Before we got married. He doesn’t know I know that. But . . . I got worried when he refused to get rid of her piano. I thought he was still holding on to the hope that she might . . . come back one day. So I went through his files. But it’s clear Madeline doesn’t want to be found. She left them, Isobel. She left both of them without a word. And no word since. That’s . . . that’s everything. I don’t know any more than that.”
Isobel turned her head toward Darcy, who hurried on.
“Joe won’t say it, but I can tell he’s starting to fear the worst. He wakes up almost every night swearing he hears footsteps in the attic—voices, too. We’ve both run up there countless times. But there’s no one, nothing. One night, when Joe was driving home, he said he saw him by the fountain. Said Varen just appeared out of nowhere, and he had to swerve to avoid hitting him. Then he just disappeared. Like . . . like a ghost.”