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My father shrugged. “I wasn’t privy to your mother’s dating habits, any more than she was to mine.”

I sat up straighter. “Did Wentworth tell the police they dated?”

“He told them they had a short-lived relationship that ended by mutual agreement.”

“When?”

“Last year.”

I didn’t bother asking how my father had obtained information that should have remained confidential as part of a police investigation. There were definite perks to being the Earl of Shaftesbury, and no one could accuse my father of failing to exploit them.

“How short is short?”

“Three months.”

“That’s a lie. She would have told me. Why is he lying to the police?”

My father’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “Perhaps your mother didn’t think you’d approve.”

“She always told me about her dates, including plenty I didn’t approve of. Like the guy who was far too old for her.” I shook my head again. “Why did they arrest him?”

“People saw them together on the day she disappeared.”

A chill traveled down my spine. “Doing what?”

“Having dinner. He said it was a business meeting, but your mother’s work diary contained no record of it. She probably forgot to write it down.”

“Probably.” My brain was doing somersaults, trying to force the new information into place and determine what it might mean. “Why didn’t they charge him?”

My father gave a short laugh. “Because having dinner with someone isn’t a crime. He told the police they went their separate ways afterward and claimed that when he tried to call her later, she didn’t answer. His phone records support his version of events.”

“But they don’t prove where he went after dinner.”

“No.”

That single word carried more weight than everything else he’d said.

“So, why are you telling me this?”

He flicked a glance toward me. “I thought you might find it reassuring that they’re still…” The long pause made his careful selection of words obvious. “…looking into things.”

“Right.”

Reassuring wasn’t the word I would have chosen. For months, there had been nothing—no suspects, no leads, no explanation. Now there was a man who claimed to have secretly dated my mother and admitted seeing her on the day she died.

I didn’t feel reassured. I felt as though someone had ripped the scab off a wound that had never properly healed.

We didn’t speak for a while after that, not until the outskirts of London came into sight.

“So… rehab?” my father asked again.

“I already explained why I couldn’t give you a heads-up beforehand.”

“You could have called me while you were there.”

“I could have,” I admitted. “But I had other things on my mind besides having a heart-to-heart with John Harrington.”

“And are you—?” He paused, frowning. “I don’t know the correct vernacular. Cured?”