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Darcy drew a shaky breath and let it go. Folding her arms in tighter, she gripped either elbow. “I read the note.”
“I figured,” Isobel said, “since you knew my name.”
And just like that, their conversation had jumped from one uncomfortable track to another.
Slinking between Isobel’s ankles, tail unwinding from her calf, Slipper padded to sit in front of the gap in the door.
“I’ve never known him to say he loved anything,” Darcy began again, eager, it seemed, to stamp out the awkward silence that had settled into the room. “Or anyone. Not even when talking about something like writing or drawing. Not even Slipper.” She gestured loosely to the cat. “Or Bruce.”
Isobel looked up, surprised.
“Varen didn’t use that word,” Darcy added in a murmur. “You . . . you must be very special.”
Her words took Isobel aback, though they shouldn’t have. After all, it was no secret to her that Varen treated his heart like a vault. He kept so much to himself—practically everything.
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.”
