Free The Bay at Midnight by Diane Chamberlain

it gradually.”
    I smiled. I could still see the delicate little kid in him, hiding behind a much manlier facade. I watched the muscles in his forearms shift as he lifted the hamburger to his mouth. The triangle of skin in the open collar of his shirt was the same ruddy tan as the rest of him, and for a moment, I got lost in the shallow valley at the base of his throat. The muscles low in my belly suddenly contracted. It had been so long since I’d experienced that sensation that it took me a moment to recognize it as desire.
    Oh , I thought, this is very strange.
    “I was asking about your mother,” I said, returning to the relative safety of our conversation.
    “Right,” he said, swallowing a bite of his hamburger. “She died last year. And that’s part of why I’m concerned about my father. He was broken up about Mom, and Ned’s death really hit him hard. I’m trying to get him to see a counselor, someone who works with the elderly, but he won’t accept help any more than Ned would.” He lifted a French fry to his mouth, then set it down again. “I actually think he wants to die at this point.”
    “Is he ill?” I asked.
    “Not ill. Just old. Just old and very sad. He lives in an independent-living residence in Lakewood. I mentioned that I was having lunch with you today, just to test his reaction. He seemed surprised, but that was all. It’s like he didn’t really get it.Didn’t understand who you were.” He ate the French fry. “Are your parents still living?” he asked.
    “My father died of a heart attack two years after Isabel was killed,” I said. I didn’t need to add that the stress of losing his favorite daughter had taken a terrible toll on my father. “My mother still lives alone and is doing very well. She works at McDonald’s.”
    He managed a laugh. “She always was a pistol,” he said.
    I nibbled at my shrimp salad. “I think,” I said slowly, “that in addition to your father and my mother, we also need to consider George Lewis’s family, don’t you?”
    He pressed his napkin to his lips. “Of course,” he said. “And I don’t feel good about that. But Lewis is dead and—”
    “That makes me so unbelievably sad,” I interrupted him, shaking my head. “I always knew he was innocent and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.”
    Ethan fell silent. Slowly he lifted his hamburger and took another bite.
    “Did Ned ever say anything to you that might make you think he knew more than he was letting on?” I asked.
    Ethan shook his head as he swallowed. “We never talked about it. Early on, I remember my parents attributing the change in him to what had happened to Isabel, but he and I never spoke about it at all.” He moved the straw from one side of his lemonade glass to the other. His fingernails were clean and short, his hands nicely shaped. “Ned and I were really different,” he continued. “Our interests were different, and…our philosophies on life. I tend to see the glass as half-full, while Ned was usually pretty down.”
    “How about your father?” I asked. “Did he ever change his story on where Ned was that night?”
    Ethan leaned back in his chair again, narrowing his eyes at me. “Julie, please don’t play Nancy Drew with this,” he said. “Don’t think about this as a plot in one of your books. This is real life. You’re talking about my father and my brother.”
    His words took me by surprise and I felt anger rise up in me. “What about my family?” I asked, trying to keep my voice as calm as his. I recognized the power in his quiet demeanor. “I don’t want to deal with this either, Ethan. Do you think I want to relive Isabel’s death all over again? I don’t. The idea terrifies me. But we need to know what really happened. All of us. And if you don’t take the letter to the police, I have no choice but to send them the copy Abby gave me.”
    Other diners were staring at me, forks halfway to their mouths, and I knew my voice had