Free Fall from Grace by Richard North Patterson Page A

that’s personal to me. As is everything that happened that day.”
    “But you told the police. I’m sure.”
    “Only because I had to.” She hesitated, then added in a lower voice, “For obvious reasons, they were easier to talk to. Even looking at you is painful.”
    Were she not who she was, Adam might almost have believed her sorrow—if not her claim to be ignorant of the will. Bluntly, he asked, “Did you know my father was failing?”
    Studying him, she seemed to weigh her answer. “Do you mean physically or mentally?”
    “Both.”
    She turned away from him, regarding a patch of grass in front of them. Then she said, “It won’t surprise you to know that while you were burying your father, I was consulting a lawyer. Call that cold, if you like, but the requirements of ‘good taste’ left me with a free afternoon. Right now, for various reasons, I’m not prepared to take this any further.
    “That doesn’t mean I won’t, in time. You’re free to try me later. We’ll see how things stand then.”
    Carefully, Pacelli got to her feet, her face suddenly pale. She began to leave, then looked back at him again. “There are two more things I should say to you. Whatever happened between you and your father, he deeply regretted that. And whatever happened with Ben and your mother, I’m sorry for how she must feel.”
    Left unspoken was whether Pacelli meant his father’s affair, his death, or the loss of his estate. The nerve of this expression of sympathy left Adam briefly silent, even as he rejected the notion of his father mired in regret. Then he asked, “Did he tell you why I left?”
    Pacelli shook her head. “I asked him, several times. But he could never talk about it.”
    “That much I believe.”
    Pacelli looked into his face. Then he turned from her and walked away. The image of her last expression, curious and intent, lingered in his mind.
    Walking toward the road, he saw the reporter waiting by his car. When he reached it, she stood in front of the door, her voice and manner so feral that Adam wanted to push her aside. “Mr. Blaine,” she said, “tell me what you and Carla were talking about.”
    For an instant, Adam felt a reflexive sympathy for Carla Pacelli. Then he looked at the reporter so coldly that she seemed to recoil. “When I want to see you,” he told her, “I’ll let you know.”
    He got in the car. The original reason for this trip, the newspaper, lay forgotten on the passenger seat. Looking back at the cemetery, Adam saw Pacelli, her head bowed, her hand resting on his father’s tombstone. No doubt she thought that the Enquirer could use another photograph.
    When Adam came through the door, his mother was in the living room. “Where were you?” she asked.
    “I decided to stop at his grave.”
    Her mouth parted, as if to form a question, and then the telephone rang.
    Clarice answered. “Hello, George,” she said, her tone pleasant but reserved. “Yes, I’m all right, thank you. Please, tell me.”
    For a moment, she listened intently. Then her face froze, save for the bewilderment in her eyes. “I had no idea,” she managed to say. “Are you sure?”
    As she listened, Adam saw, she placed a hand on the chair as if to retain her balance. With great civility, she said, “Thank you, George. It was kind of you to call.”
    Putting down the phone, she gazed past Adam as if he were not there. “Was that the DA?” he asked.
    She blinked, aware of him again. “Yes. He called about the cause of death.”
    “Is there something more?”
    Clarice drew a breath. “Yes. Your father had brain cancer. A massive tumor, apparently.”
    The words hit Adam with a jolt. “Did he know?”
    Clarice sat down. “If so, he chose not to tell me.”
    Looking away, she held a hand to her face. Another betrayal, Adam sensed her thinking, another secret. Then a further thought struck him: that on the night he died, Benjamin Blaine was looking at the last summer solstice of his life