Page 51 of Saltwater

I can see the knife slipping when Lorna learned we would be having dinner with Stan. I replay the way she stepped back, almost on instinct, when we first saw him on the island. Stan is not Lorna’s friend.

“Who?” I say. Looking around, as if I’m lost. As if I wasn’t just trying to find her myself.

“What is with you?” he says. He nearly spits it. “Your whole fucking family.”

Then he pulls a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabs his forehead, cleans his glasses.

“I’m sorry.” He holds up his hands. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

I don’t respond.

“I’ve tried calling her,” he says. “All day yesterday. No answer. I came by the villa, I talked to your father.” He cleans his glasses again, only more furiously, and I worry the lenses will crack. “Then this morning, I saw you in the Piazzetta. I followed you. I followed you because I thought you might know where she is.”

“I don’t,” I say. Because sometimes the truth is easiest.

An employee comes around and whistles at us to clear the platform, but Stan ignores him.

“I think they might have—” he begins, and then stops. “I think they might have done something to her,” he finally says.

He means my family.

“Stan,” I say, working to keep my voice calm, even, “why would they have done something to Lorna?”

“Because she pulled together a dossier on your father. She had an entire file about him, about Marcus, maybe Naomi, I don’t know. She hadn’t shown it to me yet. She had been working on itfor years.” It comes out like a plea. “And this week, I was going to pay her for it. Five hundred grand for a thumb drive filled with files. She promised me that she had figured out who killed your mother. It had taken her a long time, but they finally slipped up.” He claps his hands. “Don’t you get it? They slipped up. I always knew they would, but I could never get close enough. Lorna could. She saw everything. And I think they—”

He reaches out for my arm, but it feels too close, so I step back. I don’t want him to touch me. I’m worried that if he does, his panic will make mine worse, and already I’m counting the money Lorna would have ended up with if everything went to plan. Five and a half million between Stan and me. Five and a half million and she walks away. But she isn’t here to collect.

Inexplicably, Stan begins to cry.

“I loved her so much,” he says. His voice hitches.

“Lorna?” I try to imagine him and Lorna together, but can’t.

He shakes his head. “Your mother. All I ever wanted was for her to love me, too. But you have to know that she wouldn’t kill herself. Your mother never would have done that. She loved you. She loved you so much. I just needed to know. You can understand that, can’t you? I didn’t want Lorna to get hurt. But I had to know.I had to.”

His words punch me in the chest. In the thirty years since her death, no one in my own family has ever told me that my mother loved me. No one. Stan’s outburst is so unprovoked, so raw, that I believe him. I can’t help it, I’m desperate to.

He dries his eyes with the same handkerchief, then stiffens, as if the tears have starched his collar despite the heat.

“She’s gone,” he says. “Isn’t she?”

I don’t know if he means Lorna or my mother or both, but that is the moment I decide to tell Stan Markowitz everything.Almosteverything.

Lorna

Hours before Lorna’s disappearance:6

It only takes minutes togo from the dock of the Marina Piccola toIl Fallimento,Stan’s yacht. And I recognize it all—the dark gray paint of the tender, the teak swim platform, the white uniforms. At least the tender driver is new. A stewardess passes us hot towels and glasses of champagne as we board. It’s a stark contrast to my previous experiences on tenders, where the goal was always only transportation—dock to deck—in as little time as possible. No hot towels. No champagne. Just white knuckles braced against juddering waves.

Il Fallimentois anchored close to the Faraglioni, part of the constellation of bigger yachts that ring the outer stretch of the Marina Piccola. Closer to shore are the smaller yachts, the charter boats, the sailboats—visitors with less money, or who feel less compelled to show it off.

Stan has always been compelled to show it off, and he’s in fine form tonight. The lights are on, illuminating the water; the music flows through the speakers. An army of people greet us and shepherd us up two flights. Every face impassive.

Don’t worry, the crew is discreet.That’s what Stan used to say to us.Discreetwas never the right word.Negligentwas my preferred term.

I’ve spent the better part of our walk to the Marina Piccola, the better part of the ride out here, trying to convince myself that my situation is different now. I have Marcus. I have Helen. I have theLingates and all their money. Most important, I have something Stan wants. But it’s still there, the muscle memory of those nights. The impulse to down the flute of champagne, to knock back a pill, to have a good time despite the darkness oozing out of everyone on board. Especially me.

Before Stan can greet us, Naomi reaches for another glass of champagne from a passing tray.

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