Page 90 of Saltwater

But Naomi shakes her head.

“No,” she says. “He got another woman pregnant. For the second time.”

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe because I know what Naomi is implying. She’s implying that Marcus is my father. That he did it again with Lorna. And I’m certain this is what she means, because it runs through every page ofSaltwater.The characters in the play who, after losing it all, decided they might as well fall into bed together, fall in love. I believed my mother had used them as models—my father and uncle. The way I might during a figure study. I hadn’t considered that the material might be true. Hadn’t wanted to see it, maybe.

My mother and uncle had an affair.

Naomi lays a heavy hand on my shoulder.

“You don’t mind waiting for the bags?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “Of course not.” I’m too stunned to say anything else.

“Don’t hold it against him,” she says.

“Who?”

“Your father. Don’t hold it against him, what he told you.”

I can’t breathe.

“Because he’s wrong. He didn’t kill her.”

Marcus

July19, 1992

Capri

Richard was already asleep whenMarcus made the decision not to change. It would be better, he thought, if someone saw him walking around in wrinkled linen shorts and a button-up shirt, a pair of leather loafers. No one on the island would look twice.

Downstairs, he checked on Naomi, who was still asleep on the couch. He tried again to wake her. Pushed on her shoulder. Tickled her ear. No response.

Marcus knew he hadn’t been the best husband. Throughout their marriage, he rarely concerned himself with traditions like fidelity. But on nights like this, he was deeply grateful for the woman Naomi was. He leaned down to kiss the top of her head before turning off the lights and leaving her, asleep, in the dark.

The plan was simple, really. All he had to do was take Sarah’s jewelry and leave. Richard had told him where the body was: not far from the viewing platform, resting on a bed of pine needles. Round trip, it would take less than an hour. And the jewelry? That, he would throw into the sea below. If anyone ever found it, by then the connection would be forgotten. And if not, the body would be cremated and any physical evidence destroyed.

No one would ever know for sure what happened that night. Perhaps the thieves had developed cold feet. Murder, after all, was a more significant crime than stealing a necklace, a handful of rings. He triedto remember if Sarah had been wearing earrings that evening but couldn’t.

Once he was on the street, it became clear Capri was still awake. There were groups, sometimes as large as eight or ten people, stumbling home from late dinners, others just heading out. Maybe on the way back, he thought, he would stop off for a drink, to have an alibi in the event something went wrong. All he needed to do was muddy the waters.

A little doubt,his father always said,goes a long way.

But as he swung around the corner, taking the road that led to the Villa Jovis, he saw her in the shadows. A hand against the wall, as if she were steadying herself, or walking by feel. Her steps surprisingly assured, even and measured. Her movement almost liquid in the red column dress she was wearing. He wondered, briefly, if she was drunk. Maybe Richard had been, too. Maybe his story had been wrong—a drunken mistake. Maybe it wasn’t true that Richard had pushed her. Maybe—

Marcus watched Sarah take her free hand and touch the back of her head gingerly. A barely perceptible flinch followed.

His mouth went dry. He cleared his throat. He was about to say her name when she saw him and stilled. Her whole body, he realized, coiled to run. But he acted first. Putting a firm hand on her wrist as soon as he reached her. Marcus knew if she weren’t injured, she would have beaten him. She would be gone.

“What happened?” he asked. “Are you okay?” He tried to concentrate on his grip. To make it consistent but not alarming. He needed to be able to keep her there. But if she started to struggle, started to scream, he knew he would lose her. They still had to walk a half mile back to the house and cross at least one busy street.

“I—” She started to speak, but it was clear that despite being upright and mobile, she was injured. She looked around the narrow alley; they were alone. “I don’t know what happened.”

This was good, Marcus thought. He could work withI don’t know.

“Let’s get you home,” he said, pulling her off the wall andensuring that all her weight rested on him. “Tell me what you remember.”

“I don’t know,” she repeated.

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