If she were younger, I might’ve thought she didn’t want to sleep in her room or had a bad dream or something.
“Why are you up, Elliot?” she mumbles, adjusting her pillow and twisting away from the light. “Oh shit, did I fall asleep?”
“You went to bed after dinner. What the heck are you doing out here?”
“Um.” The throw slips down as she moves, and I see the phone clutched in her hand.
“Ah. Texting with some hot guy?” I keep my tone teasing and light, hoping it’ll encourage her to talk. If she’s into some guy, I need to find out who he is and make sure he isn’t an asshole. If he is, he’ll be gone faster than bad fish.
“No, no.” She flushes. “Nothing like that.” Her fingers pick at the throw. She doesn’t meet my eyes. “I just couldn’t sleep. I didn’t mean to nod off out here.”
“Right.” I prop my elbow against the back of the couch and rest my chin in my hand. “You are a terrible liar.”
“I had to stay awake.” Her voice grows small. “Just in case.”
“In case what?”
“Um.” She wrings her hands, twisting the throw. “It’s a little strange.”
I arch an eyebrow.
“Or maybe a lot strange.” She bites her lower lip.
I let the silence stretch.
“Anna’s been really stressed since the dinner,” she blurts out. “You know, when your mom put alcohol…”
And just like that, my gut clenches like I’ve been kicked.
“I don’t like it when she’s stressed. She shouldn’t be, you know. She’s married now, and you’re so good to her.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I’m anything but good to her, but Nonny’s too young and innocent to know any better.
“But she…” Nonny clicks her teeth. “I…I was just worried.”
Shadows too dark for someone her age fill her eyes. Does she know something that my PI couldn’t find out? Something as harrowing as the rape my wife suffered?
I reach over and squeeze Nonny’s hand. She’s probably still groggy from the interrupted slumber, and I know she hasn’t been sleeping well and her defenses are low. This is a sneaky ass move, but I can’t help myself. “Did something happen?” I keep my voice low and coaxing. “You can tell me. Sharing might help.”
She looks at me, her gaze uncertain and troubled. “You can’t tell Anna. She’ll be totally upset.”
“I won’t.”
Her throat works, then she looks down. “When I was eight, I saw her fall down the stairs in our house.”
“That’s…an unfortunate accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident. It was late at night, and she just stood at the top of the stairs and…threw herself down.”
Cold knots in my gut. “What?” I lean back with a shaky laugh. “Maybe you were mistaken.”
She looks at her hands. “I thought that too, but she got up, went back upstairs and did it again. I watched.”
Clammy fear clutches my heart. It wasn’t a suicide attempt, most likely. Hanging or jumping off the roof is a more common choice. “How old was she?”
“Fifteen.” Nonny’s voice is so small I almost don’t hear her.
Sudden nausea roils through me, and I wish I hadn’t drunk all that water.