The Truth About Tara. Darlene Gardner

and continuing on the cracked, narrow sidewalk to Wawpaney Elementary.

      She was fortunate that Jack DiMarco wasn’t the private investigator in his family. Otherwise, it might not have been so easy to convince him she wasn’t the grown-up version of Hayley Cooper. She forced herself to act normally and walk at a measured clip, resisting the urge to glance back to see if he was still studying her.

      She couldn’t afford to do anything that would make him suspect that most of what she’d just told him were lies.

      * * *

      MOST DINERS THAT LOOKED like old railroad cars were actually cleverly designed fakes. Or so Jack had heard. The place with the silver exterior where he stopped for breakfast just outside Wawpaney, though, had to be an exception.

      The inside was long and narrow, with a counter lined with stools running the length of one side of the diner. Opposite the counter were booths with windows that overlooked the parking lot. It seemed as though the floor rumbled when Jack stepped inside, as though the railroad car still had some miles left in it. That could have been his runaway imagination, though.

      He took a seat at the end of the counter and looked over a plastic menu with fingerprint smudges—it ran the gamut from breakfast to dinner. Home-cooked entrées, tried-and-true favorites and dishes with fresh ingredients populated the menu. The scent of bacon and eggs filled the air.

      The place was nearly full, although it probably held no more than thirty or thirty-five customers. Conversational voices blended together to create a continuous hum.

      Jack looked up from the menu, surprised that a waitress was standing across the counter from him, waiting. Her curly black hair framed a round, friendly face. She was so short they were almost at eye level, although he was sitting down.

      “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t notice you there.”

      “You must be a tourist.” She balanced one hand on her hip. “The locals all know the menu by heart.”

      “The food must be good here,” he said.

      “The best, especially the fresh seafood and homemade desserts. The lemon meringue pie is to die for,” she said. “But our breakfasts are nothing to sneeze at, either. Where you from?”

      “Kentucky,” he said.

      “You don’t sound it.”

      “Lexington, not Appalachia,” he said. “It’s pretty urban, with lots of transplants.”

      “What brings you here?”

      “Road trip,” he said.

      “Business or pleasure?”

      His waitress asked so many questions, she reminded him of his two sisters, who never hesitated to poke around in his business.

      “Both,” he said, hastening to ask a question of his own before she could fire off another one. “Tell me, do you know anything about Tangier Island?”

      “Sure,” she said. “Never been myself, but I hear it’s real tranquil, though maybe not so much as it used to be on account of tourism. No cars—just bikes and golf carts.”

      Tangier sounded like the kind of place people with high-stress jobs and expendable cash vacationed. No wonder Robert Reese had chosen it.

      “Any idea how to get there?” Jack asked.

      “Easiest way is the ferry in Onancock, which is up the coast a ways along the Chesapeake,” she explained. “Or you could always charter a boat. It’s not a long trip. Tangier’s only ten or so miles off the coast.”

      “Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate the information.”

      “Have you decided on breakfast?” she asked.

      “What do you suggest?”

      “You can’t go wrong with the creamed chipped beef or the sausage gravy biscuit. They come with either grits or home fries.”

      What the hell, Jack thought. When on the Eastern Shore of Virginia, eat as the natives do. “I’ll have the creamed beef with grits. And coffee.”

      “Black?”

      “Two creams, two sugars.”

      She flashed him a grin. “Interesting.”

      “Why is that interesting?” he asked.

      She leaned over the counter. “It means you have a sweet side.”

      He thought of the glare he’d adopted as the top relief pitcher for the Owensboro Mud Dogs, a minor league baseball team in his home state that for many was the last stop before reaching the big time. Jack had gotten called up to the majors late in the season twice over the course of his career, both for brief stints. His goal was to make the third time stick.

      “Not everyone would agree with that,” Jack said.

      “Then they’re not looking hard enough.” She raised her dark brows and left the counter to take another order.

      His phone rang for the second time that morning. He checked the display. Not Annalise this time. His other sister, Maria, the private investigator. Jack had grown up with his older two sisters and younger brother in a rambling house on the outskirts of Lexington with parents who didn’t always give them what they wanted but provided them with everything they needed. The perfect family, other people called them.

      The two stools closest to him were empty, but the rest of the diner was filling up fast, providing him an excuse not to answer. If he didn’t, however, one of his sisters would keep calling until they got him. They might even enlist the help of his mother. He clicked through to the call. “Hey, Maria.”

      “Jack! I’m so glad I caught you. Are you okay?”

      Almost thirty-two years old and they still checked up on him, proving his family wasn’t perfect. Privacy was pretty much impossible. Considering what had happened to their younger brother, though, it was understandable.

      “Hold on a minute,” he told her. To the waitress who was bringing his coffee over to the counter, he said, “I’ll be back in a few.”

      “Where are you?” Maria asked on the other end of the line. Patience had never been her strong suit.

      He exited the restaurant into the bright sun of the morning before answering his sister’s question. “At a diner on the Eastern Shore.”

      “You’re there already? You didn’t drive straight through, did you?”

      “No, I didn’t,” he said. “I just got a really early start this morning.”

      The high-pitched giggle of a little boy carried through the gravel parking lot. The man with him lifted the boy and tossed him in the air a few inches before catching him and swinging him to the ground. A deep, pulsing throb started in Jack’s shoulder, only partially due to yesterday’s eight-hour drive and the too-hard mattress at the hotel just outside Richmond.

      “Annalise said you didn’t answer your cell this morning,” she said.

      “Some states have laws against using the phone while you’re driving.” Jack didn’t know if Virginia was one of them, but it was as good an excuse as any.

      “Just as long as you’re okay.” Maria’s pause lasted a few seconds. “You are okay, right?”

      He was getting tired of answering that question. He scuffed his foot in the gravel. “I’m fine. You and Annalise don’t need to keep tabs on me, you know.”

      “You can’t blame us for being worried,” she said. “We know what a blow it was when the orthopedist told you that you couldn’t pitch again.”

      Those hadn’t been his exact words. After performing a second surgery in a six-year span on Jack’s right shoulder, the doctor had said he doubted Jack would ever be able to throw a fastball in