by Kelly Irvin
“Why did he have to make us feel like failures in the process?”
“He was flawed. I don’t know about you, but so am I. Do you want to cast the first stone?”
A long pause. “No. I should’ve told y’all about Vicky.”
“I’d like to meet her. She sounds great.”
“You’ll like her. She’s a free spirit. She kind of reminds me of you.”
“That’s a big compliment.”
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about what I said before.”
“I know. Why did you say you were in Dallas the night Dad died?”
“Because I was drunk when I got the call. I had words with Dad that day.”
“Everyone did, it seems.”
“A bill came to the house. He opened it. I’m behind on my school loans.”
“A lot of people are.”
“Yah, but a lot of people don’t go on to get their doctorate when they still owe on their master’s and their bachelor’s.”
She hung a right on East Martin. Traffic bunched up even though the light ahead had turned green. Two guys pushed a stalled car with orange Tamaulipas plates out of the intersection in the pouring rain. Nina sighed and turned up the windshield wipers. “You really think Dad thought a degree in journalism and a career in photography and writing poetry deserved his hard-earned money? Grace writes romances and he didn’t leave her a dime.”
A sound caught somewhere between a strangled sob and a cough beat against her ear. “I just wanted him to love me.”
The heart of what any child wanted from a parent. “If anyone understands that, I do, and I’m so deeply sorry.” Nina waited a few seconds for her voice to steady. “Both my parents abandoned me. Dad never gave up on you. He wanted you to be a man who stood on your own two feet.”
Silence.
“Trevor?”
“I’m here.” Raw emotion turned his voice into an old’s man raspy mutter.
“Where are you? Let me come get you after I get done at the bank. I’m almost to Frost downtown now. We’ll go someplace, get some food, talk. You can come home with me—”
“It’s not my home anymore. It’s yours. Don’t you get that?” He disconnected.
Nina hit redial. Eventually Trevor’s voice-mail message picked up. She disconnected. He would see that she had called. Maybe he would change his mind and come to the house.
Trevor had a right to his feelings. Geoffrey had taken his desire to manage his children’s lives too far. Even beyond his life. It would have cost him nothing to evenly divide his substantial estate among his children. All his children. But he had to make one last statement, one last I-know-best-you-don’t.
Ten minutes later Nina stood shivering and soaking wet in an air-conditioned room at Frost Bank filled with safe-deposit boxes. With a smile, the clerk, who’d been too polite to stare at Nina’s face, pointed out the correct box and left her to her own devices.
Her heartbeat ratcheted up a notch. Get it over with, Fischer. The revelations the box held couldn’t be any worse than knowing her father was a gambler who led a double life. Gritting her teeth, she fumbled with the metal box and opened the lid.
A manila envelope. The shiver that went through her had nothing to do with the AC. She lifted it out. A slim ivory-bond envelope from the stationery her dad kept on his desk in his chambers lay underneath. No writing on the outside. It was sealed. She undid the clasp of the bigger envelope first and looked inside. A stack of newspaper clippings. She sifted through them. Nothing.
Nothing else. Just seven newspaper articles. The air fizzled from her lungs. Yellow lights danced in her eyes. She grabbed the table and leaned over. “One, eight, seven, four, eleven. One, eight, seven, four, eleven. One, eight, seven, four, eleven.”
Her breathing began to even out. She inhaled, exhaled. “Easy, in and out, in and out.”
All this for some newspaper clippings. Serena Cochrane dead in a hit-and-run. Melanie Martinez dead, shot in the head in her own bedroom.
Dad dead, shot in the chest in his own study.
Okay. The smaller envelope. Not having a letter opener in her bag, she used a nail file to cut a thin slit on the narrow side. Gloves were another thing she could’ve used.
Hindsight.
With the tips of her fingers, she shook the letter open and laid it on the table.
Three paragraphs written in her dad’s perfect cursive. He was resigning from the bench to take a position with Coggins, Gonzalez, and Pope, attorneys-at-law.
She plopped onto the chair and read it again, then a third time. The words never changed. Her father planned to give up his judge-ship and become a civil litigator with Rick’s firm. The letter had no date and it wasn’t signed.
Not yet. He was waiting for something, but what?
Why hide the letter in a safe-deposit box? Why write it at all until such time as he was ready to make the move?
She reached for her phone. Aaron. He was good at puzzles. He shot news stories about politics and court cases all the time. He hated it because it was nonvisual, but he did it.
She dropped the phone back in her bag. Aaron was mad. He was an idiot.
She would figure this out on her own.
The articles had to mean something. She settled back and began to read.
Ten minutes later she slid the articles back into the envelope and rubbed her temples. All the articles reported on civil cases in her dad’s court. All the cases had resulted in huge monetary settlements for the plaintiffs. All the plaintiffs were represented by attorneys from CG&P.
A fatality helicopter crash in which the families of the victim received a $14-million settlement. An amusement-park ride accident that resulted in a child’s death: $21.5 million. A food-poisoning death resulting from a chain restaurant meal: $12 million. And so on.
What did they have in common? Her dad’s court. Big settlements. CG&P. What did it mean? Why was it so important that these articles had to be kept in the box? Why not bookmark them on his computer where he could print them out anytime he wanted? She needed to look at his computer to see if they were bookmarked, but the police had his desktop and the thief had his laptop. The advantage of having these articles in this box meant no one would see or know he had some sort of interest in these cases aside from being the presiding judge.
But what?
She groaned and raked her limp hair back in a ponytail, using a scrunchie she found in her bag. Aaron would have ideas.
She rolled her shoulders and cranked her neck side to side. It popped. No new thoughts came to mind. She slid the articles back into the envelope, added the letter to it as well, and stood. Maybe fresh air would help.
Maybe fresh air would sweep away the dizzying disappointment and her dashed hope. A hope she hadn’t even realized she harbored. She wanted the box to hold a letter addressed to each one of her dad’s children, explaining what happened to him. Pledging his undying love. Explaining how he took the plunge off the straight and narrow directly into the canyon of deceit.
It wasn’t his way. She’d have to be satisfied with the symbolic gesture. He gave Jan and Nina his home. His estate. To him, that said it all.
She slipped the envelopes into her bag and returned the box to its slot. A few minutes later she pulled from her parking space in the ground lot and headed for I-10. Dark, rolling clouds dumped a steady rain, washing away the grime of San Antonio’s historic grid of one way meandering streets that followed the old Spanish acequias.
Trevor lived in an apartment not far from the UTSA campus on Loop 1604. Nina had no idea where his girlfriend lived, so she could only hope he’d gone home to nurse his wounds. And not to a bar, his go-to remedy after fights with Dad.
Lunch-hour traffic hemmed her in until she made it to the East Martin Street entrance ramp. From there it thinned a little as I-35 and 10 intersected beyond the purple Finesilver Building. Her mind reviewing the article headlines in a loop, she tapped her fingers on the wheel to the tune of her t
humping windshield wipers smearing the rain. She needed new blades. Jury awards $14 million in helicopter crash. Jury awards $21.5 million in amusement park death. The juries had determined the amount of the settlement. They’d found in favor of the plaintiffs. Her dad’s involvement included ruling on pretrial motions in hearings held in his court in all seven cases. Nothing was unusual about it.
Traffic had thinned, yet a dark-blue SUV with tinted windows continued to ride her back bumper. He had plenty of room to go around. She glanced at her speedometer. The speed limit was fifty-five on this stretch. No one drove that slow. But it didn’t rise to seventy-five for a while yet.
She let her speed creep up to sixty-five. The highway was slick with rain mixed with oil. She didn’t need a ticket. She had dealt with police enough in the past week and a half. She let up on the gas a tad.
The guy behind her didn’t. “What’s your problem? Go around.”
Now she was talking to herself.
He had plenty of room to pass.
His bumper came within inches of her back end as if taunting her. He held steady.
“What are you doing?” Adrenaline shot through her body like mainlining a gallon of coffee. The shakes enveloped her. Breathe. Breathe. She forced herself to look in the rearview mirror. The other driver was a man with a dark face, dark hair. No one she knew. “Back off, buddy.”
Her voice quivered. She swallowed. “Back off.” Louder, stronger.
That was better.
They hit the spot where the upper and lower freeway levels reconnected. She moved across rain-slicked lanes crowded with traffic. The SUV pulled up alongside her. She moved over two more lanes until she hugged the right lane, better known in Texas as the slow lane. The SUV followed.
She jabbed the call button on her wheel. “Call 911.”
“Calling 911.”
A second later a calm female voice flowed into the car. “911, what’s your emergency?”
“A man is trying to run into me with his car.”
“Are you on foot, ma’am?”
Nina worked to keep the panic from her voice. “No, I’m in my car on I-10 West. I just passed the West Avenue exit. I’m driving a 2015 red VW Bug. He’s in a dark-blue SUV of some kind.”
That didn’t narrow it down much, but cars were not Nina’s forte.
“Is this a domestic dispute?”
“No, I don’t know the person. I don’t recognize the car.”
“We have officers in route. Can you pull over?”
“I’m afraid to stop.”
“Understood. Just stay on the line. Stay calm and focus on driving safely.”
What did she think Nina was doing? The SUV sped up and crept closer to the line. They were neck and neck now. Nina hazarded a glance in that direction. The tint in the side windows was too dark. She couldn’t tell if there was a passenger in the front seat. Nothing stood out about the SUV.
“How far away are—?”
The SUV smashed into her. She lost control.
The VW swerved, rocked, and careened into the barrier.
She slammed on the brakes. Still, momentum flung her forward.
The side curtain air bag exploded. Her head banged it and then against the headrest.
Tires squealed. Metal screamed. The VW slid along the concrete barrier. Sparks flew.
So this was what they meant by seeing stars.
28
A moan broke the silence. Nina opened her eyes. She was alone in her VW. The moan belonged to her. She straightened. The seat belt refused to budge. She winced. Pain radiated along her sternum.
And in her neck.
And up and down her spine.
The windshield wipers had stopped.
The 2015 VW Bug had a four-star rating in government tests involving side-impact crashes. That fact rambled around in Nina’s throbbing head. She’d done battle with a much bigger SUV and survived. Her dad had hated the VW—no match for the diesel-spewing monster pickup trucks favored by so many hard-core Texans. Might as well get a Mini, he said.
But he grudgingly conceded the safety features were good.
She tried to lean forward. Her locked seat belt held her in place. A smell like gunpowder overpowered her. Smoke filled the air. Or powder. She couldn’t be sure.
Not moving was good. Very good. Her stomach rocked. The smell nauseated her.
Sirens wailed.
Now they decided to show up.
She forced her eyes open again. Her left temple hurt. The whole side of her face hurt. 250
The bruises from her encounter with the intruder in her front hallway hadn’t even begun to turn yellow and fade yet. Now there would be more.
Why did she feel so calm?
She hadn’t died. She’d been certain she would. But she hadn’t.
The side curtain air bag had deflated a second after exploding. Her door hung open. Had she opened it?
A stranger—a man—leaned over her.
“I’m okay. I’m okay.”
“Uh-huh. Lean back. Close your eyes.” Rain dripped on her face. A dark hood hung around his head. His arm reached past her. Black rain jacket. He smelled like Paco Rabanne cologne. Dad’s favorite. Good. He smelled like her dad. She closed her eyes against the pounding in her head. Something brushed against her. His hand? “Rest. I’ll get help.”
The scream of the sirens grew louder and louder. She covered her ears.
A fire truck rolled to a stop next to her, followed quickly by an ambulance. Their sirens mingled in a cacophonous song that set her nerves jangling.
She should get out. She turned her head. Pain ricocheted down her spine.
More sirens. Police units.
Two or three.
One stopped in the slow lane. An officer clad in a yellow rain slicker left his lights running, exited the Crown Victoria, and set up flares to block traffic from getting too close to the accident scene. Now they were blocking traffic. San Antonio motorists hated that.
“Ma’am, can you hear me?” A firefighter in full regalia tapped on the shattered windshield. “Ma’am?”
“I hear you.” She struggled but the seat belt had her pinned to the seat like a butterfly pinned to a collector’s board. Her shaking fingers refused to cooperate long enough to release the seat belt. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t move. We want to check you out first. Then we’ll get you out of there in a jiffy.”
“I’m good. I’m fine. I just need help getting this seat belt off.”
“Sit tight, miss.” His gear in one hand, a paramedic squeezed between two firefighters. He made quick work of examining her pupil responses, checking her blood pressure and respiration, and thoroughly examining her arms and legs.
Yes, she had some chest pain, but the seat belt was responsible. Her neck hurt, but a simple case of whiplash. The paramedic, an older, grizzled-looking man with a short, trim beard, agreed she would have some bruising from the seat belt.
Everything still worked.
He undid the seat belt and helped her pull her legs from the foot well. “Easy. Easy.”
Strong, sure hands patted, pressed, appraised. A gurney appeared, pushed by another paramedic. “It would be best if we transport you to an ER to get checked out.” He touched the bruise on her cheek. “This looks older.”
“I’m not getting on that gurney and I’m not going to the ER.”
“Are you refusing to be transported?”
“I’m saying it’s not necessary.”
“We can’t make you go if you refuse treatment.” His expression was kind, his tone placatory. “I strongly suggest you go to your own doctor and get checked out, for your own sake.”
“I will. I promise.”
She had her fingers crossed.
A police officer strode forward. “Let’s get you over to my vehicle where you can sit and I can ask you some questions.”
Nina grabbed her bag and her camera. It didn’t look any worse for wear. The officer guided her to his un
it, now parked on the other side of the concrete barrier in the grass-and-mud median that separated the highway from the access road. He squatted and shoved his hat in its plastic rain protector back on his head. “If you’re feeling up to it, let’s talk about what happened.”
She tugged the blanket provided by the first responder tighter around her shoulders and eased onto the seat. “The driver was following too close. The next thing I knew he pulled up, swerved, and slammed into me.”
“Two witnesses confirm your story. The SUV hit you and kept going. They both thought it was a case of road rage. You didn’t have any prior interaction with this SUV?”
“Witnesses stopped? Did they get a license plate?”
“No.”
“Was one of them a man wearing a black rain jacket?”
“Yep. Him and another man. They gave their accounts to one of the other officers and then went on their ways.”
“Do you have their contact information? I’ll need it for my insurance.”
“It’ll be in my report.”
“The man opened my door. He told me help was on the way.” The hand brushing across her face surfaced. He wore gloves. Gloves in September in San Antonio? “He smelled like my dad.”
“People for the most part are good.”
The officer, whose name tag read Rodriguez, was young. Probably fresh out of the academy. Hispanic. Big smile in a dark, handsome face. In ten years would he still say that? In two years? “I didn’t recognize the SUV. The windows were tinted. I couldn’t see the driver. He came out of nowhere and started tailgating me—”
“Let me through. I’m a friend! Nina!”
She swiveled and glanced beyond the cruiser. Aaron fought to do an end run around an officer who stood next to a second cruiser squeezed against the highway access road. He had no camera on his shoulder. He’d jumped the curb in his 4Runner and parked at an angle behind the Crown Vic. She could use a friend right now, even one who’d been crazy enough to think she liked Rick more than him. That she loved Rick. She did in her own way—just not like that. “He is a friend. Can they let him through?”
