“Thank you.” To my surprise, she accepts it.
She takes a long sip with her gaze on the ground. Her eyes flick up when she returns the glass. They’re a deep brown, two dark marbles with streaks of warmth despite the tears glistening in their corners. She tries to blink them dry.
“I’m sorry,” I sputter. Here I am staring at someone who came outside to mourn in private. “I didn’t mean to intrude, I’m going to head back inside.”
“No, you don’t have to,” she says, meeting my eyes.
That stops me. It feels rude to go inside now. Not only that, but her eyes have a hold on me. There’s an energy in them. It’s a sad energy—agony, even. But they’re beautiful.
I should sit down and stop being so damn awkward.
As I do, she pulls her hair into a perfectly messy tangle that uncovers a soft face with smooth, unblemished cheeks. She looks at me for a split second, then exhales another embarrassed laugh.
“How did you know…?” She bobs her head, gesturing inside.
I feel a pang of guilt. “Oh, I’m not—I play in the band, actually.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” I force a smile. “I guess the deceased was a big Sinatra fan.”
A thin but true smile grows on her lips. She nods, looking down again. “Daddy loved him.”
My stomach twists in a coil of humiliation. I feel like standing, feel like dropping to my knees to apologize, but I can’t move.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t… I had no idea that—”
“It’s okay,” she says. She looks up and her eyes take hold of me again. She smiles. “He was a really good man.”
“Was he law enforcement?”
She breathes out a laugh—a real laugh. “If I said no, you’d probably think this was a secret police department or something.”
“Yeah, there are a lot of uniforms in there.”
She nods. “He was Marvel County PD. He led the Organized Crime Unit.”
My heart falls into my stomach, then ricochets into my chest. The Organized Crime Unit. What are the chances.
“No kidding,” I say earnestly. “I’m so sorry for your loss. And for the department’s loss.”
“They lost him a few years back. Well, he retired a few years back, anyway.”
“Seems like the whole department came to—” Mourn? Celebrate him? “—pay their respects,” I say. I can’t seem to gather the right words without them jumbling on my tongue.
“He was well respect.”
I nod. I wonder if he was part of the investigation into my dad’s murder…
Marvel County. Probably not. Dad was killed down south.
Her chest deflates in an exhale. Her lips swell as she attempts to bite back tears. “I should be in there with my colleagues celebrating him but I’m just…”
Colleagues? She’s a cop too.
“—I’m just broken,” she finishes, her words spilling into the air before succumbing to tears.
“Understandably so,” I say. I’m comfortable, suddenly. Comfortable in the dark sorrowful hole I’ve come to know all too well. I peer out, over the gravel parking lot and the cars jammed into makeshifts spots on the grass.
“Only time can help to heal a loss like that,” I say softly. “Losing a parent is…” I allow myself to trail off. There isn’t a word that can finish the sentence accurately.
She sniffles, fighting what wants to turn into a sob. I want to wrap my arm around her shoulders. I want to pull her close, to tell her—to show her—that I know this pain. To show her that the same pain has eaten a void in my chest too. It’s dark and dismal and uncompromisingly potent. Sometimes you can conceal it but there are days when it escapes from its cage to consume you.
She’s using one hand to cover her face, the other clenching her knee. That’s where I put my hand. Her cold, thin fingers relax under mine.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“Stop.” I wrap my fingers around her hand and squeeze. “Don’t apologize.”
“I just can’t believe he’s gone.” She looks up, her soft skin tense with emotion. “It shouldn’t have happened. He didn’t—” Anguish saturates her voice before burying it altogether. She pinches the bridge of her nose between her eyes.
I only nod. She can’t see it, but maybe she can feel it. Maybe she can feel that her pain isn’t foreign to me. I wish I could put that into words, but I know I’ll say the wrong thing. There is no right thing to say.
The two of us sit in silence as the prolonged seconds turn into minutes. We didn’t set a time for me to return on stage, and I can’t help but feel like my company is felt more out here than up there. Though maybe she’s wishing I would go back inside and leave her alone.
She uses her hand to wipe her eyes, and I return mine to my lap. We’re shoulder to shoulder. A warmth of understanding between us. That, I can feel.
The door opens with a sudden shove.
“There you are.” A tall woman with hair as dark as her blouse hurries towards us. She sits on the opposite side of the bench. Then looks at me. “I’m Alison.” She extends her hand.
“Liam.”
She returns a short, cursory smile. “Have you been out here long?” she asks, but it’s not a question for me. Alison looks like she’s been crying too. She looks similar enough to be a sister, even.
I really should let them be alone.
I stand up. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to get back inside for the next song.”
“Oh, you’re in the band,” Alison says. “Thank you for coming, you guys are doing a great job.”
“Don’t mention it.” I’ve started in the direction of the door when the sister looks up at me.
“It was nice to meet you, Liam,” she says.
“You too.” I punctuate it with a smile. But as I step inside, rejoin the crowd and make my way back to the stage, a heavy wave of sorrow washes over me. It’s always the strongest right after tasting comfort.
8
Claire
I’m lying in my bed. My childhood bed, the one with the white comforter with pink and purple flowers. Lying awake, breathing the night air. Dad is sleeping in his room down the hall—sound asleep, I can feel it.
I can feel everything. The void of his death now filled with his presence. Reassurance everywhere around me like the scent of a baking pie. And danger. It’s out of reach but it’s coming.
It’s always coming.
Warmth, too. The comforter is warm. The air is warm. The yellow and crème colors of my walls—they’re warm. I grew up in this room. It’s been repainted since then, once after I turned twelve and then again after mom died. But I grew up here, in this room with my father down the hall. This is home.
There’s the sound of shattering glass. The feeling of it—sharp and panicked. It’s downstairs.
Someone is breaking in.
I’m up, out of my bed and down the hall. The danger is here. It’s my fault—I let it find us. And now I need to find my dad. I will not lose him again. I’m running, running, running.
Why is the hallway so long? It’s never this long. And his door is closed, he has no idea. I reach for the knob, throw open the door, and he’s in there! He’s safe!
But it’s too late. The danger is here. I’m pulsing with terror. I turn around and I see it. A dark figure, nothing but darkness in the shape of a person. And it’s holding a knife. It lunges at dad and I try to scream—
I sit straight up, gasping for air. I’m on the couch in the pitch-black living room. I turn over, my arms and legs slick with sweat, and I reach for my phone from off the ground.
It’s 3:14 AM. Hardly four hours since I fell asleep.
I drop my phone and fall back into the cushions. I’m still short of breath, still drenched in sweat. I kick away the thin knit blanket I’ve been using. Only four hours, but I’m wide awake now.
I get up to retrieve a glass of water from the kitchen. The odds of me falling back asleep are so slim that I might a
s well get to work. I’m not going to get a good night’s sleep until Dad’s killer is locked up. I chug the entire glass, then refill it before meandering back to the couch.
The suicide note is the most tangible piece of evidence I have. That’s where I need to start. It was left in the printer, left clean of any finger prints, including Dad’s. Which is odd.
And the oddities only continue to pile up.
Who doesn’t touch their own suicide note? Granted, it was typed (another oddity in itself). And despite the fact that Dad—allegedly—jumped, who would leave a note without bothering to stage it? People write notes so that they’re found, so that their last thoughts are recorded. They leave them in a spot that’s as obvious as possible.
Unless you don’t want to leave a fingerprint.
I lie down again to think about that. Today is the day I need to make progress. With a pillow under the nape of my neck, I close my eyes. It’s 10:21 AM when I open again.
It feels more like I slept for three days. Four hours turned into eleven, which is a lot more than I’ve had in a while.
I’ve been enveloped in a thick cloud since Alison called on Wednesday, floating through everything, unable to make contact. Not any contact that overcomes the numbness, anyway. But I need to concentrate.
I photocopied the suicide note because even though I’m sure it’s not his, I still can’t bring myself to chalk up the original with scribbles and highlights. And that’s exactly what I’m getting ready to do.
I made three copies, actually. One to highlight the words that should be contractions and other unusual, atypical language. One to scribble thoughts on, to connect unfamiliar phrasing, details, and ideas. And another to keep as extra.
Alison is right, the letter does contain details that are oddly specific. Her career in occupational therapy, my career in law enforcement, my promotion. I only brought that up two weeks ago when Daddy and I met for dinner. It was at Salvaganio’s Subs, just the two of us. And it was an impromptu outing because he was passing through town, a nice opportunity to tell him that the chief is looking to promote me to Head of the Homicide Department sometime in the next eight weeks.
Obviously Mom is mentioned quite a bit as well, but that information isn’t hard to find. Not impossible, anyway. In fact, every detail in the letter could’ve feasibly come from someone with a casual familiarity with our family.
Except for the promotion. That doesn’t fit.
Unless Dad was excited enough to pass the news along to someone he knew. He’s always been naturally protective of information, but his daughter’s promotion might’ve been something he’d willingly spilled to a close friend. And a close friend was exactly who found the body. Jim Garthow.
He and his wife Millie lived just down the road from us for a while. Jim and Dad stayed pretty close. Evidently Jim still likes to fish close by, and out on his boat is when he found the body floating in the water.
Jim has never struck me as a malicious guy, but every indication is that Dad was murdered by someone he knew. No sign of forced entry because he probably let them in. No sign of a struggle because he likely didn’t anticipate the attack coming. He trusted his killer. But being pushed from the balcony is peculiar. Even in light of the other circumstances, murder in that fashion is extremely uncommon and extremely opportunistic.
Thing is, Daddy loved the balcony. He’d spend hours—and many drinks—up there mulling over a case. He said he liked being up in the fresh air and smelling the salt, said it helped him think. Not to mention, the balcony overlooks the ocean. It’s an especially serene place to go in search of a different perspective. Even after retirement, every time he called me up he was out there watching the ocean.
Maybe someone caught him by surprise and shoved him over the edge.
It’s possible. He was a top-heavy man. If you had enough strength to get him to the railing, theoretically you could topple him over. Not to mention, the medical examiner did conclude that he’d had several drinks before his death, not unusual, but it might’ve made it easier.
Still, though, it would’ve required substantial strength.
Familiarity and strength, that’s the key.
That, and someone who tried to divert suspicion by crafting a letter that sounds nothing like Dad’s perfunctory, to-the-point writing. Someone who had the presence of mind to remain in the house and type a suicide note, then print it through the office printer at 9:17 PM.
The department followed up with Jim and confirmed his alibi for that night. But perhaps I should follow up on my own.
My phone rings as I’m pouring another cup of coffee. Ethan.
I immediately silence the call, then push again to ignore it. But he’s already dislodged my focus. The ache of our broken relationship pales in comparison to the feeling of loss, true loss, and the realization that I’ll never have my dad back. That he’s gone forever.
And what lingers beyond the hurt of all of Ethan’s lies is the absence of having him here just to lean on. The truth in law enforcement is that our significant others always know more than they’re supposed to. They’re our crutches, our channel of relief and shelter from the ghosts of this job. Ethan was my rock and my refuge, and that’s what I miss.
But the person I want to lean on doesn’t really exist. And he never did.
Maybe in the early days, the good days. But I can only imagine when the lies began. The late nights working overtime on projects, all the permits and delays that required weekend meetings, all lies.
Every moment that kept me buzzing, kept me alive with the anticipation of his arms to come home to, the anticipation of the happy little family we might one day become, everything was accompanied by a lie.
I shut my eyes before they flush with tears. What did I do to lose the two most important men in my life at the same time? It’s like I took one step and fell through a trap door camouflaged into my everyday routine. And I can’t get out. I’ll never get out.
I’m up again, silence drumming in my ears as I pace the kitchen. This place has the feeling of a crime scene more than a home. And it’s not a home, not anymore. Not when it’s occupants have died and moved on. Who is it home to?
It’s just a building.
It’s walls, rooms, a roof, all housing emptiness. Housing nothing but residual memories waiting for a blanket of dust. He’s gone. My dad—the man who stood by my side, who taught me to throw and smiled while watching helplessly from the bleachers, the man that met my every concern with support and wisdom—is gone forever.
But wallowing in grief isn’t going to bring him back. I need to sit down and focus.
And yet, as I read over the note I can hear Alison in my head. You’re trying to poke holes in the last motivations of a man who was so depressed and dejected that he took his own life. Could that be true? And what if it is? What if the note seems unrecognizable only because I can’t imagine Dad ever taking his own life to begin with?
I’m back to pacing.
The hallway walls are lined top to bottom with pictures. I stop in front of one of Dad and me fishing. It was taken in North Carolina, probably by Alison who (judging by my own height and age) would’ve been around fifteen. The same age she decided that fishing was better spent as a spectator sitting onshore next to Mom, drinking sweet tea and eating pretzels. Dad and I are dressed in waders, knee deep in the stream and waving at the camera. The annual trip to North Carolina is captured in several pictures on the wall, each one documenting a minute step in the gradual progression Alison and I made from children to young adults. Of course, Mom is absent in the later pictures. Dad made the choice to keep going every year, even without her.
But there’s one right in the middle with both of them standing together, Mom beaming with a bright smile. They’re on the beach, young and sandy up to their knees. No kids yet. A youthful enthusiasm in their eyes. They look happy.
Alison always says I need to make room for my emotions and give them space to breathe instead of immediatel
y overriding them, which has always sounded like a bundled-up phrase with no actual relevance, more of a saying to get you thinking optimistically. But now I can feel it. She has some of Dad’s wisdom.
I draw my phone and select her contact. She answers on the third ring.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?” I ask.
“Of course not. I have a three-year-old, remember?”
“Maybe Danny and I can go to the park today.”
“I think you should!” I can hear her smiling. She pauses. “How are you doing today?”
I draw a breath. “Fine. You?”
“I don’t know.” Another pause. These hesitations don’t come when it’s Alison doing the consoling. But I don’t know how to console like she does. Especially not when both of us are wounded. This is something we’re going to have to get through together.
“Hey, does Dawson St still have that farmers market on Sundays?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Let’s go. I need to get out of the house and get some fresh air.”
9
Liam
Sweat as begun to plaster my shirt to my back under the guitar cover that I’ve slung over my shoulder. That’s something about Florida that I’ve never been able to get used to, the humidity. It’s stifling. You’re always wet and always sweating.
I remember taking a trip to Nevada with my parents before they divorced, back when I was around ten or twelve. Dad loved Vegas—well he loved the casinos—but it was the only time that we went out west as a family. I remember the dry heat, how good it felt to walk in crisp air not saturated with so much moisture.
The humidity today is at 89%, which is high, even for the late morning.
Sundays are my day off from everything. It’s the only day of the week that the Drunk Pinkie is closed. The group never plans Sunday rehearsals. And on the seventh day, the Lord rested from all his work, am I right?
And for me, rest means meandering down to Fort Martin beach, past the pier and over a hill with thin grass to a little cove where no one ever goes. It’s my favorite spot to spend the day, sitting, playing some guitar and listening to the waves.
A Family Secret Page 5
