Eventually, Cal got me to share. As soon as he heard what was going on in my head, he went into superhero mode, long speeches validating the choices I made to protect myself, him and Selene. Even longer ones about how I’d never hurt any of the people I loved. Passing remarks about returning to the therapist I was mandated to see after the incident to make sense of the fucked up connections my brain decided to make. Worried looks when none of those things worked.
He tries to hide them, but I read concern in his every expression, hear it in his voice, see it in everything he does like the carefully spaced out texts and phone calls I get whenever I’m out of his sight for too long.
I’m climbing back into my truck when my phone rings, announcing his arrival at the end of his rope. Deciding to let him sweat for a bit more, I crank the engine and wait for my phone to connect to the vehicle before answering the call.
“I’m heading home now, Cal.”
A hum of approval that’s more about me calling his house ‘home’ than anything else fills the space around me. We made the decision to move in together not too long after Aubrey forced us into taking the job because something about knowing our access to Selene was going to be damn near non-existent for the foreseeable future made waking up next to each other every morning and falling asleep together every night feel necessary to our survival. Like our closeness is the only thing making living without her bearable.
“Glad to hear it,” Cal says. “That’s not why I’m calling though.”
“Oh. What’s up, then?”
“You didn’t see my text?”
“Uh, no. What’d it say?” I ask, plucking my phone from the cup holder and opening our text thread before he can even answer. There’s only one new message, and it’s a link to anarticle from a fledgling blog that appears to specialize in doling out right-wing propaganda. Above the link, there’s a photo of a ruddy-faced white man with beady blue eyes and a bald head in a prison jumpsuit.
Leland Marsh.
Underneath his ugly mug is a headline that leaves my vision red.
A Father’s Love: Leland Marsh speaks about the tragic death of his son, Jacob.
“What the fuck is this?”
“Some twisted sympathy piece that makes Jacob out to be some kind of victim and paints Leland as the grieving father instead of a hateful motherfucker who raised another hateful motherfucker,” Cal growls.
I click the link, scrolling through the page to find that his description is pretty much spot-on. Aside from a few paragraphs at the beginning to provide context, the article is kind of sparse. The questions Leland was asked are in bold, and his corresponding answers are underneath. I guess the so-called journalist didn’t want anything getting in the way of Leland telling his side of a story he still claims to have nothing to do with.
Thanks to the lackluster formatting, I’m able to make note of every subject they touched on, paying close attention to when they discuss Jacob’s rebuilding of the Brothers of Confederate Pride—which Leland frames as a place where true Americans can embrace their heritage and be among like-minded individuals who want to see our country return to her former glory. When asked about Selene’s kidnapping and attempted murder, Leland stated that all change comes with a cost. The only semi-respectable question asked throughout the entire interview was the one that followed that statement.
Apparently it was so good, the reporter decided to include a video clip of the moment.
Cal is silent as I start the video, pin pricks of irritation dancing down my spine when I see the walls of the same room we visited the bastard in months ago on my screen. The interviewer is out of frame because the camera is focused on their subject, but their voice is crystal clear as it filters through my speakers.
“Is that what Jacob’s death is? The cost of change?”
Leland’s expression turns harsh, his top lip curling into a snarl as the vein in the center of his forehead bulges. “My boy was a victim. Do you hear me? He was murdered in cold blood by two Black bastards who collected their medals with his blood on their filthy hands. Can you believe that?” He growls, banging a fist into the table. “MY BOY IS DEAD, and they’re just living their lives, thinking they’ve won.” He lifts his hand, pointing a finger at the camera as he stares directly into it like he’s speaking just to me. “But you haven’t won anything. Jacob might be dead, but his vision for this country is alive and well.You have no idea what you’ve awakened.”
“When you say ‘you’,” the interviewer chimes in. “Who exactly are you speaking to?”
“Everyone who walked out of that clothing factory alive when my boy didn’t.”
“Does that include the current First Lady, Selene Taylor?”
“Did she make it out of that factory alive?” he retorts.
“Um, yes, she did.”
“Then, yeah, that includes her too.”
The clip ends with Leland’s dead stare fixed on the camera. I swipe the article away with an angry flick of my thumb and throw the phone down in disgust. “Do we know who the interviewer is?”
“Ian Conlon. 41. Lives in his mom’s basement in some shitty town in Ohio. He owns the site.”
Of course, Cal has already done his due diligence. He probably memorized Ian’s entire life story while I was sitting in the cemetery trying to find peace among the dead. The thought sets me into motion immediately. I throw the truck in reverse and strap on my seat belt as I pull into oncoming traffic, gunning the engine because moving fast makes me feel less shitty about being so many steps behind.
“What’s his connection to Marsh?”
