That night, after leaving the morgue, Carter and I killed a bottle of vodka in his room. We also confessed to each other the truth about our loves, released those secrets to the ether, leaned on each other.
No, nothing inappropriate happened. Nothing more than talking and drinking. We were two desperate people in a foxhole together, searching the insides of a bottle of spirits for hope, meaning, or solace. Short of that, joining in a dirge and looking for a temporary release of our shared pain.
Carter thought he’d lost his wife. In addition to his own pain he struggled with how he’d return home and break the devastating news to the man he loved.
My heart was shattered.
We both got a happy ending, though, sort of. Carter and Owen not only got Susa back, but found out she was pregnant.
I got George back. I swore to my girl I would do whatever it took to take care of him and help him heal for the kids, and I spent the next two years desperately struggling to keep him anchored here, in the land of the living. A man adrift without his anchor.
Until I finally gave the motherfucker mine, cut myself loose, and set myself adrift.
Again.
I’m the one, later, once George was home, who related to him the entire timeline of events from our side, what happened while he was fighting for his life on the open ocean and on the island.
But George has never asked for details about that one night.
Until now.
When I finish telling George, including how me and Carter drank chunks out of our livers, he reaches, stretches, grabs a box of tissues off the end table, and passes a couple to me before taking two for himself.
We sit there in silence for a while before he finally speaks.
“Tell me about Declan’s sister,” he quietly says in a tone that tells me he already knows at least some of it.
Shit.“What do you want to know?”
Those blue eyes stare down at me for several long, silent, uncomfortable moments. “I thought it was really strange you let Declan stay with you when he was back in college. Here you are, you won’t even let arepairmanin your house without several background references and nearly perfect Yelp reviews, but you let this college kidlivewith you? Yeah, we knew him already. But still, it was…weird, knowing you as well as I do. Especially since he had the apartment. He could’ve afforded to stay there, with the life insurance policy payout after his mom died.”
I feel myself blushing, which, believe me, isnota common occurrence. “I felt sorry for him because his mom died. He didn’t have any family.”
“Yeah, see, I didn’t buy that excuse back then, either. The only reason I let it slide then was because Ellen told me to. She assured me everything was fine, so I let it go.” He settles back against the couch. “Obviously, I knownowwhat the deal was. But let me see if I’m close to the real truth,hmm?”
He plays with my hair again. “Declan didn’t tell me about his sister, at first, when all this started between us last January. And back then, I didn’t know hehada sister. I remember you telling me his mom died, and they’d moved to Nashville after their trailer burned down, but you conveniently left out the whole story about his sister’s murder. Ellen never mentioned he had a sister, either. Now I’m guessing she knew but helped keep me from asking too many questions.
“Recently, I decided to do some digging. I found an old message on the prayer request page for the website of a Catholic church in Murfreesboro, asking for prayers for Renata Gutierrez and her son, Declan, over the death of Renata’s daughter, Emma, and for them losing their home in a fire. Then I called an old friend of mine, a PI and former deputy who used to do work for me at the firm. I asked him to look into that for me. He found the closed case file for the murder of Emma June Ronald. Mother—Renata Elena Espinoza Gutierrez. And a little brother, who discovered the body, Declan Terrance Ronald.”
Shit.
“Supposedly,” he continues, “the case was closed, because the suspect they arrested and were going to charge with Emma’s murder—a man who confessed and was a previously convicted child molester out on parole—killed himself before arraignment. Neat and tidy, huh? So I ask for more info on Emma and her little brother, like birth certificates. I’d like to know who their father is, other family. I’m…curious. I tell him it’s a potential probate issue from a past case, and that I’m trying to retroactively CYA before the election.”
He arches his eyebrows at me but keeps going. “My friend takes a look and finds, strange thing, thereisno birth certificate available for Declan Terrance Ronald, although there is one for Emma June Ronald. Hedoes, however, find one for Declan Ronald Howard.”
He looks me dead in the eyes. “Gee,whyisthatname so familiar to me, Case? And does it meannowI understand why Declan seemed kind of pissed off that night when Terrance Ronald, Jr., sat across from me at the whale table during that one fundraiser a few months back? Also now, after listening to you tell me about number one, you know, it’s a funny coincidence, isn’t it? That Terrance Ronald, Jr., was highly allergic to peanuts.”
I swallow hard and stare up at him.
After a moment, he continues. “Another amusing tidbit—around fourteen years ago, I had a businessman friend who asked me to drop by one evening for a quick, private chat. Completely off-the-record. Posing a hypothetical to me. Asking what someone should do if they had a suspicion that the rich heir to a certain cattle fortune had been going around and eliminating anyone who came forward as a potential claimant to any part of the person’s family fortune. Because my friend did have first-hand knowledge that the dying father liked to sow his wild oats. Especially among, oh, say, hotel housekeepers.
“The creepy old fuckbraggedabout doing it, too. Told my friend he had at least twenty bastard kids scattered around Tennessee and other states close by. And that his son was doing the same thing. Oh, and that a certain female attorney I knewverywell might be digging around in that same field for info and possibly at risk of running afoul of the rich family, if she wasn’t careful.”
I’m sure my eyes have widened, and I’mliterallybeyond speech at this moment.
George laces fingers with me again and kisses my hand, presses it against his cheek, and drops his voice. “Back then, there wasn’t a lot I could do, or so I thought. And eventually, nothing came of it. So I let it drop, because it seemed like you had, too.
“Last week, I had the security detail take me by the law office late one evening on my way home. I used your password and login to access the system so it wouldn’t leave a trail that I was there. I looked through files and found your notes in the system about Renata Gutierrez’s case. I also noticed the things youdidn’tinclude in the notes and billing, stuff that should’ve been in her file, but wasn’t. Like the info about her daughter being murdered. You labelled the case as a pro bono domestic violence situation involving a minor child.
“Then I pulled up Declan’s file—under his birth name—and saw where you’d filed the emancipated minor paperwork for him after his mother’s death, but under his new name. Funny howthat’swhere I also found the original power of attorney his mother signed appointingyouhis guardian, with his new name. And I knowyoupaid for Emma’s funeral. That was old-fashioned bribery to the undertaker, who happens to be an old Rotary buddy of mine. I tracked down the Medical Examiner’s records to find out which funeral home they released her body to.
“I also suspectnowthat Ellen knew everything you knew back then. When Declan accidentally admitted to me that Ellen knew about you and him, I realized there was probably alotshe told you over the years, and that you told her, that neither of you ever toldme.”
He kisses my hand again before moving it, around the nape of his neck, massaging the back of his head with his hand covering mine.
Then he takes a deep breath. “Now then. Do you still need to tell me about number three? Or are we good?” He sighs. “Because after tonight, we’re never speaking ofanyof this again.”
