I wrapped an arm around his shoulders and tugged him against my side, taking his weight and sharing his sorrow. His body trembled. I doubted he felt the cold. I doubted he felt anything at all.
I held him together while he fell apart. He was too young to know this kind of pain, and I wished I could take it away.
“What will you do?” he eventually asked. “Will you tell?”
I stayed quiet for a long time. Two paths. Which one would I take?
“I’ll follow my heart.”
“Even at the cost of your career?”
“We all make choices. This one is mine. Good people sometimes do bad things, and the sad truth is, sometimes bad things happen to good people. The question is, what willyoudo, Bastian?”
“She has my loyalty. Forever. What else can I do?”
“Forgive yourself and move on now.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is. Those men are dead. Has justice been served?”
He stayed silent, staring at the gravestone at his feet.
I squeezed his shoulder and released him. “Get home, kid.”
He glanced at me with a look of shock, his nose pink and running, his heart shredded. “So that’s it? It’s over?”
“That’s it. Find Jolie. Tell her what I said. No more, Bastian. No more.”
“Okay. I’ll tell her.”
I took a business card from my wallet and held it out. “If you ever need to talk.”
Shivering, the boy took the card and examined it. He burrowed deeper into his jacket and turned back to the grave. Nothing more was said.
I took one last look at the name on the headstone and turned to leave. Halfway back to my car, a quiet sob carried on the wind. I turned and found the boy on his knees, bawling, face buried in his hands.
On my way back to Ottawa, I tried calling Yates again. His phone tripped instantly to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message.Debating my next step, I veered toward Dominique’s, prepared to lay my cards on the table and see what he had to say.
His car was not in the driveway. When I knocked, a girl of sixteen or seventeen answered and explained that Dominique had gone out.
“Out where?”
She shrugged.
Confused, I landed in the car and called Dominique’s number. No answer.
I tried Yates again. Voicemail.
As I stared out the windshield, soft flakes danced in the air, falling from the heavens. The storm had arrived. So silent. So peaceful. So utterly deceptive. The serenity of the scene felt incongruous with the thumping rhythm of my heart.
Where was Dominique? Why had he gone out?
Why wasn’t Yates answering his phone?
I thought of Bastian at the cemetery. His grief. His self-hatred. His tears.
His anger.
