“If I’m a zombie, then yes.” We eventually make it to the clearing.
“Wow, it’s…”
“I know,” I say. Nestled on the side of the cliff is a stone bench overlooking the ocean.
“It smells like limes and salt here,” he says, closing his eyes. “Like something that wakes you up.”
“Yeah.” I drop beside him, our knees knocking. “Mornings are my favorite time to come out here. It’s kind of my reset button.”
“Seems like we both love our mornings.” He tips his head toward me with a sideways glance, curious. “How’d you find it?”
“My dad.” The words are out before I can shove them back in, and they land between us with the same weight as the last time I mentioned my father. I rub my thumb along a crack in the stone. “He used to bring me here when I was a kid.”
Beckett’s expression softens, the kind of open quiet that tellsme I can keep going or let it die here, no pressure. A gull screams high above like a hinge in need of oil. I exhale.
“He’s in prison,” I say. “For money laundering.”
Beckett doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t do the quick blink of recalculation people do when your life doesn’t fit the brochure. He just turns his palm up between us, a small offering. I fit my fingers through his, relief stinging like the cold air in my lungs.
“It’s… complicated,” I add, then wince. “That’s the coward’s word for it. He was greedy. Or he thought he was clever, and clever turned into crooked when no one was watching.”
Beckett’s thumb slides slowly over the back of my hand.
“He wasn’t a good man,” I say, voice cracking. “He wasn’t a complicated hero who made a mistake. He was mean. Mean like it was his favorite pastime.”
“How old were you?” Beckett asks softly.
“Old enough to fold bath towels like an excellent housekeeper,” I say. “Young enough to think the bleach smell meant ‘clean’and not ‘cover it up.’ He’d snap at my mom for breathing too loudly. He’d snap at me for breathing at all. If a washer door stuck, he’d blame ‘whoever touched it last,’ which was always one of us.”
In the vast ocean before us, the waves heave themselves forward, fail, and try again… over and over. That’s pretty much life.
“My mom died the spring before everything blew up,” I say. “She got sick and then one day, just like someone yanking the plug out of the wall, she was gone. We held the funeral, and he took the plastic lilies from her grave to decorate the change counter. Said she’d ‘like to be useful.’”
Beckett inhales, sharp and small. His fingers tighten around mine. Not pity, but outrage on my behalf. He turns to look at me. There’s a spark of anger in his eyes with something gentle behind it. “When did they arrest him?”
“It was winter. No sirens. Just men in jackets who said his full name like a verdict.” I swallow. “Turns out the books weren’t just creative, they were criminal. He’d been running other people’s dirt through our machines for years. They also got him on blackmail and extortion. They tried to pin him with murder, but they didn’t have enough evidence. He liked the power more than the money.”
“And money gives you power,” Beckett says, and I nod, staring out into the never-ending distance.
“Do you visit him?” Beckett asks.
“Never.”
“And the parole hearing you told me about at Aunt Sofia’s?”
“He wants me to speak on his behalf. Early release.” He doesn’t deserve my voice.
Beckett’s thumb moves once across my knuckles. “Do you want that?”
“I want him to stay exactly where he is,” I say, the honesty punching a hole in the atmosphere, making me feel like I can finally breathe. “His hearing’s in a week.” The words land heavy with decisions. “Feels like I have to decide whether I forgive him. And I’m not ready to make that call.”
“Forgiveness isn’t a switch,” he says. “It’s more like… a dimmer. Or a boundary fence you take apart, plank by plank.”
I let out a breath and huff a laugh. “So what, I show up and tell the board I installed a fence?”
“You show up and tell the truth,” he says. “Or you don’t show up because that’s your truth right now. Either way is allowed.”
“I don’t want to carry it around anymore. I want to stop organizing my life around what he broke.” I rub a palm on my jeans. “I don’t want to give him something he hasn’t earned, just like you wouldn’t give the keys to a house to someone who doesn’t know how to knock.”
