“I stand by that.” She didn’t want to prod him to the point that he would become sarcastic or shut down completely, but she felt she would be derelict not to prod a little. “You should talk about it, Mitch, because I don’t think you’ll be the person, or the parent to Andrew, that you want to be until you unleash the anger you’re harboring.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Dr. Reede. I’m on the brink of unleashing it. When I do, it’s liable to get bloody.”
Chapter 15
His tone and the glint in his eyes were alarming to Dylan. “Mitch, you can’t undertake a vigilante retaliation against men who you assume caused Angela’s death. Violence is not a problem solver.”
“Oh, I think violent retaliation would fix me right up.” He leaned back against the booth, his expression unyielding. “Do you know how she died? Did John tell you?”
Dylan glanced around. The café had filled since their arrival. There was a lot of bustle, laughter, and noisy conversation, the clatter of dishes and flatware. Lively zydeco music played through scratchy speakers.
Coming back to Mitch, she asked, “Are you sure you want to talk about this now?”
“By all means,” he said, making a grand gesture. “I want to get it over with.”
She thought about trying to talk him down, but in his present state she feared causing a scene. Besides, she’d beenencouraging him to talk about this. The setting was far from ideal, but he had chosen to continue, so she went with it, afraid that it might be her only opportunity to get to the root of the pain he suffered.
Quietly, she said, “In answer to your question, yes. Bowie told me that you came home one night later than usual because you and he were working on a case. You found Angela inside her car, with the motor running, in a closed garage.”
“An obvious asphyxiation suicide.”
“Bowie didn’t say that. He said the coroner pronounced it death by suicide and that the medical examiner bore that out.”
He snorted with bitterness. “They actually believe that Angela committed suicide with Andrew asleep in his crib upstairs.”
Dylan didn’t respond.
“Did John tell you that she was on medication for post-partum?”
That came as a mild shock. “No, he didn’t.”
“She was. Which, of course, added fodder to the suicide theory.”
“Was her postpartum severe?”
“No, but it was real. She had been a clerk in a law firm, a job she loved. She had worked right up until Andrew was born and was having difficulty adjusting to her new job, which was stay-at-home and around the clock.
“She readily acknowledged that she needed help, and we got it. She was prescribed medication, and had almost weaned herself off it. She was on the upswing.”
Dylan hesitated before saying, “Maybe that’s what she wanted you to believe.”
He leaned forward again, elbows on the table, but insteadof praying hands at his forehead, he clasped his hands tightly and tapped the double fist on the table to emphasize each word. “She did not kill herself.”
“Tell me why you don’t think so.”
“I don’t think, Iknowshe didn’t. How do I know? Because she was so devout in her faith. Suicide is a mortal sin, an unforgivable transgression. For her own salvation, Angela Kathleen Duvall Haskell wouldn’t have taken her own life.
“And even if she’d wanted to, she wouldn’t have been that selfish. To leave Mary and Hank believing that she’d died unshriven? Never. To leave Andrew motherless? No.Hell no. She loved him too much to have…”
He stopped, looked down at his clasped hands, squeezed them tighter, then opened them slowly, seeming to force them to relax. “She never would have abandoned our baby. Never. And with all my heart, I don’t believe she would have condemned me to speculating every day for the rest of my life on why, why,why? She would not have done that.”
Dylan knew he believed with every fiber of his being everything that he’d said. The rawness of his emotion made it impossible for her to remain entirely objective. Her heart was breaking for him. “What do you believe actually happened that night?”
“Thank you for asking. Most people don’t, you know? They take that suicide scene at face value. I didn’t and never will. I’m certain her murder was staged to look like a suicide, but I have absolutely no evidence to back up that assertion, which is why it was dismissed by everybody. Friends and relatives. The authorities. Everybody. I looked like the raving, grieving widower who couldn’t accept that his wife chose death over living with him.”
“John Bowie?”
“No, no,” he said, giving his head an adamant shake. “Johnknew Angela very well. He knew the strength of her faith. Beth, too. They took my part. He helped me in trying to prove she’d been murdered.
