“I was going to say see your brother again,” I remarked.
His eyes shifted briefly to me before returning to look out the window. Several minutes passed before he said, “My father is in the early stages of dementia. He isn’t lucid for long enough periods todo something like email me, and I doubt he checks my mother’s email account for anything.”
His declaration surprised me, since I hadn’t seen any stories about Chandler Wilder’s declining mental health in the news. And something like that would have made the news. After all, the man had etched his name into history by defying the Supreme Court’s ruling making gay marriage legal. He’d gone so far as to order the county clerks in his state not to issue marriage licenses. He’d eventually caved, but the high-profile nature of the case had made him a household name and he’d become a political lightning rod. The fact that his mental health was on a rapid decline would have been a significant story.
“It’s being kept secret?” I asked.
Nathan nodded. “My mother moved him to Louisiana. Her sister lives there. The few people in his inner circle who know have convinced his supporters that he’s chosen an early retirement so he can reaffirm his commitment to God. People are convinced Brody’s and my defection have him seeking solace in his faith.”
“Would your mother give out your email?” I asked.
He was silent for a moment before saying, “I’d like to believe she wouldn’t, but I can’t be sure.”
The words were enough to tell me there was more to the story there, but I didn’t press him. It was irrelevant anyway. If the guy emailing Nathan had enough skill to mask his IP address, he sure as shit had enough skill to find his personal email without any help.
“When did the emails start mentioning Brody?” I asked.
“About a month after they started. The first one said if I continued on the course I was on, I’d burn in hell like my…like Brody.”
“That’s not what it said,” I said.
Nathan’s eyes jerked to mine. “What?”
“Beck’s uncle told me what the emails said,” I lied, since I wasn’t ready to tell him I’d read the email myself. “It said you’d burn in hell like your faggot brother.”
Nathan closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “Don’t,” he whispered.
“Don’t what?” I asked.
“Don’t use that word. Please.”
I knew which word he was talking about, of course. What I didn’t know was why it bothered him so much. Yeah, it was ugly and cruel, but it was reality. I’d been called that very word more times than I could count, and I had no doubt Nathan’s brother had, too.
“It’s just a word, Nathan.”
“It’s not,” he said harshly as he fisted his hands on his thighs. His reaction was over the top. I considered him for a moment before understanding dawned.
“You called him that, didn’t you?” I asked gently.
“I can’t,” he whispered. I saw him dash at his eyes just before he turned away to look out the window. Before I could stop myself, I reached out to cover one of his fisted hands with mine.
“I won’t say it again, okay?”
He nodded, but it took several long seconds of me rubbing his clenched fingers before he relaxed his hand until it was spread palm down on his thigh. I’d already settled my hand on top of his before I realized what I was doing and jerked it away from him. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice.
“What did you do when you saw that first email?”
“I panicked,” he said. “I didn’t know where Brody was. After he…after he came out to our family, he moved away. We didn’t keep in touch, so I didn’t know where he’d gone at first. Some reporters eventually found him in Florida when the shit with my father and the Supreme Court ruling happened, but I didn’t reach out to him at the time. After the email, I hired a private investigator to find him.”
“And when you got the second email?” I probed.
“I freaked because the guy talked about going to talk to Brody. I knew if I could find him using a private investigator, he could too.”
“So you went to Dare to warn him.”
He nodded. “I knew it was a risk, but I had to take it.”
“Risk?” I asked.
