A hearty chuckle rumbled from Paul, and Cal wiped away the tears as he laughed too. Susan smiled at them and tapped her watch.
“The offer always stands,” Paul said as they headed inside. “You give your HVAC guy some hell. If he ain’t here by tomorrow…”
“I know. I will.”
Cal bid his farewells to Susan and Paul, shed the last shared tears, and watched as their rental pulled from the driveway. Paul honked three times and waved out the window.
After they left, Cal sat on the porch until twilight delivered him into darkness. He went inside then and took up his spot at the end of the kitchen table with a clear view of the front door.
When Amelia turned sixteen, everyone told him to expect long nights waiting for her to tiptoe inside after curfew. He never had to. Amelia was always a good girl. Even as a child, she’d beensoft-hearted and eager to please; his little daydreamer with daisy-chains in her hair and poems in her heart.
He’d worried that she needed thicker skin to weather a world that could be cruel. In the end, the cruelty had come from him. He deserved the punishment he received, the nights he listened as she cried herself to sleep and her icy retreat in the days that followed. The words still played on repeat, that moment of anger he couldn’t take back.
Cal’s phone trilled. The chair wobbled as he flew to his feet and answered the call.
“This is Cal,” he nearly shouted. The outburst left him lightheaded and faintly breathless.
A man on the line was polished and polite, a silver-voiced stranger who introduced himself as Special Agent Kingsley Bright with the FBI’s Portland office. Pleasant enough, Agent Bright offered his condolences without the stuffy pretense of a fed but pivoted to business with little intervening chit-chat.
“I work in our organized crime unit,” Agent Bright explained. “I picked up an investigation from my colleague, Martin Kranski. You know him?”
“I’ve met him a few times.”
Slovenly but sharp had been Cal’s impression. Agent Kranski would show up late to meetings in wrinkled suit jackets stinking of Pall Malls and meatball subs. He got the job done, though. That counted for more than the slick special agents murdered out in black and with an almighty ego to match.
“Agent Kranski was investigating Burt Shaw’s death. He was at Mr. Dauer’s party for unrelated business.” Agent Bright paused a beat. “Unfortunately, he didn’t survive.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Look, I don’t mean to be crass, but what was there to investigate?”
“That’s why I’m calling. I’m sure you already know that the Velascos have reorganized at the top.”
That was a delicate way to put it. Philippe and his deputy were executed in brutal fashion. For the remaining ranks, it should’ve beena violent scramble to the top. Instead, someone had orchestrated a stunning and orderly transfer of power. Cal had never seen anything like it. Even the hand-off from Liam Moriarty to Emory Holt had its growing pains and a few flickers of discontent from other captains.
“What about it?” Cal asked.
“Burt was tangled up in things he shouldn’t have been. He knew about the Velasco overthrow before it happened and likely knew the identity of the man involved, the one holding power now. I understand your daughter interned for Burt. Did she ever mention anything to you about the work she did, anything she might’ve seen?”
Cal stared through the sliding glass door. The backyard was dark, and the shadowed trees bobbed with the breeze. He drew the vertical blinds shut and killed the box fan. The house went deathly quiet as he paced the kitchen.
“She rarely talked about it. What does she have to do with this?”
Soft static filled the line. Cal pulled the phone from his ear. The call timer ticked along for three, four, five seconds more.
“Amelia saw the information Burt uncovered about the Velascos and?—”
“That’s why she’s running.”
Cal collapsed to the chair not unlike the night the medical examiner called with the news. Yes, the remains were Helen. No, he’d have to wait a few more days to collect her.
“Running,” Agent Bright repeated incredulously. “You think your daughter is alive?”
The question was innocent, but Cal was heartsick and tired and doing his level-best to keep it together.
He’d made the phone calls, picked the hymns, assigned the readings, lit the candles, minded the flowers weeping petals to the living room floor.
He’d said hello to distant friends, tolerated stupid stories, and amassed condolences that boiled down to the same fucking sentiment.
Be strong, Cal. Be brave. Smile. Heal. Move on. She’s dead. They both are. She’s dead. Your baby is dead.
