He was pivoting. Turning the accusation into a procedural argument. Attacking the method instead of addressing the substance. It was a tactic Noah had seen a hundred times in interview rooms. He had just never seen his father use it on him.
"This isn't a courtroom, Dad."
"No. It's my kitchen. And this conversation is over. I want you to leave."
"We're not done."
"Yes, we are."
"Dad, I'm not here as an investigator. I'm here as your son. I need you to tell me the truth about that night.”
“You think I had something to do with her murder?”
“Did you?”
Hugh turned around. His face had reassembled itself. The wall was back. The same wall Noah had been hitting since hewas eighteen years old. The wall that went up when Carol died. The wall that stayed up when Noah left for the Marines. The wall that had become so permanent it was no longer a defense mechanism. It was the man himself.
“Of course not. And the science is wrong," Hugh said. "I don't know those people."
“Bullshit. You knew Rebecca."
"I knew a lot of people. That's what happens when you run a county."
"You know better than anyone that what happened and what gets recorded aren't always the same thing. Why can’t you admit the truth even when it’s in front of you?” He paused. “Are you so proud, so egotistical about reputation and legacy, that you can’t even admit to your own son if you had an affair with this woman?”
Hugh's jaw tightened. For a moment, one full second, Noah saw something behind the composure. Not guilt exactly. Exhaustion. He had been carrying something for so long that his arms had gone numb and he couldn't remember what it felt like to set it down.
Then it was gone.
"I think you should go," Hugh said quietly.
"This is not over," Noah said. He closed the folder. He stood and picked it up from the table. He looked at his father across the kitchen, the polished oak between them, the lake through the window, the house that hadn't changed. "I know you're lying," Noah said. "And I think you've been lying for a long time. But I'm not going to force it. Not tonight."
Hugh said nothing.
"Just know that I know. And whatever happened with Rebecca, whatever the truth is, it's not going to stay buried. It never does."
He walked to the front door. Hugh didn't follow him. Noah stepped onto the porch and pulled the door shut behind him. The evening was cool and the lake was darkening. A few lights glowed on the far shore. Somewhere a dog barked twice and stopped.
He sat in the Bronco for a long time before starting the engine.
Hugh hadn't been surprised.
That was the problem. A man hears that DNA evidence links him to a murder case and the normal reaction is shock, confusion, outrage. Hugh's reaction was none of those things. He had read the report like a letter he had been expecting for years. He already knew. He had always known. And the anger, when it came, wasn't directed at the accusation.
It was directed at the exposure.
Noah started the engine. The headlights swept across the front of the house. Through the kitchen window, he could see Hugh still standing at the counter, both hands on the edge, head bowed.
He pulled out of the driveway and drove south along the lake. The road was dark and the trees pressed close on either side. He drove slowly, turning the conversation over in his mind, replaying every deflection, every pause, every moment where Hugh's composure had slipped and then been rebuilt.
His father was lying. That much was certain. But the lie wasn't the thing that stayed with Noah as he drove home through the Adirondack dark.
It was how ready Hugh had been for it.
7
Callie knew it was the same before she even saw the body.
