“Shot around Thanksgiving at the Seacoast Inn,” I repeated loudly and watched my dad freeze. He was still holding Amanda, who cried into his broad shoulder.
Slowly, almost carefully, his eyes lifted and met mine.
“Hey, listen, I’ll call you back later,” Nolan said. “I just wanted to call you as soon as I could.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”
“Merry Christmas,” Nolan added. “You’ll all sleep in peace tonight.”
“We will. Thank you. And merry Christmas to you too.”
The call ended.
Phone still in hand, I stared at my dad. The world continued around us. Amanda sniffled. Lila hugged Markus. Ethan laughed too loudly at something. Plates clinked again. Life resumed.
But my dad and I didn’t move an inch.
“They said they don’t know who did it,” I said, still looking at him. I could see the shock in his eyes. The disbelief. The tightness in his jaw.
He understood. Thanksgiving. The Seacoast Inn. Myers dead.
I narrowed my eyes, trying to look deeper. Deep into that dark corner where a man would hide his secrets.
For a moment, the room faded. The Christmas lights blurred. The laughter sounded far away.
And all that existed was him and me.
And the ultimate question.
Did he do it? Did he have Zach killed?
Because if he did, I’d be the first to call Nolan and tell him about my dad acting strange after Thanksgiving. About the way he disappeared with his Porsche that night.
And my dad wasn’t stupid.
He knew that going to the gas station I’d sent him to, the same one where Myers had been caught years ago after Zach was murdered, meant cameras. Recording every license plate and face. And, in this case, also recording the same Porsche Lucy had seen me pull up in.
The same Porsche I’d used to take her to the HIV center.
That day I told her my name was Brian. My dad’s name.
I’d worn a baseball cap. A COVID mask. We had the same height and muscular build.
When he got to the gas station the night I killed Myers, I wasn’t there, of course. So he called, asking where I was. I apologized and said my car started again, said my phone battery died, and I couldn’t call him sooner. Told him I had to rush back to the hospital for an emergency and couldn’t wait for him at the motel.
Best part was that I had an alibi nobody would tear apart.
Hospital cameras caught me walking down certain hallways. I chose the ones with cameras when I needed to be seen. Took the back stairs and service doors when I needed to disappear. Even parked my car in a dark alley instead of the parking garage so no one could trace the exact times.
Plenty of witnesses too.
Any gaps would be explained by my searching for my phone. Bathroom stalls. The showers. My car.
It all fit.
I even went further. I bought Willy, the homeless patient, a Florida sweater and a baseball cap. The exact kind Myers wore when he dropped off the note. Made sure people noticed Willy in those clothes. Mentioned it casually. Let it stick.
Willy wore them proudly as he insisted he was Jesus. Said it was winter in summer and summer in winter. Talked about voices. Nobody would question that it wasn’t him who dropped something off for me. Nobody would ever connect me to Myers that night he died.
