Page 153 of To Tango, with Desire

“You did the right thing. You did what you needed to do at the time.”

“Still feel like shit, though. Got a light?” He pulled out a pack of cigs.

“Nope.”

“Don’t look at me like that. A man needs a vice or two in his life.” Kade drew out his wallet. “I suppose it’s time I gave you this.”

In the very back pocket, Kade drew out a folded, worn sheet of paper. It was dirty, torn, and ragged.

I knew instantly what it was.

“You kept it in your wallet? All this time?”

“Only since Dad died.”

“Why?”

Kade shrugged. “A reminder, I suppose.”

“Of what?”

“His bullshit. That what happened was real. Dad was manipulative. Very charismatic, but devious. He fed me stories for years—all lies—altering events to make himself come out looking like an altruistic man. For a time, I believed him. But when your mom died, I knew he would try to spin the story, so I hid the letter. At first, I was going to give it to you, but then I realized I could use it against him. And that was so much sweeter.”

“That’s fucked.”

“Yeah well, not nearly as fucked as finding my mom’s brains smashed all over the drive.” He jerked a thumb to our left and my body froze.

“Kade,” I whispered, sick dread settling in my gut. “No.”

So it was true.

He pressed his palms into his eyes, taking a moment before continuing. “I was playing on the top floor and was struck by the sight of mom’s dress floating through the air. I caught a flash of it out the window and raced down. I thought it was a game. Until I found her head smashed in. I saw the blood and I screamed. And screamed. I thought I’d never stop.

“Omar came and took over. Issuing orders, talking to the police. Getting the stories straight. He hushed it all up. Offered a large donation to the precinct so they would go with the stroke story. Suicide was a dirty word, you see, and Omar had a reputation to uphold.

“He convinced me it was just a nightmare. That what I saw had been some fucking figment of my imagination. Christ, for years, I thought I was going crazy, but he didn't give a shit about how any of it made me feel. All I wanted from him was a kind word. Not once did he even hug me. Not once did he offer me comfort. All he cared about was what other people would think. So he convinced me that my memories were false, and that it was an accident. That Mom had a stroke and slipped on the drive. She was careless—flighty—like her carefree spirit was some kind of stain.

“When I was older, he said she was drunk, an addict. But I only ever remember her being soft and kind and gentle.” Kade shook his head, eyes bright with tears. “He twisted everything. All the fucking time.” He cleared his throat, brushing at his face with the back of his hand. “She wrote me a note, before she jumped, saying she loved me. She wrote another to Omar saying she forgave him for his sins, but she couldn’t live with it. I found the letters stashed in the safe when I was a teenager and it made me so fucking mad.”

“I couldn’t understand why you were so angry, having everything you had. I’m sorry for judging you. I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”

“Not your fault. The bastard pitted us against each other. ‘Why can’t you be like Zane? Look where he came from, look what he’ll do with his life. You’re just weak, like your mom.’ He was a hard man to love.”

“He was fucked.”

“Yeah. So your mom’s letter was a reminder. Of the truth. Of what my dad did to the women in his life. The women he vowed to love.”

“Jesus Christ.” I stared at the pavement, disgusted by Omar’s actions. “I wish you could have told me.”

“I couldn’t. And to be honest, I wasn’t sure if you’d even believe me.”

“That’s fair. I’m still coming to terms with what he did.” I gripped Mom’s letter in my hand. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to read it. If I could.

“Burn it if you like.”

I glanced at Kade and I saw the young, brave kid I’d once known.

Stealing a deep breath, I opened it. I immediately recognized my mom’s handwriting. It was smudged, but neat in its print. And what she wrote, in that time of pain, broke my heart.