Chapter 3 - THE MAN MY FATHER FEARED
Charles waited until Eli was out of earshot.
That was the first mistake he made.
The second was believing I hadn’t noticed.
Mara took Eli toward the refreshment table because David’s wife had offered him another cookie. The moment they were fifteen feet away, Charles stepped closer.
“You need to be careful.”
I almost smiled.
“Is that advice?”
“It’s concern.”
“Those aren’t the same thing.”
His eyes moved toward Mara.
“I assume Arthur filled your head with something before he died.”
“My father filled my head with quite a lot while he was alive.”
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
But interrogation is often more revealing when you let silence do the work.
So I said nothing.
Charles exhaled.
“Your father was sick for a long time.”
“Pancreatic cancer affects memory?”
“It can affect judgment.”
“You’re suggesting he fabricated something?”
“I’m suggesting grief makes people confess to sins they didn’t commit.”
Interesting.
I had not told him the letter was a confession.
Charles realized his error at the same moment I did.
A tiny muscle moved beside his mouth.
I lowered my voice.
“What are you afraid he confessed to?”
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Then why are you sweating?”
His expression hardened.
“You’ve always enjoyed courtroom games.”
“This isn’t court.”
“No.”
Charles looked toward Eli.
“That’s exactly what worries me.”
Every instinct I had sharpened.
“Don’t look at him.”
He met my eyes.
“Excuse me?”
“My son.”
The word felt strange in my mouth.
Sacred.
Terrifying.
“Don’t look at him like he’s evidence.”
Charles gave a small humorless laugh.
“You learned he existed twenty minutes ago and already you’re performing fatherhood?”
I moved before I thought.
One step.
Enough that his smile vanished.
“I spent nine years believing his mother was dead because of something you did.”
Charles’s gaze went cold.
“Careful.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The threat.”
“I didn’t threaten you.”
“You never do directly, do you?”
He leaned closer.
“You have no idea what happened nine years ago.”
“I’m starting to.”
“Arthur was weak.”
“My father was many things.”
“Yes. Including weak.”
Charles looked toward the casket room.
“He spent his final years terrified of his own conscience. A pathetic way to die.”
My hands clenched.
He saw it.
Smiled.
He wanted me angry.
Angry men make mistakes.
Federal prosecutors learn early that rage is useful only when it belongs to the person sitting across from you.
So I forced mine down.
“What happened to Daniel Reeves?”
Charles blinked.
It was less than a second.
Daniel Reeves.
The accountant whose body had been found in Kentucky.
My father had not named Charles directly in connection with his death.
But Charles’s reaction was enough.
“Who?”
“You heard me.”
“No idea.”
“Then you won’t mind if I look into it.”
“You’re a federal prosecutor, Nathan. You don’t get to use your office to investigate your own family.”
A very precise answer.
Legally correct.
Prepared.
“You’re right.”
That seemed to surprise him.
“I’ll recuse myself.”
“You should.”
“And give everything to people who don’t care about the Cole name.”
His expression changed.
Barely.
But again, I saw it.
Then Mara returned.
“We’re leaving.”
Charles turned toward her.
“Mara.”
She stopped.
Nine years disappeared from his voice.
Suddenly he sounded like the beloved uncle who had attended our wedding.
“I am so sorry for everything you’ve endured.”
Mara laughed.
It was quiet and vicious.
“You always were good at sounding human.”
His face froze.
Eli pressed against her side.
Charles lowered his voice.
“You shouldn’t involve the boy in adult bitterness.”
Mara stepped between them.
“You don’t get to speak about my child.”
“Our child,” I corrected gently.
She looked at me.
The old anger returned.
“Biologically.”
That hurt.
I let it.
Charles watched us with obvious satisfaction.
Division was useful to him.
Mara noticed.
Her expression changed.
Without another word, she reached for Eli’s hand.
“We’re going.”
“To where?” I asked.
“A hotel.”
“No.”
Her eyes flashed.
“You don’t give me orders.”
“I’m not.”
“It sounded like one.”
“I’m telling you that if my father’s letter is accurate, Charles knows where you are now.”
Her face lost color.
“He already knew I came?”
“Maybe not before today.”
Charles laughed.
“This is absurd.”
I ignored him.
“Mara, please.”
One word.
That was all.
She looked at me for a long moment.
I could see the fight inside her.
Nine years of surviving without me had taught her never to surrender control.
But nine years of fear had also taught her to recognize danger.
“What do you suggest?”
“My father’s house.”
“No.”
“It has security.”
“Your father’s house is the last place I want to sleep.”
“Then mine.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“Absolutely not.”
Eli looked between us.
“Mom.”
Mara softened instantly.
“What?”
“Grandpa has the dog house.”
She frowned.
“The what?”
“At his house. Out back.”
Apparently my father had built a small wooden structure for a dog he never owned.
Eli looked at me.
“He said maybe someday we’d get one.”
My throat tightened.
My father had planned a future for my son while denying me one.
The contradiction was almost unbearable.
Mara closed her eyes.
“All right. One night.”
Charles took a step forward.
“This is ridiculous.”
I turned.
“Go home.”
“Nathan—”
“Go home, Uncle Charles.”
Something in my voice finally reached him.
He set his glass on a table.
“Grief is making you reckless.”
“No.”
I looked at Mara.
Then Eli.
“Grief made me blind.”
Charles left without saying goodbye.
Twenty minutes later, we drove to my father’s property outside Franklin.
Mara insisted on taking her own rental car.
Eli rode with her.
I followed.
That gave me forty minutes alone with thoughts I did not want.
My father had known Eli.
Birthdays.
Christmases.
School pictures.
He had apparently visited him often enough to tell stories about me stealing the larger half of cookies.
I had spent those same birthdays visiting a grave.
There are betrayals that create anger.
Others create emptiness.
This one did both.
Arthur Cole had loved me.
I knew that.
Which somehow made it worse.
The house appeared beyond a line of old oak trees shortly before sunset.
It was the place where I had grown up.
White columns.
Long porch.
Forty acres of Tennessee land.
The same brass bell beside the back door my mother had rung when supper was ready.
Mara parked near the garage.
Eli jumped out before she could stop him.
“Don’t run!”
He stopped immediately.
Then looked toward the backyard.
His face brightened.
“There!”
The doghouse.
Blue.
Ridiculous.
Much too large.
The words ELI’S FUTURE DOG had been painted across the front.
I nearly stopped breathing.
My father had done that.
For him.
Mara looked at me.
“He loved Eli.”
“I can see that.”
“He hated himself for what he did to you.”
“That didn’t stop him doing it.”
“No.”
She said it softly.
“No, it didn’t.”
Inside, the house smelled exactly the way it always had.
Cedar.
Old books.
Coffee.
My father.
Eli moved through the rooms comfortably.
Too comfortably.
He knew where the glasses were.
He knew which stair creaked.
He knew the den television required two remotes.
Each discovery was another theft revealed.
At dinner, none of us spoke much.
Eli ate grilled cheese.
Mara drank water.
I pushed soup around a bowl.
Finally Eli looked at me.
“Did you really think Mom died?”
Mara went still.
I met his eyes.
“Yes.”
“For nine years?”
“Yes.”
“Did you cry?”
“Eli,” Mara said.
“It’s okay.”
I looked at my son.
“Yes. I cried.”
He studied me.
“Grandpa said men in our family are bad at crying.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
“He was right.”
Eli smiled back.
The resemblance hit me again.
Not just the finger.
The way one side of his mouth lifted before the other.
Mine.
Then the lights went out.
Every room went black.
Mara stood instantly.
“Nathan.”
“I’m here.”
A sound came from the rear of the house.
Glass breaking.
Not accidental.
I was already moving.
“Take Eli upstairs.”
“No.”
“Mara.”
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
A second crash.
Someone was inside.
I pulled my phone out.
No signal.
The home security panel beside the kitchen door was dead.
Whoever had cut the power knew exactly what they were doing.
I opened the drawer where my father had kept a flashlight.
Empty.
Of course.
Behind me, Eli whispered, “Mom.”
Mara wrapped an arm around him.
Then headlights swept across the front windows.
A vehicle.
Slow.
Stopping.
I grabbed the heavy brass fireplace poker.
Not elegant.
But effective.
Footsteps moved through the mudroom.
One.
Maybe two people.
I positioned myself beside the doorway.
The knob turned.
A shadow entered.
I swung.
The man ducked.
He drove his shoulder into my ribs and slammed me against the wall.
Mara screamed.
Another figure appeared behind him.
“Find the key!”
The key.
Not money.
Not jewelry.
The safe-deposit key.
I drove my elbow into the first man’s jaw.
He staggered.
The second moved toward Mara.
Eli did something none of us expected.
He grabbed the brass dinner bell from the hall table and threw it through the front window.
Glass exploded outward.
The security alarm had no power.
But the sound was enormous.
Lights appeared across the distant road.
A neighbor.
Dogs started barking.
The men froze.
I hit the first one again.
“Go!”
The second man grabbed him.
They ran through the back.
I chased them to the porch in time to see a black SUV tearing across the gravel.
No plates.
Mara stood behind me, holding Eli so tightly he winced.
I turned.
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head.
I looked at Eli.
“You?”
“No.”
Then he looked at the shattered window.
“Grandpa’s gonna be mad.”
Something inside me broke.
I laughed.
It came out half laugh, half sob.
“Buddy.”
I crouched in front of him.
“Grandpa’s not going to be mad.”
Eli looked at my bleeding lip.
“You are.”
“Little bit.”
He touched my face carefully.
Then he said something that made Mara close her eyes.
“Good thing Mom came to your funeral.”
I stared at him.
“My father’s funeral.”
“That’s what I meant.”
He looked embarrassed.
I put my hand on his shoulder.
“Yeah.”
I looked at Mara.
At the shattered glass.
At the dark road where the SUV had vanished.
“It’s a very good thing.”
Because Charles Cole had just answered the first important question for me.
My father had told the truth.
May you like
And whatever was waiting inside safe-deposit box 417—
Charles was willing to send men into his dead brother’s house to keep us from seeing it.
