Chapter 17 #2
“Exactly. It’s like this pressure cooker of guilt and shame and fear and self-hate, confessing your sins and spying on each other and constant surveillance on your devices, but with a veneer of spirituality that’s supposed to make us all agree that this is gentle and loving and—and okay.
” The next words burst out of him: “And it is so fucked up!”
The shout rang out in the empty hall.
Jem rubbed his shoulder. His hand followed Tean’s arm down until he could squeeze his fingers.
“Maybe I’m not okay,” Tean mumbled, and he took off his glasses to wipe his eyes.
“Babe,” Jem said softly.
Tean shook his head. “I hate it. I hate it.” But he shook his head again. “Anyway, I think the friendly faces we’ve been seeing, and everyone acting sad that Gerald is gone—I have a hard time believing that’s all they’re feeling.”
“So, it could still be any of them,” Jem said.
“But we know more now, and that’s a good thing.
We know their alibis aren’t as solid as they’re pretending.
And we know why someone might have wanted to kill Gerald.
We do need to talk to Tafton, right? Find out what he has to say?
Because something about Stephen is definitely off, and if Tafton really did go with him somewhere last night, I want to know where they went and why—especially since, if Beckett’s right, they weren’t playing hide-the-spaghetti. ”
Tean nodded slowly. “I agree we should talk to Tafton. Alone, preferably.” He took a deep breath and made himself say the next part. “Jem, I also think we need to talk about—” He almost said your mom. “—Brigitte.”
Jem went still.
“I know she’s your mom,” Tean said. “But I think it would be a…mistake not to at least consider the possibility—”
“We talked about this. She didn’t kill him, Tean.”
Tean waited. Let the moment slide past. In an even voice, he said, “I understand why you believe that. But statistically, the spouse is the most likely person. And I think we need to be realistic about the fact that we don’t know anything about their relationship.
I’m not saying she did it, Jem. I’m saying I think we need to consider the possibility. ”
“Because I don’t know her. Not really. That’s what you mean.”
“I think she’s been out of your life for a long time—”
“She’s my mom.” A strange flicker passed across Jem’s face—not quite disbelief, but maybe disorientation. Then it was gone, and he said, “Fine. Okay. I get it.”
“Jem, I didn’t mean anything except that this is a possibility.”
“I heard you. It’s fine. You’re right.”
Tean tried to keep back the words, but they slipped out anyway. “I don’t want you to be upset.”
“I’m not upset.”
Tean let that moment slide away too. “You seem upset.”
“I’m not.” And then, somehow, Jem gave a smile that was awful—awful because it wasn’t his smile, and awful because it was almost too real. His voice softened. “You’re totally right, babe. I’m sure it wasn’t easy to say that, and I appreciate you talking to me about it.”
Tean watched him until he couldn’t anymore; then he cut his eyes away.
“That’s everybody, right?” Jem said. “Brigitte and Stephen and everyone in the group. The wives, too, I guess. Somebody lied about where they were last night. Somebody’s helping cover it up. And we’ve got ideas about why they might have wanted Gerald dead, but nothing solid.”
“We know they took his phone and briefcase,” Tean said. He wanted his voice to sound normal, but it came out small and unexpectedly defensive.
“Right.” And in a tone that was perfectly offhand, Jem added, “We don’t have a motive for my mom, though.”
Tean caught himself tensing. He breathed out. Made sure his fingers stayed loose and relaxed.
In that same easy tone, almost upbeat, Jem added, “Just saying.”
“Correct,” Tean said. “We do not.”
“Okay,” Jem said. “Great.”
Tean didn’t say anything.
“Let’s go find Tafton,” Jem said.
He started off without Tean. And he didn’t look back.
The part of Tean that still, occasionally, remembered what it had been like to be a teenager—that part wanted to hang back. Wanted to drag his feet. Wanted Jem eventually to be forced to turn around and check on him.
He made himself catch up with Jem, match the blond man’s pace, act like everything was normal.
Nobody would have wanted to hear that about their mom.
That was all.
It was a weird, tense moment that was totally understandable.
And, anyway, it was over now.
Tean was still telling himself this—over and over again—as they made their way through the lobby. He was so caught up in repeating his new mantra—it was totally understandable—that he only registered at a distance the woman waving at him. Then the detail made its way through the noise in his head.
It was Francisca, and she was saying, “Sir! Excuse me, sir!”
Tean caught Jem’s sleeve.
“What?” Jem turned. “Oh, hey, Francisca.”
“I just saw your friend.” When Tean and Jem didn’t respond, she said, “The woman you were asking about? Blond, but with some pink in it? Petite? She walked through here—gosh, maybe two minutes ago. I gave her your message about her car, and she went straight to the garage.”
“Which way?” Jem asked.
Francisca pointed, and Jem pulled Tean into a run.