Chapter 3
BECK
No one ever talks about how peaceful cemeteries are.
The quiet calm that finds you when you’re sitting among the headstones of people you hope were loved well and are missed terribly. I can’t speak for anyone else here, but I know for certain that both things are true for the two souls who were laid to rest in the spots in front of me.
I wasn’t planning on visiting Diana and Cameron’s graves today, but after receiving a call from my realtor confirming the sale of what was supposed to be our forever home, there was only one place I really wanted to be.
Cal let me leave the circle of his arms without much protest, knowing I needed the space to process this final loss of my old life.
Blades of freshly mowed grass brush against my legs as I kneel before my wife, replacing the bouquet I brought last week with a fresh one.
This is the first time in a while I’ve been able to visit before the flowers wither and die, and I find myself smiling at that as I reach over and put the old arrangement next to the set of blocks I got Cameron.
He would have been inching up into the teenage years if he’d lived to see today, but I can only ever picture him as a baby. Small and fragile and in need of protection I wish every day I would have been able to provide.
A sharp lancing pain rips through me, forcing my eyes shut for a second.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, letting the useless words find a home in the timid warmth of the early May afternoon.
As I open my eyes, I imagine them floating up to the leaves of the cherry blossom trees looming above, acquainting themselves with every other apology and grief-riddled sentence that’s escaped my lips and been captured by the branches.
The image brings me no peace.
Few things do these days.
Instead of dwelling, I settle myself into the spot between Diana and Cameron and give the trees more things to hold.
I spend an hour unburdening myself only to stand and find I’m carrying the same heaviness I was when I sat down.
It came in the days after we rescued Selene from Jacob Marsh when the air of relief that she was safe dissipated and the weight of what I’d done to make that a reality set in.
First, it was the what-ifs.
What if I hadn’t stumbled out onto that landing? What if I had thrown Charlie to the side instead of over the railing? What if it had been Cal? Would he have been able to talk her down? What if she didn’t have to die?
What if, what if, what if.
Then came the nightmares I refused to talk about with Cal because I didn’t know how to explain that it wasn’t always Charlie’s broken body on that factory floor.
Sometimes it was Selene’s. Sometimes it was his.
Sometimes it was Diana’s, and she’d have Cameron in her arms. And no matter who the victim was, the perpetrator was always me.
Me, doing damage, inflicting pain, ruining everything.
Eventually, Cal got me to share. As soon as he heard what was going on in my head, he went into superhero mode, long speeches validating the choices I made to protect myself, him and Selene.
Even longer ones about how I’d never hurt any of the people I loved.
Passing remarks about returning to the therapist I was mandated to see after the incident to make sense of the fucked up connections my brain decided to make.
Worried looks when none of those things worked.
He tries to hide them, but I read concern in his every expression, hear it in his voice, see it in everything he does like the carefully spaced out texts and phone calls I get whenever I’m out of his sight for too long.
I’m climbing back into my truck when my phone rings, announcing his arrival at the end of his rope. Deciding to let him sweat for a bit more, I crank the engine and wait for my phone to connect to the vehicle before answering the call.
“I’m heading home now, Cal.”
A hum of approval that’s more about me calling his house ‘home’ than anything else fills the space around me.
We made the decision to move in together not too long after Aubrey forced us into taking the job because something about knowing our access to Selene was going to be damn near non-existent for the foreseeable future made waking up next to each other every morning and falling asleep together every night feel necessary to our survival.
Like our closeness is the only thing making living without her bearable.
“Glad to hear it,” Cal says. “That’s not why I’m calling though.”
“Oh. What’s up, then?”
“You didn’t see my text?”
“Uh, no. What’d it say?” I ask, plucking my phone from the cup holder and opening our text thread before he can even answer.
There’s only one new message, and it’s a link to an article from a fledgling blog that appears to specialize in doling out right-wing propaganda.
Above the link, there’s a photo of a ruddy-faced white man with beady blue eyes and a bald head in a prison jumpsuit.
Leland Marsh.
Underneath his ugly mug is a headline that leaves my vision red.
A Father’s Love: Leland Marsh speaks about the tragic death of his son, Jacob.
“What the fuck is this?”
“Some twisted sympathy piece that makes Jacob out to be some kind of victim and paints Leland as the grieving father instead of a hateful motherfucker who raised another hateful motherfucker,” Cal growls.
I click the link, scrolling through the page to find that his description is pretty much spot-on.
Aside from a few paragraphs at the beginning to provide context, the article is kind of sparse.
The questions Leland was asked are in bold, and his corresponding answers are underneath.
I guess the so-called journalist didn’t want anything getting in the way of Leland telling his side of a story he still claims to have nothing to do with.
Thanks to the lackluster formatting, I’m able to make note of every subject they touched on, paying close attention to when they discuss Jacob’s rebuilding of the Brothers of Confederate Pride—which Leland frames as a place where true Americans can embrace their heritage and be among like-minded individuals who want to see our country return to her former glory.
When asked about Selene’s kidnapping and attempted murder, Leland stated that all change comes with a cost. The only semi-respectable question asked throughout the entire interview was the one that followed that statement.
Apparently it was so good, the reporter decided to include a video clip of the moment.
Cal is silent as I start the video, pin pricks of irritation dancing down my spine when I see the walls of the same room we visited the bastard in months ago on my screen.
The interviewer is out of frame because the camera is focused on their subject, but their voice is crystal clear as it filters through my speakers.
“Is that what Jacob’s death is? The cost of change?”
Leland’s expression turns harsh, his top lip curling into a snarl as the vein in the center of his forehead bulges.
“My boy was a victim. Do you hear me? He was murdered in cold blood by two Black bastards who collected their medals with his blood on their filthy hands. Can you believe that?” He growls, banging a fist into the table.
“MY BOY IS DEAD, and they’re just living their lives, thinking they’ve won.
” He lifts his hand, pointing a finger at the camera as he stares directly into it like he’s speaking just to me.
“But you haven’t won anything. Jacob might be dead, but his vision for this country is alive and well. You have no idea what you’ve awakened.”
“When you say ‘you’,” the interviewer chimes in. “Who exactly are you speaking to?”
“Everyone who walked out of that clothing factory alive when my boy didn’t.”
“Does that include the current First Lady, Selene Taylor?”
“Did she make it out of that factory alive?” he retorts.
“Um, yes, she did.”
“Then, yeah, that includes her too.”
The clip ends with Leland’s dead stare fixed on the camera. I swipe the article away with an angry flick of my thumb and throw the phone down in disgust. “Do we know who the interviewer is?”
“Ian Conlon. 41. Lives in his mom’s basement in some shitty town in Ohio. He owns the site.”
Of course, Cal has already done his due diligence.
He probably memorized Ian’s entire life story while I was sitting in the cemetery trying to find peace among the dead.
The thought sets me into motion immediately.
I throw the truck in reverse and strap on my seat belt as I pull into oncoming traffic, gunning the engine because moving fast makes me feel less shitty about being so many steps behind.
“What’s his connection to Marsh?”
“That, I don’t know. The warden wasn’t exactly forthcoming when I called and asked to see his visitor logs.”
I wish I could say I was surprised, but I’m not.
The last time we had the pleasure of making Warden Ethan Bennet’s acquaintance, he had us escorted out of his prison for using excessive force against Leland.
Clearly he’s still pissy about me slamming Marsh’s head into a table and Cal threatening to do the same to one of his guards.
“Asshole,” I mutter. “We can go around him. Find Conlon and see if this is all for clicks and views or if he’s trying to be Jacob 2.0.”
“We can’t do anything.”
My brows furrow. “What are you talking about? Conlon could be a danger to Selene, we have to…” The burn of urgency and purpose leave me in a quiet whoosh as the realization sets in.
Cal and I are no longer in charge of Selene’s safety.
We’re not even supposed to acknowledge her existence because that might set Aubrey off, so investigating the possibility of a threat to her is not an option.
“We could give compile the information and give it to Shaw,” I offer lamely, hating the idea of ceding control to anyone, even someone I trust and respect as much as the head of Selene’s detail.
Since coming on the scene, she’s proven herself to be extremely capable.
Every member of her team I’ve had the chance to interact with speaks highly of her, calling her a dynamic leader with a vision for protecting that requires flexibility and accounts for the humanity of those under her care.
I’ve seen her work firsthand, benefited from her unusual philosophy, and yet, it still burns down to my core to know we’ll have to hand over this lead and hope she sees the value in pursuing it.
“That’s probably for the best.” I listen to the faint clicking of his fingers flying across the keys of his laptop and know instantly that he’s drafting an email to the woman in question. Seconds later, he sighs. “Done.”
“Shaw can handle this, right?” I ask, leg bouncing impatiently as I wait for the car in front of me to find a break in traffic to execute a left turn.
“Yes,” Cal answers confidently.
That same certainty is in his voice hours later when we’re on a FaceTime call with Selene’s parents, Justine and Albert, or as they like for us to call them, Mama J and Al.
Somewhere between saving Selene and putting the entire Grant crew on flights back to Georgia, Cal and I ended up exchanging numbers with Mama J.
At that time, I don’t think either of us realized we’d be talking to her more than we even see Selene.
She calls all the time. Sometimes to ask questions about her daughter that we can’t answer, but other times, it’s to check on us.
To make sure we’re eating and sleeping and not giving in to the prevalent urge to kill Aubrey’s dumb ass.
Today’s call is a surprising balance of both concern for us and for Selene.
A result of Conlon’s video of Marsh going viral on social media.
“I just can’t stand the sight of that hateful man.” Mama J shakes her head, shoulders up around her ears as she shivers with disgust. “Why would anyone give him a platform to say such terrible things?”
She poses the question directly to us, staring into our souls with the brown eyes she passed down to her oldest daughter.
The phone is propped up on the kitchen counter, so we have a plain view of her slicing vegetables while Al stirs something in the pot on the stove behind her.
He glances over his shoulder, mouth set in a disapproving line.
“Hate will always find a home in this country, Jus, you know that.”
“Of course I know that, Albert. It doesn’t mean I have to accept it, especially when it’s aimed at my baby.”
“Selene has a great team around her,” I remind them, stealing Cal’s line of reassurance because I’m sure he’s tired of saying it by now.
We’ve been on the phone with the Grants for almost thirty minutes, listening to Mama J rant and trying to convince her it will all be fine.
Nothing seems to truly soothe her, though, and I understand that.
I won’t be soothed until Marsh and every other threat to Selene has been obliterated.
“I don’t doubt that at all,” she says, softening a little. “I just wish you two were a part of that team as well.”
Cal reaches for me, wrapping his fingers around the clenched fist resting on my thigh. It loosens immediately, shifting to an open palm for him to press his against.
“We wish that too,” he tells her.
“More than you know,” I add.