Chapter 13 #4
She nodded and said, “I was already there when he arrived. He was coming from dinner with friends. He looked tired and sad. It weighed heavy on him, whatever the secret he was carrying.” She looked at the window.
“He told me he had an important meeting on Monday and that hopefully it would all be over soon. He said ripping the Band-Aid off would be the hardest part.” She stopped.
“Then he told me he loved me. He drove back to Grimm Island the next morning, and I drove home to my father’s house. It was the last time I saw him alive.”
“The meeting on Monday was with the CFO,” I told her. “He’d suggested an audit for the foundation.”
“Winston,” she said, smiling. “A very serious man. Never seemed to enjoy the parties and fundraising events, but it was important for everyone to be there to show solidarity.
“When did you find out?” I asked. “That Henry was gone.”
“Sunday evening,” she said. “My father came home and told me. He’d gotten a call from one of the other board members. He sat down at the kitchen table and didn’t say anything for a long time. My father always had something to say.”
“Did he say anything about the circumstances?” Dash asked. “How it happened?”
“He said they were saying it was a suicide.” She pressed her lips together. “I told him that was impossible. He didn’t argue with me. He just went quiet again.”
“Did he seem surprised?” Dash asked. “When you said you didn’t believe it?”
She thought about that. “No,” she said slowly. “He didn’t.”
Her eyes filled. She didn’t try to stop it.
She sat there with the tears running quietly down her face and didn’t look away.
“We were happy. We were making plans.” She wiped her face with the back of her hand.
“But I was twenty-two with no standing. I was his secret. No one was going to listen to me.”
I put my hand over hers. She let me.
“After he died,” Dash said, “did anyone from the foundation reach out to you personally?”
“A few sent cards. Some called my father. Nobody called me—they didn’t know I had any connection to Henry beyond being Byron Jameson’s daughter.” She paused. “Which was exactly how we’d kept it.”
“Did he ever indicate that he knew about your relationship with Henry?” I asked.
“He didn’t have to.” She looked at her hands.
“My father came to tell me Sunday evening. He was wrecked. He and Henry had been friends their whole adult lives.” She paused.
“But the way he looked at me when he told me— I understood. He knew about us. He never said it directly. He never confronted me. He just looked at me with something I couldn’t read, grief or anger or both, and I knew that he knew. ”
“You went to the funeral,” Dash said.
“I stood beside my father and I got through it.” She looked at her hands. “A few weeks later I told him I was pregnant.”
I couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped my lips.
“He didn’t rage,” she said. “I’d expected it.
My father had a temper that could clear a room.
But he went quiet in a way that was worse.
” She swallowed. “We talked. He agreed the best thing was for me to go somewhere new and start fresh. He made sure I had money— he always made sure I was taken care of.” She looked at the photographs on the shelf.
“It was my father who introduced me to Danny. He’d done his residency at MUSC and my father knew him through the hospital.
Danny had just taken a position with a family practice on Amelia Island— new to the area, didn’t know anyone.
My father thought it would be good for both of us.
A fresh start somewhere nobody knew me.”
“Was it?” I asked.
“Not at first,” she said honestly. “I was still grieving. I was frightened. I was trying to keep my head above water. But Danny was steady. Patient. He never once asked me to be something I wasn’t.
He adopted my oldest son without hesitation.
” She looked at the photographs again. “I can’t imagine my life without him. ”
Dash leaned forward. “Tell us more about your father’s temper. Was he abusive?”
“Never physically,” she said. “But he could clear a room when he was in a mood. He broke things. Said things he regretted. Surgeons can be difficult people and my father was no exception.”
“He never hurt you?” Dash asked.
“No,” she said, without hesitation. “Never. He was loud and he was difficult and he could be cruel with his words when he was angry. But he never raised a hand to anyone in his life.” She looked at Dash steadily.
“If you’re asking whether my father could have killed Henry— I’ve thought about it.
Finding out he knew about us changes things I thought I understood about that time.
” She shook her head. “But I cannot make myself believe that. Not my father.”
She walked us to the door when we stood to leave.
“Will you let me know?” she asked. “When you find out what happened to him.”
“You’ll be the second call we make,” I said.
She was still standing in the doorway when we pulled out of the drive. The sun was still high and the heat had settled into the pavement and the air smelled of salt and cut grass baking in the afternoon.
Dash held my door open and I got in. He came around and started the engine and we sat there for a moment without saying anything.
“Henry has a son,” I said finally.
He put the car in gear and we headed north.