Chapter 15 Variation in DNA and Proteins #2
Tara was nowhere in sight, having dropped us off and excused herself to call my private security detail and strong-arm someone into reworking my night-shift coverage, which Tara and Andreas agreed among themselves needed urgent rearranging after yesterday’s sleepwalking debacle.
Since I was so tired, I appreciated the gesture.
This left me with my own thoughts.
I replayed the meeting with Dr. Gounter on a loop, dissecting the way he’d looked at me when he said, “I’m so sorry.”
What was one even supposed to do with that?
Was it an act of cowardice or bravery, to make a confession fifteen years too late?
If I was being honest, it felt like both.
Or maybe it was neither, and I was just programmed to forgive strangers their trespasses as long as they seemed sincere.
In that moment I realized something about myself: Sincerity went a long way with me.
I still didn’t know how I felt about the news that my father had been murdered.
There was an entire semantic landfill of unprocessed emotion surrounding the concept, and I couldn’t seem to get past the basic act of labeling it.
Murder. My father had been murdered, and, at best, the only justice we’d ever get was the cold, unsatisfying fact of knowing it happened.
I tried to imagine my mother hearing this news, or my grandfather.
I had no idea whether it would comfort or further hollow them.
Or, did they already know and kept it from me? I shook my head. I had no way of asking them now.
Abruptly, Andreas set down his fork, straightened his back, and said, “You should request he be interviewed by the police, get a sworn statement.”
I nodded my agreement. That seemed like a logical first step if I wanted to prove my father had been murdered.
Then, he said, “He apologized to you.”
It took me a second to realize he was still talking about Dr. Gounter. I glanced up. “Pardon me?”
His eyes caught mine and Andreas spoke without any hint of sarcasm or softness.
“That man took a lot from you by helping my father cover up your father’s death.
We now can extrapolate your father was murdered, either by my father or by someone my father wished to help.
And by assisting Oskar in covering up this crime, that man did irreparable damage.
To you, to your mother, your entire family. And he . . . apologized to you.”
I studied him, fighting an urge to yawn—not because I was bored, but because I was so damn tired—or lose the thread of the conversation.
His jaw looked tense, as though he were literally chewing on the idea of Gounter’s apology and finding it made of gristle.
There was a rage, a righteous indignation in his body language that felt wildly out of step with the blank fatigue I experienced upon attempting to process the situation.
“Why are you so mad?” I asked, mostly because I didn’t want to answer the question he’d asked me.
Andreas’s face twitched, and he said, “Who the hell does he think he is? One cannot simply apologize for a lifetime of hurt. Are you not angry? Why are you not livid?”
I bit down on a smile, not because it was funny, but because it felt ironic that Andreas was this mad and I . . . wasn’t.
I considered this, genuinely. It was true, my first impulse should have been rage, not relief. But my body—my brain—just didn’t have it in the tank.
“Maybe I was, for a long time. But today I feel . . . empty. I already spent fifteen years mourning the loss of my father and my family. I think I don’t have the energy to be livid about something I was already livid about for over a decade.
” I set my coffee down but kept my hands wrapped around the cup.
I needed to wake up. “Truthfully, I’m not mad at him.
Maybe I should be, but I’m not. He told us what we wanted to know without us even asking.
This incident has clearly tortured him for fifteen years.
” I shrugged. “He lost his medical license, his career. He’s dying of cancer and probably only took our meeting because he thought it was the right thing to do.
Why kick a guy when he’s already kicked himself every day for over a decade? ”
Andreas stared at me, and for a moment, I wondered if he thought I was lying. But then he said, quietly, “I do not understand you.”
I yawned. Couldn’t help it. It came out big, stretching my face until I probably looked like I was in the final seconds of a silent scream, but I was too tired to cover it.
When I finished, I said, “I don’t know what to tell you, Andreas.
I don’t understand me either sometimes. But I do have compassion for someone who has a desire to make things right, even if it’s fifteen years late.
” I paused, then added, “Honestly, if I were dying and could clear my conscience before I went, I’d want to do it, too. I can’t begrudge him for that.”
Andreas made a noise—half exhale, half incredulous huff—and leaned back in his chair. He laced his hands behind his neck, a pose that exposed the full length of his arms and made him seem twice as large as usual.
“I would not forgive myself so easily,” he said, sounding like someone who’d spent considerable time imagining what he’d do if the roles were reversed.
I picked up an olive and rolled it between my fingers before popping it into my mouth. “That’s because deep down you’re a masochist.”
He glowered at me briefly, but the emotion didn’t stick.
We lapsed into silence. The type that’s uncomfortable if you let it be, but today, for me, was more of a buffer zone. I let the noise of the restaurant push back against the encroaching tide of what-the-fuck-happens-next.
I yawned again, then felt self-conscious. I reached for the coffee, only to find the cup empty. “I should have more coffee,” I muttered.
Andreas watched my hand, then said, “May I make a proposition?”
Lifting my eyes to his again, I fought to keep them open. “The last time you said something to me like that, I ended up adopted.”
He huffed a laugh, but said in all seriousness, “Sleep at my place tonight.”
The words short-circuited my brain. I blinked, waiting for the punchline or the awkward clarifying statement, but none came. He just looked at me, steady and sincere.
I squinted at him. “Are you worried about me sleepwalking into traffic, or are you just really lonely?”
He considered it. “Both.”
Now I huffed a laugh, because I didn’t doubt he told the truth. He was worried about me. He was also lonely, otherwise he wouldn’t have admitted it. I wondered if I’d ever get used to his new unfiltered candor about absolutely everything.
“You are not safe sleeping on your own right now. You need a roommate. Please, allow me to help in this way.”
There was an edge of desperation in his voice, and I recognized it because I heard the same edge in my own voice, sometimes, when talking to Kaitlyn if I felt like she wasn’t advocating for herself, or wasn’t taking good enough care of herself, or wasn’t putting herself first when she absolutely should.
I narrowed my eyes, searching for a catch, a twist, some hidden strategy. “Is this—what’s your angle? What would you get out of it?”
His face did not move, not even to blink. “I promise, I will not try anything. We will sleep, that is all.”
I stared at him, weighing my options, trying to figure out whether it was pride or self-preservation telling me to say no.
If it was pride, then pride was stupid, because the last few days had proven I could not be trusted not to sleepwalk into a manhole or an oncoming SUV.
If it was self-preservation, then self-preservation was already at a loss.
Andreas continued looking at me, eyes steady and sincere in a way that made this intimidating man appear anxious and vulnerable. “Please. Stay with me.”