Twenty-Four
Reece
There are bombshells, and then there are bombshells.
Holden was, at least genetically speaking, my half brother.
“You can’t keep this from him,” I said to my mother, standing in her house. “He deserves to know.”
“Not knowing hasn’t been a problem for him up to now, so I don’t see any reason to change things.”
I felt myself coming to a boil. Keeping this from Holden was not only a betrayal to him, but me as well. I’d believed Holden
was a full brother, and not that it would make any difference in how I felt about him, but didn’t I deserve to know the truth?
If I were Holden, wouldn’t I be entitled to know how I’d come into the world?
“God, what a piece of work you are,” I said.
Mom slapped me across the face. “How dare you.”
My cheek was hot, but the slap wasn’t enough to quell my anger.
“No, how dare you,” I said. “Keeping secret who we are. What we are to each other. You’d no right to do that.”
“Don’t talk to me about rights,” she snapped.
“Look how it’s paid off for you, having our family live a lie all these years. That detective will figure it all out, and
she’ll want to know why you weren’t more forthcoming with her. Once she knows what Leah did for you and Dad and talks to Holden—”
“There’s no reason for her to talk to Holden!”
“There will be. Once she puts it together.”
“She won’t,” Mom protested. “She didn’t strike me as all that bright.”
That made me laugh. Mom wishing other people were stupid wouldn’t make it so.
“I have to find your father a suit,” she said, turning and heading for the stairs, clearly eager to put an end to our conversation.
I’d almost forgotten that was why we were here. To get some clothes to take back to the funeral home. I was taken aback by
how briskly Mom headed upstairs. She’d evidently gotten over her reluctance to not only be in this house, but go into rooms
one might think she’d never want to enter again.
She walked right past the king-size bed without looking at it, which was just as well. Dad and Leah were long gone, of course,
but the room was still a crime scene. The bed, the linens, it would all have to go. The bloodied carpet ripped up. The walls
scoured and repainted or wallpapered. The framed painting above the bed, with traces of brain matter on it, disposed of.
Mom walked past it all so blithely that for a moment I thought it might be because she’d already seen it. I put the idea out
of my head as quickly as it had come to me.
“This should do,” she said, coming out of the walk-in closet, in one hand a hanger bearing a dark blue suit, and in the other,
a folded white shirt and blue-striped tie. With both hands full, she managed to open a dresser drawer, pull out a pair of
socks, then head for the door, conducting the entire exercise in less time than I could get a Big Mac and fries at the McDonald’s
drive-through window.
I went into the closet, saw a pair of dress shoes, grabbed them, and met her in the hall. She looked at what I’d brought her
and frowned. “Not brown,” she said.
I went back for a black pair and by the time I returned she was down in the front hall, ready to hand me the clothes.
“You can take these over,” she said.
“You’re not coming?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m . . . going to stay here. I’ll move my things into the guest room. Would you help me with that?”
I nodded.
“And when you have a moment, could you get my things from the hotel?” She went into her purse, brought out a plastic room
key. “It’s all packed.”
“Okay.”
“This is my house. I’m not leaving. I won’t let your father’s foolishness force me out.” Foolishness struck me as something of an understatement. “If I let tragedy dictate where I live I’d have left here long ago.”
I didn’t know whether to pursue that one or not. I already had another question ready to go and launched it.
“Did you know?” I asked. She looked at me, seeking clarification. “About Dad, and Leah.”
“I need to sit down.”
She went into the living room and settled onto the couch while I took a chair opposite her. She took a breath, put her hands
in her lap, and laced her fingers. “He thought he was so good at keeping it a secret, at least for a while. Had an extra phone
and everything.”
“How long had it been going on?”
“A year, maybe two. I confronted him about it a couple of months ago. Not that I was as upset as you might think. Things have
been strained for a long time.”
“Was Dad seeing her back in the beginning? Before Holden came along?”
“No. Like I said, it was all very clinical, getting her pregnant. When I got him to admit he was seeing her, he told me how
it happened. He spotted her one day. On the street, in a store, somewhere, I don’t know. She looked distraught, and he went
up to her, asked if she was okay, then realized who she was. Her life was something of a mess, she’d been living with a man
who was abusive, and I guess he set out to rescue her.”
“So it didn’t start out as an affair?”
“I don’t think so. He felt indebted to this woman who carried his child, who gave birth to our Holden, who was clearly struggling.
To give your father the benefit of the doubt, I think his original intention was to help.
He gave her money. A hundred here, a hundred there, sometimes a thousand.
Their friendship turned into something more.
She kicked out her boyfriend. But I never thought .
. . I never thought your father would meet with her here.
” She seethed briefly. “I could put up with almost anything, but to do it here . . . I didn’t know he hated me that much. ”
“Dad didn’t hate you.”
She gave me a wry smile that hinted at my naivete.
I had another question, but before I could pose it, we heard a car pulling into the driveway. I got up from the chair and
went to the window, pulled back a drape.
“Detective McCabe,” I said.
“God, no,” said Mom. She didn’t sound angry. More defeated.
“Maybe she spotted my car, wants to talk to me.”
“I’m not here,” she said, got off the couch, and started heading for the door to the basement.
McCabe was opening the door to her car.
“Mom,” I said.
She paused, glanced at me.
“Who was the man in the parking lot?” I asked.
“I have no idea what you’re—”
“Cut the bullshit, Mom. Who was he? Why’d you look so upset?”
McCabe was halfway to the front door.
“I want to know. Were you having an affair with him?”
She looked completely exasperated. “For Christ’s sake, you have no idea what’s going on.” With that she disappeared down the
stairs. I went to the door before McCabe could ring the bell.
“Mr. Chartwell,” she said. “How are you doing?”
I shrugged.
“I need to speak with your mother. Is she here?”
Fuck it.
“Yes,” I said.