Chapter 17
Patrick
He heard the town car pull up.
Patrick was out of his seat in an instant, at the bedroom window, peeking through the blinds.
There on the street, Vanessa was talking to a short woman with red hair, in a business suit.
The consultant Buchanan had arranged – Voss.
He recalled seeing her once before, consulting with his father.
She was cold, detached. A real killer was how his father had described her.
His stomach tightened.
Voss and Vanessa were talking on the sidewalk.
He took the stairs quickly, and ran to the hallway, opening the front door just in time to see Vanessa standing there, keys in hand.
‘I heard the car. Are you alright?’ he asked.
‘I’m alright. Everything is going to be alright,’ she said.
He stood aside, letting her come in. He didn’t want to chance an embrace. It would only make her uncomfortable and he needed her to talk. He slammed the door shut behind her.
‘What did the lawyers say?’ he asked, following her through the hallway.
She slowed, said, ‘She— They said the trial will be fast. It will all be over in a few months and then we can put it all behind us.’
He stepped in close behind her, thought about grabbing both her shoulders, spinning her round and screaming at her. Telling her she had better come clean about everything the police knew, about everything she had told them.
His hand snaked out, but he dropped it. He couldn’t risk it. He had to get her talking on her own steam.
‘That’s wonderful news.’
He followed her into the kitchen as she took some water from the fridge, then closed it and stood facing the counter with her back to him. She opened the water and drank.
A single thought pulsed in his mind as he stared at the back of her head, the water bottle at her lips.
She can’t look at me . . .
She’s told them about me and Molly.
‘Do you want something to eat?’ he asked.
Keeping her back to him, she put the water bottle on the counter. Her head followed it down, focusing on the counter, exposing the back of her neck, and the honey and vanilla skin stretched taut over the ridge over her spine.
She shook her head. ‘I need to rest. I need to sleep,’ she said.
‘Of course. Just one thing . . .’ he said. ‘Did they mention Molly’s bracelet?’
She spun round and stared at him. Patrick didn’t want to spook her. He tried to appear as nonchalant as possible.
‘What?’ asked Vanessa. ‘What bracelet?’
‘The diamond bracelet she wore. Did they mention it?’
Without answering, she took her water bottle and was about to storm off.
Without thinking, he grabbed her upper arm, stopping her, spilling some of the water from her bottle.
‘The bracelet. Did they talk about the bracelet?’
‘No,’ she said, and tried to wrestle free. Was she lying? He tried to detect anything other than fear in her eyes.
He let her go.
What the hell was she doing? Vanessa was a survivor – he knew that at least. When they’d met, and then dated and she agreed to be married, Patrick was under no illusions.
He loved her then, but part of him always questioned her love for him.
That wasn’t unusual. He was rich beyond what most people could imagine.
Every relationship in his life was affected by his wealth.
It became a screen through which he saw the world and the world saw him.
How much did anyone really love him for the man he was, and not the man his bank account made him?
Patrick was taught very little by his father.
They had never played catch in the garden, never went fishing, never had a beer together, never went to a ball game together and never really talked.
Not a real conversation. Julian expected him to learn by watching him.
As a young man, he would shadow him as he toured the floor of the smoky newsroom, sat behind his huge desk and barked orders, and on one memorable occasion Patrick had been brought into his father’s office to witness something that would mark him for life.
He had spent the morning on the black leather couch reading his comic books while his father made calls from behind his huge desk – older and bigger than the president’s Resolute desk, or so his father had told him. Those kinds of things were important to his father.
Bigger. Stronger. Faster. More expensive.
These were the words and phrases that brought something close to happiness to his father. It wasn’t true to say he had friends, but if another billionaire bought a new yacht, or a new Bentley, then his father had to have a bigger one, a faster one, and preferably one that nobody else could have.
The desk was specially built. This was the helm of the ship that steered his father’s business.
Patrick looked up from his Superman comic to see a gray-haired man in a shiny silvery suit walk into his father’s office and take a seat in front of that slab of wood.
The chair that faced his father’s desk was small and uncomfortable, forcing the occupant to sit upright.
This was Mr. Cherry. Boris Cherry. The name always made Patrick smile.
It was unusual and he didn’t know people could be named after fruit.
He’d seen the man often at his father’s apartment and at social gatherings when Patrick had been forced to wear a necktie and pants that were way too stiff.
At these events, Boris was often introduced to people as Julian’s number two, which also made Patrick giggle at first, because he didn’t know it meant Boris was almost as important as his father – he just thought it sounded like he was his father’s turd.
‘Come over here, Patrick,’ said his father.
He put down his comic and joined Julian on his side of the desk.
‘How are you, my boy?’ asked Boris with a nervous smile.
Patrick had nodded and smiled back. He didn’t talk much in those days. His father said he blabbered too much, so he had been purposely quieter in his presence.
‘How long have we known each other? Twenty years?’ asked his father.
‘Maybe longer. What’s up, Julian? Is there something I can do?’
Patrick stood by his father’s chair, his hand resting on the desk, his fingers feeling the grain of the polished wood.
When his father didn’t say anything for a few seconds, Patrick got nervous.
He saw Boris shifting in his seat, trying not to look scared.
His father could shout a lot. And that was always scary.
‘You know I don’t have time for bullshit, Boris. You’re out. Get your fucking coat and get out of my sight,’ said his father.
The man sat still for a long time. His pale, glassy eyes were suddenly wet. The man took a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit, and covered his mouth as he sobbed.
‘But . . . I’ve done nothing wrong . . . I . . . I’ve always . . . My wife, my kids, how am I going to look after them?’ said the man, slobbering through his words.
Julian stared at the man. His cold, red eyes burning into the man’s flesh.
‘Look at that, Patrick. Have you ever seen anything more pathetic,’ said his father, and then pressed an orange button on the big panel of buttons on his desk phone.
Two security guards came into his father’s office, slid their arms underneath Boris’s and lifted him out of the chair, sobbing, and carried him from the office.
‘Why did you do that?’ asked Patrick.
‘He was getting too comfortable,’ said Julian. ‘I’m godfather to his kid. I was best man at his second wedding. He was my number two in this business for a long time. But you know what? I don’t trust him. There’s no one you can trust in this world other than your family. Do you hear? Nobody.’
‘Did he betray you?’
‘I never gave him the chance. You can let people in, but only so far and for so long. Sometimes, you’ve got to let them know who you are. He’s shit on my heel, son, and I just scraped it clean.’
Right then, Patrick felt very sorry for Boris. He swayed on his heels, and his tummy began to do that weird thing. He had never seen an adult cry before, and it made him feel frightened.
‘Don’t you feel sorry for him, son. Not even one little bit. Empathy is the enemy. Empathy is weakness. You watch and learn from your old man. Some day you could be president. I could make you a great man.’
If that was what it took to be a great man, Patrick knew then, as he knew now, he didn’t want to be one. It was his father who had betrayed Boris. And he had enjoyed it.
His father had always been there for him, not with love and support, but with money and power. All Patrick’s problems had been solved that way, his drinking, his drug habit, hundreds of thousands on rehab, but not one kind word.
Just pain. Pain and betrayal. That was who his father really was.
Patrick didn’t want to be this great man any more.
His hand reached for his right shoulder, and began tracing the scar there through his shirt. It felt hot and itchy.
He followed Vanessa and stood at the bottom of the stairs as she raced up them.
‘Vanessa,’ he called.
She ignored him, and continued upstairs.
‘Stop!’ he yelled. ‘You and I need to talk.’
‘I don’t want to talk to you. My lawyers said I shouldn’t.’
‘We have to talk. I have things I have to say. Whether you believe it or not, I don’t know. I loved her, Vanessa. And part of me still loves you. There’s something I have to tell you . . .’