Broken and Beautiful

by Ryan, Kendall

  The rest of the night, we talked about how much we missed each other. She filled me in on the gossip backstage at the show: who was fucking who, who was on drugs, and who messed up their choreography. I filled her in on all my office bullshit and whatever new things CJ had discovered. I'd never had anyone I could talk to like this. It was odd and beautiful how normal it felt. This could be my life.

  Deacon Welles was dead. No one could lay claim to CJ. I was my brother's closest living relative. I could hop on a plane tomorrow morning, go home, and forget all about this shit. But I knew I wouldn't. Detective Tan's words rattled around in my head, and I couldn't shake them.

  “I just want the truth. If I were you, I’d want to know.”

  I wanted the truth, and I couldn't leave Missouri until I got it.

  28

  cole

  The gate where I was parked guarded a large stately manor that couldn't have been a further cry from Arnold's raggedy farmhouse or a more significant statement of the disparity of wealth in this country. The two halves of the gates parted, and I drove my rental car up the drive until I was parked at the front doors. A Latinx man in a suit met me and took my keys and gestured toward the front door. There I was met by a woman in a black and white uniform who startled when she saw me as if she'd seen a ghost. She led me to a large study where I was asked to have a seat.

  "Mrs. Welles will be with you shortly." She was an elderly white woman who looked stern, but her voice was surprisingly soft with the faintest hint of an Eastern European accent. She gave me a lingering look before she left the study closing the door softly behind her.

  Five minutes later, she returned, supporting a woman I recognized as Vanessa Welles, but not as perfectly coiffed and well assembled as the woman I'd seen in pictures on the internet. She was wearing a crisp white button-down shirt that was slightly wrinkled over what looked like leggings, but I knew from my many years of private schools were actually riding pants and black leather riding boots. Her blonde hair was pulled into a low ponytail, and unruly wisps of hair framed her pale, sunken face. She wasn't wearing makeup, and her eyes were rimmed red with dark circles.

  Mrs. Welles jerked her arm free of the elderly woman's grasp and seethed, "I can walk on my own, damn it." She teetered to a nearby chair and sat down. Her eyes widened, and her face paled even more than I thought was possible when she finally laid eyes on me.

  “Jesus Christ,” she gasped. “Dagmar, I need a martini.”

  “Ma’am, are you sure that’s a good idea? You’ve already had—”

  "Damn it, Dagmar. My dead husband's love child is sitting in my study. I think that entitles me to a martini." She let out a high-pitched laugh that was so devoid of mirth it was bone-chilling. She turned to me. "Would you like a drink? What do you drink?"

  Common sense dictated that I needed to be as clear-headed as possible for this interaction, but a drink sounded too good to pass up. "Hennessy, a double if that's okay."

  “Oh, that’s a good idea. Make mine a double, too. Thank you, Dagmar.”

  The woman backed out of the room, pulling the large double doors closed as she left.

  “My God, you look just like him.” She shook her head and leaned back into her chair. “So, how did you find me?”

  “Arnold West.”

  “Ha.” She let out another mirthless chuckle. “That whole family is the bane of my existence—God, where is she with that martini?” She turned towards the door. I wondered how many martinis she’d had already.

  “So what do you want? Did you come here for money like the rest of the miscreants in that family? I don’t have any to give. I just have possessions.” She waved an arm to lazily indicate the room we were in. “And an allowance, like a child.”

  “I don’t want money. I want to know about the night Deacon died.”

  "And the night your mother died, I suppose—Oh, thank God. What the hell took you so long?" She grabbed the martini, which instead of being served in a martini glass, was a half-filled pint glass with three olives impaled on a flexible plastic straw. Dagmar handed me a large snifter. I took a sip and swallowed. I expected more of a burn as the dark liquid slid down my throat, but it was smooth with a smoky aftertaste. This was expensive Cognac, like the kind my dad drank after winning a big case.

  “So, your mother.” She took a long draught from her straw, swallowed and grimaced. “Crystal West and my husband dated in high school, before he and I dated. We knew each other, of course. Our families ran in the same circles. Deacon’s and my family. I’d imagine the Wests ran in very different circles.” She gave a derisive snort. “Everyone always assumed we’d end up together, once he got over his infatuation with your mother. Sure enough, they broke up—everyone thought your mother ran off to become a singer or actress or something silly—and I was still here.

  "We dated through college. Then Deacon proposed and we got married. He never loved me, not truly. That was fine. I never had those sorts of inclinations: for men, women, for anyone. A girl raised as I was never expected to marry for love anyway. My mother told me only stupid women marry for love. You get married for security and status. No one was more secure or had more status than Deacon Welles. Furthermore, Deacon and I were friends. We respected each other. I should have been the luckiest woman in the world, but he never got over your mother. Never.

  "I tried to be a good wife. I created the perfect home. I threw the perfect parties. I did the disgusting things he liked in the bedroom and pretended to enjoy it until I suggested he seek those comforts elsewhere. He was very understanding and supportive. I miss that about him.

  "One thing I couldn't do was give him children." Her face darkened, and she gave up on the straw and began sipping straight from the glass.

  "It was the only thing I wanted for myself from this arrangement. I'd always wanted to be a mother. Deacon wanted children, too. We tried everything, but nothing worked. I wanted to adopt, but his father wouldn't hear a word of that. Had to maintain the Welles bloodline,” she bellowed in a deep voice.

  "His father?" I asked. "Blake Welles." My late-night Google session turned up a lot of information about my biological grandfather. He was the most feared businessman in the state. He was also dying of cancer.

  "Yes." She nodded. "Blake is a son of a bitch. He wanted us to have kids more than Deacon."

  "We'd been trying to get pregnant for five years when I got a knock on my door. It was your uncle looking for my husband. He showed me a picture of you. The miniature version of Deacon was staring back at me. Your eyes told me who your mother was. My husband kept an old shoebox full of pictures and letters. Your uncle had custody of you, and Crystal was incarcerated in New York. He wanted to sell you to your father, like cattle or a horse. Can you believe that?" She laughed again. "These people," she said to no one in particular.

  “So I paid him to be quiet. It was honestly the last thing I needed. And it worked until I figured out you weren’t living with him anymore.” She took another gulp of her martini. “I hired a private investigator to check on you. He discovered you’d run away and were in the process of being adopted by an African American family in New York City. He also told me that things were…difficult for you at your uncle’s house. I had no idea.” She cast her eyes down. “I stopped the payments immediately.

  "I know keeping you from Deacon was wrong, but things in our marriage were…precarious, and I was trying to protect myself. I thought you were well cared for."

  “What would you have done if you’d known?” I glared at her.

  “I don’t know. I suppose I would have…I don’t know.”

  “Did you know he had another child with Crystal?”

  Her eyes widened in surprise, and I had my answer.

  “He’s almost two.”

  "Well," she stared off into the distance, and her eyes welled with tears. "That explains a lot."

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  This woman was a mess, and I felt guilty asking her to d
redge up the most painful parts of her life so I could get information. I felt less guilty after she confessed to keeping me from my biological father, leaving me to rot in my biological uncle's house.

  "Five years ago, my husband and I attended his high school's twentieth reunion. I didn't want to go, and I did everything to prevent it, but he was determined. He'd never forgotten about your mother, and I knew he was hoping to see her. Once we got to the reunion—she wasn't there, of course, but she might as well have been. Pretty, popular girl, she was all everyone talked about, or maybe I just recall it that way. I just remember being terrified of him finding out the truth and knowing I'd kept it from him for ten years. After that, he became obsessed. He barely tried to hide it.

  "He began taking odd weeklong business trips. Nashville, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, New York. He was searching for her. Then he started going to New York once a month, and I knew that he'd found her. He was making calls to a woman's correctional facility, making large payments to a law firm, something that starts with an H…"

  “Hollander and Cameron?”

  “Yes. How did you know that?”

  “It was the law firm that represented her.” I didn’t volunteer any more personal information about myself.

  "Then he stopped taking business trips, but he was gone a lot. I've seen it happen to my friends. I knew what was going on. Powerful men always have mistresses. Hell, Deacon had plenty. They usually looked like your mother. I never minded. Instead, I encouraged it. It was a relief, honestly. It's one of the prices you pay for the life we live. This time was different, and it was the only time I'd ever felt threatened.

  "Sure enough, six months ago, he asked me for a divorce. Informed me, if we're being honest. He told me all about Crystal as if I didn't know already. He said that she wanted to keep their relationship a secret—didn't want us to get divorced—but he was tired of living a lie." She plucked the straw out of her drink to eat the olives.

  “He actually tried to convince me he was doing it for me. He said I deserved to be happy. As if casting me aside for a convicted felon who’d left him over twenty years previously while publicly humiliating me was ‘best for me.’” She laughed again and finished the martini with a loud slurp.

  “I followed him that night. I just wanted to see what the hell was so special about your mother that she was worth throwing away the decades of the life we built together.

  "I saw the accident. Deacon lost control and slammed into a tree. He was still alive when I got to the car. Your mother was already gone. There was no pulse. Her eyes were closed like she was sleeping. Even in death, she was beautiful." She paused for a long time, and her eyes welled with more tears. "You need to know I never had any ill will towards your mother. I would have saved her if I could. It was too late. I don't think she suffered."

  My eyes were starting to sting, and I blinked furiously, willing them to dry up. I raised the glass to my lips and took another sip.

  “I got Deacon into my car and called my father-in-law. He said he’d take care of it and I got my husband to the hospital. He didn’t make it. They said he had a massive heart attack. I suppose that’s why he lost control of the car.” She shrugged, sniffled, and tears were rolling down her cheeks. She used her sleeve to wipe them away and reached for the second martini. “I didn’t know about the baby.”

  “So, Deacon’s father covered up his involvement in the accident and made it look like Crystal crashed her car into a tree?”

  "I guess." She shrugged. "He does things like that. Takes care of things… Deacon's last words were about your mother if that means anything."

  * * *

  Dagmar asked me to assist her in getting Mrs. Welles to her bedroom. She was light and frail as I carried her up the stairs and lowered onto her bed. She quietly sobbed as Dagmar removed her shoes and tucked her into bed.

  I left the house with a small urn containing a portion of Deacon's ashes and an old shoebox that I knew held the tangible evidence of my biological parents’ love affair, though I couldn't bring myself to open it. I also couldn't bring myself to refuse them when Vanessa Welles offered them to me.

  29

  cole

  "What's up, man?" Dev's face was looking back at me from my computer screen.

  "What did you find?" I asked in an impatient tone of voice, which I knew Dev would appreciate. He was passionate about solving puzzles and unraveling clues. Chitchat or small talk didn't interest him. He was the only person I knew who could deliver the worst news with a smile on his face.

  “So, your mother’s case was reopened five years ago.”

  He held up a piece of paper that I couldn't read, but I knew it was sitting in an attachment file in an email he'd sent seconds before calling. "After an appeal that took about six months—"

  “Six months?”

  “Yeah, it never ceases to amaze me how fast the justice system works when you’re rich and white. No offense, man.” He quickly added.

  None was taken. Dev was right. I was once an angry teenager with parents who could afford to get me out of trouble. I was also aware the color of my skin got me the benefit of the doubt more times than I probably deserved. RJ and I got two very different how to deal with law enforcement talks from our dad.

  “So,” he continued, “after six months, her conviction was overturned—”

  “Overturned?”

  "Keep interrupting, mate, and you sort this shit out on your own," he said in a low clipped tone.

  I nodded, and he continued.

  “Her conviction was overturned due to new evidence that the prosecution didn’t have during her first trial.” He flipped through papers again.

  Dev's revelation made my head spin. Crystal had lied to me again. She said she'd gotten early parole. I thought she was breaking the law when she left the state, another reason I was pissed at her.

  "One of the witnesses that ID'd her at the scene recanted, and she had an alibi for the night of the robbery."

  Bull-fucking-shit. She did that shit. She told me as much.

  “You’re gonna tell me that you didn’t know any of this?” Dev asked.

  “No, I was still in school when she got out. I thought she’d fled parole when she moved down here.”

  “Looks like your dad wrote Bryce Cameron a giant check and told him to get your mum out of prison. And it looks like Bryce delivered.”

  The woman I recognized from her photo on Dev's phone walked into the frame wearing with her long dark locks piled into a bun on the top of her head, reminding me of the way Lisa sometimes styled hers. She was holding a steaming mug and wore black leggings and a Ravenclaw t-shirt. My eyes went to Dev, and I noticed he was wearing a matching Slytherin shirt. I made a mental note to order Hufflepuff shirts for Lisa and me.

  She set the mug on the desk next to Dev and ruffled his hair.

  “Don’t stay up too late, eh?” she said to him before planting a kiss on his cheek. She looked into the screen of the computer and waved at me, smiling. I waved back, returning her smile.

  "Cole," Dev said with the proud grin I'd seen on his face a lot these days. "This is my better half, Manjula." He slipped his hand into hers and brushed his thumb lightly across her knuckles. "Mani, this is one from the handful of people I can tolerate at the office."

  “Hello, Cole.” Her face spread into the brilliant grin I recognized from her picture, in response to Dev’s introduction.

  “Hi,” I responded. “Has this guy beaten you at chess yet?”

  "Ha," she said, still grinning. "He wishes." She looked at Dev, and he brought her hand to his lips. "I'm going to bed," she whispered before bending down to press a kiss to Dev's temple. His head followed her as she walked out of the frame, and I heard the door close with a soft click.

  “Gotta go, mate.” He grinned at the camera.

  "Thanks, man," I said. He nodded, and the screen went black. I missed Lisa even more.

  * * *

  The house I stood in was much large
r than Vanessa's and more ominous. It was colder and darker, and I felt uneasy.

  "If you'll follow me," a middle-aged Black man led me down a corridor on the ground floor to a large room with giant windows that were covered by heavy dark curtains. The room was sparsely decorated. There was a king-sized hospital bed flanked by beeping machines and IV bags. A few people in scrubs milled around, but the place was eerily quiet.

  My escort beckoned me closer to the bed, and I followed him, finally taking a seat in a large, plush, high-backed chair. The figure in the bed looked frail. He reminded me of a zombie mannequin at a haunted house. There were tubes in his nose and tubes running from his arms connected to the IVs.

  “Mr. Welles?” the man called to the figure in the bed. “Your grandson is here.”

  I bristled at the word grandson. This man left my mother's corpse on the side of a mountain road to protect himself from embarrassment. That wasn't someone I would call family.

  The figure's eyes slowly opened, and he turned to look at me. His eyes widened at the sight of me, and his face flushed with color, making him look younger and more alive. His hand waved frantically, and a woman in scrubs rushed over and began maneuvering the bed to help Blake Welles into a sitting position. He pointed to his mouth, and she produced a cup with a flexible plastic straw, and he took three long labored sips before he turned to look at me again.

  "My God, you look exactly like your father," he rasped, cleared his throat, and spoke again. "How old are you?"

  "Twenty-five," I mumbled. I was still trying to reconcile the fearsome Blake Welles I'd read about with the man staring at me from his hospital bed.

  “Ah.” He closed his eyes and nodded. “So she was pregnant when she left. Things would have been different if I’d known.”

  “What do you mean?”

  "Your mother. If I had known she was carrying my grandson when she left, I would have made sure you were raised properly. She was good at keeping secrets, wasn't she?" He rasped a laugh.