A Family Secret

by Cross, Kennedy

I pull it out from under her hand anyway. “I’m serious. Dad was murdered, and there’s evidence of it in this letter.” My eyes search it over. “Here, look at all the times he spells out words that should be a contraction. I can not go on.” I point to the words in the fourth line. Then to the beginning of the last paragraph. “I am thankful that I am leaving… Have you ever heard Dad talk that way?”

  I give her a moment to respond, but she doesn’t.

  “What about this,” I continue, shoving my finger into the paper. “I had lost the light of my life. Not only would Dad never say something that… cliché, but this whole thing reads like he killed himself because of Mom.”

  Alison pulls her lips into a tight, flat line.

  “Do you see what I mean?” I ask.

  “No, Claire, I believe him. He’s been here all alone, he doesn’t even have work to distract him anymore. He must have been incredibly lonely. Can you even imagine?”

  “No, Dad wasn’t—”

  “He never even moved,” she says. “Not when mom died, not when we left, not when he retired. He stayed in the same house around all these memories.”

  “That’s because he didn’t need to. It’s been seventeen years since Mom died. He took it on himself to carry her weight and then now, all these years later, he’s too hung up on her death to go another day? Look—” I pause to search the letter again. “—it says, You girls have given my life fulfillment, down here at the end. That contradicts almost everything else, and the idea that he was too depressed to go on.”

  “Claire.” She looks pointedly at me. “I think you’re trying to poke holes in the last motivations of a man who was so depressed and dejected that he took his own life.” Her voice has a firm edge. “That is not a game you can play with yourself. It won’t lead you anywhere.”

  “Except towards whoever killed him.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Dad did not jump off the upper balcony. Someone pushed him.”

  Alison shakes her head as if the idea has a sour sting to it. “Claire, how could—what is…” She falters until her sentence derails altogether. She gapes at me with wide, open eyes.

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “Yeah, I understand that,” she says. “But how could you even be serious? You know better than I do, your own colleagues said there was no sign of an intruder or a struggle or anything of the nature. They ruled it a suicide.”

  “I don’t care. It’s not their father.”

  “Are you serious?” She gapes at me again, no longer surprised but insulted. “You know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “I think you’re placing blame instead of grieving,” she says. “I think it’s easier for you than stomaching the truth. Do you really mean to tell me that law enforcement is incompetent unless one of their family members was killed?”

  “I didn’t say anyone was incompetent. And don’t you give me that therapy shit about how I’m supposed to grieve or blame or whatever. Dad was murdered, and I’m not going to sit around and grieve instead of hunting down his killer, Ali!”

  “Hunting down—” She stops herself, exhaling and pressing two fingers into her temple. “Give me that note. If I can’t give you therapy shit than I’ll play detective with you.” She pauses to study it. “Look at this, he mentions both of us and our careers. Not only that, but he says he wished he could’ve stayed until your promotion. Claire, I didn’t even know you were in line for a promotion. How is some random intruder going to pull that out of the air?”

  “I didn’t say it was a random intruder.”

  She expels a breath of exasperation, leaning back in her chair.

  “Not to mention, Ali, but people don’t type suicide notes,” I add.

  She throws up a hand in disbelief. “Maybe Dad does, all right? People contemplating suicide aren’t thinking straight. It’s not a healthy state of mind. Maybe in his mind he had a reason.”

  I flatten my lips and shake my head. “No. He was killed. And I’m not going to stop looking until I find who did it.”

  Alison closes her eyes and shakes her head in the same way Mom used to. She never yelled, never lost her nerve. Mom was the kind of woman who was an example you wanted to follow, whose disappointment alone was enough of a punishment. Alison was still two months shy of eighteen when Mom died, but she grew into the mold nicely.

  “Well—” She opens her eyes. “—then I guess it’s no use for me to ask you to come stay with me and Ben. Our guest room is available, but—”

  “I need to stay here,” I finish for her. “The answer to what happened is around here somewhere.”

  She sighs, long and heavy. “This is the last thing I’ll say, but Claire… it cannot be healthy to investigate the death of your own father. Doesn’t law enforcement make a priority out of eliminating conflicts of interests like that? I mean, come on.”

  “There is no open investigation for Dad’s death.” I shrug. “And if no one’s going to investigate it, then I will.”

  That draws another slight shake of the head. “All right then,” she concedes. “Just promise me you’ll come stay with us if you need to. I can’t imagine spending extended time in here. Especially not right now.”

  “How’s Danny?” I ask, because this conversation is going nowhere and Alison’s three-year-old son is the best diversion I can think of.

  She smiles. It’s a smile that has lines of grief beside faint creases of joy. And I don’t blame her—Danny will never know his grandpa and grandma. At least not from Alison’s side.

  “He’s good.” The smile hangs on for a second longer. “Another reason you should stay at our place.”

  “I’ll come visit.”

  “Good. Well…” She draws a breath. “I was hoping to leave with you and your bags in my car with me, but the next item on the list is the funeral.”

  I nod.

  “Most of tomorrow morning is already taken care of.”

  “Really?”

  “Ben has been a huge help. He’s… I’m really lucky to have him to lean on. He took the week off work to help with everything.”

  “Wow. That’s nice of him.” Her husband Ben is a freelance IT consulted, so ‘taking the week off’ probably equates to postponing a client or two. But it says a lot, regardless. “What about the—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Alison says. I haven’t even thought about how to pay for the service until now. Funny how a big sister stays your big sister. “All you and I have to work out is the celebration of life service Saturday afternoon.”

  “What?”

  “The celebration of life service,” she repeats, pulling her iPad from her purse.

  “Why are we…” I discard that for better phrasing. “I thought people usually did one or the other?”

  “Well, we’re doing both.”

  “Can we not?” I ask. “A celebration of life feels—” Again I search for strategic phrasing. “—it feels inappropriate, doesn’t it? In light of the circumstances, I mean.”

  That draws Alison’s most pointed glare yet. “I am not going to let your private-investigative-murder-whatever get in the way of this.”

  “It’s not only about that, Ali, it’s—”

  “If you want to undertake some solo investigation, then that’s your prerogative,” she says over me. “But it’s not going to get in the way of the celebration that Dad deserves.”

  “What are we celebrating?” I regret the words the second they leave my lips. It’s what I get for speaking before thinking this time. Claire’s eyes go wide. “I didn’t mean it that way,” I say in defense, “I just mean that, isn’t…” I trail off before I can find the words I’m looking for.

  “You know more than I do how respected Dad was in that department,” she says. “His death is incredibly sad news to a lot of good people. The least we can do is give them a platform to reflect on his life and their memories of him.”

  This is way too therapist and not enough daugh
ter—not enough sister—for me. But she interprets my silence as me surrendering. “It’ll be good for everyone,” she assures, “believe me. Plus, I already hired a band.”

  I roll my eyes but don’t dare to speak.

  “Stop,” she scolds anyway. “They’re a local combo group, and they even agreed to play Sinatra cover songs. You know Dad would love it, and we’re doing this for him.”

  No, we’re doing this for the department so that they can celebrate Daddy by drinking and socializing in light of his death. In light of a death that was really a murder.

  “Alison, just—please,” I beg. “This really rubs me the wrong way. I think—”

  “It’s not for you, Claire. It’s for Dad.” And with that, the conversation is over.

  6

  Claire

  I feel lighter as I trail Alison out of the cemetery. Like I’ve relinquished a part of me, watched it leave my core and disperse into the surrounding morning air. It’s gloomy, it rained last night, but the cool moisture feels good. It feels fitting.

  My chest is tight with grief, wistfulness, and sorrow all blended into the same thick cloud that I feel in my lungs with every breath. It was a beautiful service. I cried for a while this morning but managed to keep it together for most of the burial. This celebration of life service now, though, I’m not as optimistic about.

  Ethan stood on the opposite side of me from Alison through the whole burial. Which was awful.

  True, I might’ve hated him more for not going at all. But in retrospect I wish he hadn’t come. He’s intruding on my grief. And eventually I was able to pretend he wasn’t there, but when he stepped forward to say a few words it was impossible to pretend anymore.

  Everything he said was nice at its surface level, but it all sounded forged and hollow to me. Not to mention it came off a sheet of paper that he’d prepared beforehand, which only made it sound all the more manufactured.

  “William Brooks was like a father to me, especially after the passing of my own. He was there to fill that role and I’ll never be able to express my full gratitude for that,” he’d said.

  But he had expressed something while sleeping around, hadn’t he? And that sure wasn’t gratitude. Not in the way I know it.

  The worst part was the way Alison smiled and nodded while he spoke. And one time, after one of his fake lines about Dad’s irreplaceable impact, when she took my hand and squeezed as she held back tears. I still haven’t told her that we split up.

  As if she can hear my thoughts, Alison turns around and looks at me.

  “You two know how to find it, right?” she asks while following Ben through the parking lot, toward their car. I rode with them to the service this morning. Now I wish I driven myself.

  “I’m going with you,” I say.

  “Claire—” Ethan reaches for my arm, but I take a long stride forward to ignore him.

  Alison slows her steps, looking back at us. Once she’s far enough away, I stop and turn around.

  “What?”

  “Let me drive you.” His voice low and soft. A week ago, I would’ve found it soothing.

  “I don’t want you to come.”

  He exhales. “Claire, can we just—”

  “I said I don’t want you to come,” I repeat. I’m staring into his eyes, not glaring, but holding a firm look of conviction.

  “Why?”

  “Because I need you away from me, Ethan.”

  “Baby, can we please just—”

  “Who is she?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “Anna. Who’s Anna? I know that’s her name.”

  Ethan’s expression droops. He shuts his eyes. “She’s my assistant at the office.” He opens again, an air of sorrow centered in his pupils. It’s a look I’ve seen before when he has to cancel our plans or drive down to a site on what was supposed to be a day off, and the familiarity only irks me more.

  “How long has it been going on?”

  “Maybe three, four weeks,” he confesses. I turn around and start toward Alison’s car. “Claire!”

  “Stop! Stop.” I raise a finger. “I appreciate you driving down for the funeral,” I lie, “but I can’t do this right now. I’m going with them and I need you to leave. The more you’re around the harder this is, so if you want to help than please, Ethan, go home. That’s what I need right now. I’ll call you in a week.” The words sound false, even to me, but as I say them I also accept it as a possibility. At least for closure, to tell him we’re over for good.

  Ethan reaches for my hand, but I shake away and trudge toward Alison and Ben. Their brake lights are lit up, but they go out as I near the car. I open the door and slide wordlessly into the back seat. Ben merely shifts back into reverse, turns over his shoulder and begins to pull out.

  Alison turns around from her spot in the passenger seat. “Are you two okay?”

  I inhale in a loud breath and bob my eyebrows. Her eyebrows mirror mine. “We’re not together anymore,” I say when it’s clear that she is willing to wait for an answer.

  “Why?”

  I offer my hand to baby Danny sitting in his car seat beside me. “Because.” I shoot her a glance that this is not the time. And she sees it.

  There’s music already playing when we get there.

  The venue is vaguely familiar, I want to say Daddy and I came here to watch one of Alison’s recitals or something similar. There’s a stage where the band is playing, but I don’t even glance at them. It’s enough just to wade through the crowd of detectives and uniformed deputies, some familiar and some not. All of them holding a drink.

  It’s my father’s reception, a room full of my colleagues, but I feel out of place. Like I’m playing a part in some movie. Like everything is an act, everyone is a character, and eventually the numbness will subside and the scene will end and everything will go back to normal. But I know that’s wrong.

  Nothing will ever be the same without him.

  There’s a long table running along the entire back wall, adorned with a spread of food and various beverages at the end. There’s decorations, even. Balloons and streamers on the ceiling.

  I pour myself a glass of water and drift away from the buffet, outside of the main crowd. Alison and Ben are already conversing, Danny in arm. They’re talking to David Garner, the man who took over the Organized Crime Unit after my father. A genuine guy and extremely sharp, though I still look away so as not to get pulled in.

  The air is stuffy. It’s buzzing with noise, the sound of Sinatra, various conversations, and humming energy. There’s laughter. My eyes wander onto a pair of young officers I’ve never met, both holding drinks and smiling.

  Smiling.

  I get that it’s a time for remembrance, and there’s certainly lots to celebrate about him, but celebrating while his killer is still free? While there’s unanswered questions?

  “I hate to say it, but unfortunately, it’s far too common with our retired brothers,” I was told by Deputy Travis, as if I don’t understand the trials of a career in law enforcement. No sign of an intruder, no sign of forced-entry, no indication of a struggle, the presence of a suicide note. Case closed.

  But not to me. And everything about this reception is a painful reminder that Dad is gone, and the entire department is willing to swallow the circumstances in favor of celebrating his memory. Alison is right, he deserves to be celebrated for everything he did for this county. But he deserves justice even more.

  There’s a single, hot tear leaking out the corner of my eye. I pad it dry, but as I do, another rolls down my cheek. I pinch my nose, draw in a breath, but I can feel my eyelids beginning to quiver. I need to get out of here.

  There’s not a secluded spot in this entire room, but there is a door. A door with a push bar that probably leads outside. Out of this stuffy room and into the fresh air. And when I push it open, I find, gratefully, that I’m right.

  7

  Liam

  I peel off the stage discretely when it�
�s my turn for a break. Vincent and I are the only ones who can actually take a break because we share guitar and bass responsibilities. He arrived just a few minutes ago, a little late because his daughter had a school-something this morning. And because I’m new to the group, the low man on the totem pole, I let him play when he wants to.

  There’s water at the end of the buffet on the other side of the room. It’s crowded enough that I have to gently weave around bodies as I make my way over. Most everyone is dressed in a police uniform. The deceased was obviously a member of law enforcement, probably highly ranked. He sure drew a crowd to commemorate him.

  I wonder if all of them knew him or if it’s more of an obligation to pay your respects? Probably a little of both. I’m sure when you and everyone around you regularly lay your lives on the line, one doesn’t need to personally know the deceased in order to mourn their loss.

  I pour myself a glass of mint citrus water. The round, glass dispenser is full of floating lime slices cucumber slices, and mint leaves. Fancy, but I think I might be the only one drinking it. Just about everyone else has a various alcoholic beverage in hand.

  Damon’s voice floats over the load buzz of conversation. They’re about a quarter into Sinatra’s, Something Stupid. A great song, but it’s not enough to soothe the sense of claustrophobia in my gut. The room is cramped, and I have no part in any of the conversations taking place. I need some air.

  I push through a side door and into the outside air. It’s cooler than usual, the vapor of residual rain still thick in the air. It feels refreshing. I stretch, holding a hefty breath in my lungs when I notice the faint sound of crying behind me and to the left.

  Someone is sitting on a bench with her head in her hands and her long, dark hair falling on either side.

  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “I’m sorry.” She looks up, nervously drying her eyes.

  “No, don’t apologize,” I say. She coughs an embarrassed laugh. “Do you want some water?” I feel like an idiot as I extend my arm with a glass of half-empty mint citrus water in my hand.