A Family Secret

by Cross, Kennedy

  “I can’t even—”

  He puts a finger to my lips to stop me. “You can’t blame yourself,” he says. “What happened, whatever it was, it was out of your control.”

  I feel warm tears behind my eyes. “But he needs me,” I murmur.

  “He needs you to be strong.” Liam pauses, and I shut my eyes to restrain the tears. “You’re not alone, Claire. You have a sister—I’ve seen the way she watches you. There’s love between you guys. True, sister love.”

  “Alison thinks he jumped.” I open my eyes to a blur and look down to blink the tears away.

  “I’m not saying that she’s right,” he says. “But she’s here for you, and she always will be. That’s more important.”

  My eyes flick up to him. There’s such a depth to his stare. It has a gravity, a force that holds you in it. He bites his bottom lip.

  “I know what it’s like,” he whispers. “But your world is not going dark.”

  I can only stare back at him.

  “Okay?” He squeezes my knee and I nod. “And even if you never get the answer you’re looking for,” he says, “do not forget what you still have.”

  “I won’t.” I let that settle without ever moving my eyes. “What happened to you, Liam?” I ask.

  17

  Liam

  I bite my lip. In every prior moment, I’ve never been able to reach the words. It’s like I buried it all deep, then buried the shovel, too. But not now.

  This is the first time this place has actually felt like home, and it has nothing to do with the house. It’s Claire. She’s everything around me, the only thing I can feel—her hurt in my chest as if it’s my own.

  It is my own.

  Walls are nothing when your whole world is empty. You can build a castle, you can build a cage, you can leave, run, hide, but that void follows like a shadow. It follows until there’s something that can extinguish it. Not mask it, not deny it, but something that allows you to live outside of it.

  For the last two years I’ve felt my dad like a sliced lung, a sharp pain in every breath. So I’ve run. I’ve run not towards something, but away from it. Away from everything. And now, because of that I have nothing.

  But we have something, together. Claire and I share the void, we share the cruel hollowness that entraps every object and every thought. Our wounds may not ever truly heal, but I can be more than a Band-Aid for her.

  I draw in a silent breath. “My dad was not the man that yours was,” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  The words threaten to vanish, but I hold them on the edge of my tongue. “While yours was out there trying to take down The Club, mine was funding them.” I expel a sullen laugh. “Actually, I guess that’s not even true, cause my dad never paid ‘em back.”

  Her expression soothes until there’s nothing but soft stillness her dark brown eyes.

  “Oh Liam,” she breathes. “I’m so sorry.”

  I shake my head, shut my eyes. “What did I say about apologies?” I open again. She smiles, woeful but understanding.

  “How long ago?”

  “About two years,” I whisper.

  She nods. Her lips purse, but they shut again without speaking. “They’re cruel people.”

  “And my dad used them like a resource,” I say. “Like a damn bank.”

  Her expression gains an edge. “What was that you said about blaming yourself?”

  I shake my head as I exhale. “I could’ve stopped him, Claire.”

  “I doubt it,” she says. I will myself to lift my gaze and meet her eyes. “You’re not the criminal, Liam. Your dad, whatever he was caught up in, he was a victim. It’s not black and white, but you can’t give-in to the gray area. Don’t give them more power than they already have.”

  The room goes still with silence. Claire lays her hand on top of mine, then the stillness resumes, long and wordless.

  “Have you been running from them?” she asks, eventually.

  I nod. Another beat passes in silence before I answer the unasked question.

  “He buried himself in more gambling debt than most people could even imagine,” I say. “Hundreds of thousands of dollars.” I chew my lip. “They knew he’d never pay it back. He couldn’t.”

  “So they killed him and came after you.”

  Again, I nod.

  She leans closer. “Why didn’t you get help?” she asks. “You can’t face that alone, Liam.” Her hand tightens around mine. “We can help you.”

  I discard my first thought. But without anything else, I collapse it into a single word. “How?”

  Claire doesn’t answer. She won’t lie to me, which means silence is the only real answer. That, and the person sitting beside me. The one who shares the void. This is my only refuge.

  “My dad’s heart beat for people like you, Liam,” she says. “I’m not going to let his legacy end on that balcony. He deserves more than that, and so do you.”

  The touch of her hand on mine is the only thing I can feel.

  “I came back to Fort Martin looking for answers,” she says. “I came here looking for anything to change the reality in front of me. I have never, ever, been so lost.” She blinks. “You found me, Liam. Now let me help you.”

  “You have,” I whisper. “More than you know.” I level my stare. “So don’t you lose sight of the reason you came here, okay? Believe me, you do not want to let go of something like that. It’ll haunt you until you know the truth.” I graze my thumb slowly over the soft skin of her hand. “You’ll find the answer. Even if it doesn’t fit right now, you will find the answer.”

  She nods, a determined smile making its way onto her lips.

  “I’m fine,” I say. I return a smile of my own. “And I’m not going anywhere. So do what you came here to do.”

  “I will.”

  I reach for her chin, bring her face to mine and kiss her. She bites my bottom lip, gently holding it between her teeth.

  Our lips part without separating entirely. “Thank you, Liam,” she whispers.

  I run my hands down her arms, link with her fingers. Then lean back and smile. “Thanks for dinner.”

  She laughs. “I guess you were right, sitting around eating take-out gets you somewhere after all.”

  “I knew it. There’s nothing a little Chinese take-out can’t solve.”

  She shakes her head. “If only it were that easy.”

  “Not easy, but possible,” I say. “Hang in there. The truth always comes out.”

  “Not always in its entirety.”

  “No. Not always in its entirety,” I echo. “But if there really is something to this, you’ll figure it out.”

  18

  Claire

  I decided to pay another visit to Jim Garthow. Whether this conversation will yield anything more than the first is unlikely, but at this point, I need to return to the facts.

  Jim Garthow, out fishing in the big blue ocean, just happened upon the floating body of his former neighbor. Even if that’s the only thing tying Jim to this whole thing, it’s a rather unusual coincidence. And I hesitate to chalk it up to that.

  I reach to turn-up the dial for the car’s A.C. It’s not quite 11:00 AM, and it’s already sweltering. I like the heat and humidity, I couldn’t imagine living somewhere where I’d shiver for half the year, but there’s some days where it seems at odds with everything else. And today is one of those days.

  I slow to turn off onto a thin dirt road. Evidently, Jim sought a little more privacy in his transition from his last place to this. Dad’s house has an acre of yard space, a similar yard to what Jim and Millie had down the road. Jim’s new lot is ten times the size, at least. It’s not as scenic and nowhere close to the shore, but it’s also secluded from neighbors. Perhaps Jim has a reason to want it that way.

  As I pull into the gravel Garthow driveway, I notice a small red pickup approaching from the other end, leaving the house. Jim’s pickup.

  As the truck slows, the trai
ling miniature clouds of dirt begin to fade into the surrounding air. Gradually, I ease my foot into the brake.

  Jim throws a hand out the window in greeting. He steps out, swings the door closed behind him. “Everything all right?”

  I decide to join him outside.

  Hey Jim.” I shut my own door behind me.

  “Claire?” It comes out in the rig of a pleasant surprise.

  “Sorry to bother you.”

  He drags a hand through the air to wave it off. “You haven’t been bothering nothing. It’s good to see ya again. I was just on my way to get a few things for the Misses.” At that moment, he seems to remember exactly what brought me here the first time around. His entire expression tenses. “You sure everything’s all right?” he asks.

  “Will you let me ask you something openly?”

  The creases on his face, his deep wrinkles of age, become even firmer before relaxing. “Sure,” he says.

  “Have you ever been involved with The Club?” I ask.

  “The Club?” He pulls the brim of his baseball hat up to wipe sweat from his forehead. Slowly, he shakes his head. “You mean the…”

  I nod.

  He continues to shake his head. “What’s this about?” he asks.

  “You don’t know?”

  Jim tilts his chin up, eyeing me for what feels like the first time. I hold his stare with my own unwavering gaze.

  “What I know is that your dad saw some dark things in his day,” he says. “If those things drove him to the edge that night, well, I don’t—”

  “He didn’t jump.”

  Jim looks at me. “What’s that?”

  “He didn’t jump,” I repeat. “My dad, that night—he didn’t jump.”

  For a moment, I can’t tell if Jim is just now considering the implications of what I’m saying, or whether he’s plotting his next response. I decide to prod further.

  “My dad was pushed off that balcony,” I say.

  Jim straightens his stare. “By who?”

  I cock my head, hold my expression.

  “Claire.” He shakes his head. “Oh, no. I—” He falters, bringing his dry lips together. “I hate that this is what brings us together again, after all this time, but… But don’t see it the wrong way.”

  I only stare back in silence.

  Finally, he shuts his eyes. He pulls his hat from his head, wipes away another layer of sweat, then screws it back on tight. His eyes are sunken when he opens again.

  “I wish I could help you,” he murmurs. “I’ve been ached with guilt since I found him, wondering if there was something I could’a done.” His lips come firmly together again, sending folds of sorrow down his chin.

  I allow silence to permeate the humid air between us. The chirp of insects is the only sound for miles.

  “Your Dad and I had nothing but good graces between us,” Jim says. “I would’ve gone to war for that man and everything he stood for.” He bows his head ever so slightly. “Same for his daughters.”

  “You were a good friend of his,” I say after a beat.

  “One of them.” Jim nods. But Daddy didn’t have a big circle, especially not outside of the department.

  “And in the last month, he didn’t say anything to you?” I ask. “About The Club, or something odd, or—”

  “If your dad was thinkin’ those things,” Jim says, “I doubt I’m the guy he would’a gone to. I never really was. We could split a pack of cold ones, enjoy a good bottle of whiskey, but…” His lips hover, but he doesn’t add anything more.

  “But what?” I urge.

  He sighs. “I just hate to see a man take his life. Especially a friend.”

  * * *

  When I get home, I go straight to the computer in Dad’s office. The same computer where the suicide note was typed and printed. I go online and pull up his email. As I expected, I’m directed to the log-in screen. His email address is auto filled, but the password line is blank.

  I only bother guessing once, and with no luck. Dad, the wise and respected detective, keeps his passwords listed in a small moleskin notebook in his desk drawer. My guess wasn’t all too off, though.

  In the password line, I type Amanda.Alison.Claire. My mom, my sister, and me. The three most important women in Dad’s life. My only mistake was leaving out the periods.

  As I stow the moleskin back in the drawer, something catches my eye. A little ring, one of Mom’s old rings with a crafty coil and a bright emerald. What is it doing in here?

  I slip it onto my finger, imaging the last time my mom did the same. It feels like a lifetime ago, but I can remember her wearing it. There’s a new little ball of fire in my chest when I finally lift my gaze.

  Dad’s personal email account fills the screen. To my knowledge, it was the only one he still used.

  I’ve already spent hours perusing his online browsing history. It was one of the first things I explored, and it led nowhere. Where I’d hoped to see sites probing missing persons, crimes involving The Club, or articles on Head Honcho, I instead found links to the ESPN Baseball Scoreboard, Weather.com, and OnlineScrabble.

  But what first struck me as an infuriating dead-end now seems merely impossible. I don’t care if Daddy had become the best Scrabble player in the world in his retirement, there is no chance he would’ve stopped following The Club.

  Someone went through and deleted select items from his internet browsing history.

  And in doing so, his killer left a clue. Not one site pertaining to The Club isn’t just unlikely, it’s down-right impossible. The perpetrator would’ve been better off leaving what was there, it wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow. But someone wanted those connections erased.

  I wonder if that same person manipulated his emails?

  There’s a barrage of new, unread messages that have continued to trickle in since his death. About 250 of them. Quite obviously, Dad wasn’t great at sifting spam out of the inbox.

  My first thought is that these might be the very messages that I need. If Dad had been engaged in an ongoing conversation then his killer may have erased what was here that night (assuming they stole his password from the moleskin), but they wouldn’t have been able to access anything that came in after. Such as an incriminating response.

  It’s the same way I caught Ethan and Anna.

  But all 250 of the unread emails feel like different reiterations of the same message:

  Hello Bill! Only X number of days left to renew your subscription, or Hello Bill! Thanks for ordering [blank], you may also like these items purchased by similar shoppers.

  After clearing the final unread message, I begin scanning the subject lines of everything left in the inbox. I’m immediately drawn to an email in the middle of the screen, a message from JimmyGarthow@gmail.com, sent one day prior to Dad’s death.

  I click to open.

  My heart is racing in my chest, but it instantly stills.

  Two men are playing golf. One of them is about to swing when his opponent says…

  I close the email. And when I first opened it, I didn’t realize that Dad had replied to the message.

  Ha ha. Funny. Thanks for sharing, Jim.

  Eerily and grotesquely casual. Less than 48 hours later, Jim pulled Dad’s body out from the ocean. And yet, no discernible sign of conflict between the two of them.

  I lean back. At this point, I’ve eliminated the idea of Jim Garthow having been the perpetrator. It doesn’t fit. My stomach still churns at the way in which Jim is connected, the exceedingly rare coincidence that he found Dad floating that morning. But maybe it was a good thing. If it weren’t for Jim’s curious choice in fishing spot, maybe Dad’s body would’ve floated into the oblivion. Maybe it would’ve been scavenged, perhaps never recovered.

  No—this has everything to do with The Club. It has to.

  His body floating away into the oblivion was exactly what they had wanted. And for the same reason they left the suicide note.

  I glance at one of the
copies still sitting on the left side of the desk. It’s the version that I used to connect unfamiliar phrasing and mark the strange examples of familiarity—my promotion, Alison’s therapy work. Whoever killed Dad was involved with The Club and they knew more than his life’s general details. They knew him.

  The loud buzz of my cellphone startles me from a trance. I pick it up after another ring. “This is Claire.”

  “Detective Brooks?” It’s Barlow’s deep and husky drawl.

  “This is her.”

  He clears his throat. “Do I have you at a good time?”

  “As good a time as any,” I say with an effort to keep my voice vacant of the last hour of frustration.

  “We’ve got something over here, not sure what to make of it,” he says. “I want to run it by you.”

  “Of course. You want me to come in?”

  “No.” He pauses, as if considering. “No, you’ve got enough on your plate right now. Let me give it to you on the phone, here.”

  “All right.”

  “As long as you don’t have me on speaker or anything,” he says. “We aren’t releasing this to the media.”

  “Nope, and I’m alone.”

  “Good. Well, I want you to know I haven’t let go of that break-in yet. We got the ballistics report back this morning.” Another pause. As it stretches, I debate prompting him to go on and continue, but his voice returns, gruff but poised, “A woman named Mabel Mathews was murdered last week. Quick and professional, rings of a hit by The Club. Still an open case, though.”

  “Okay.” I stop short of mentioning that Liam has already made me familiar.

  “Thing is,” Barlow says, “the bullet that killed Mabel came from Anna Maxwell’s gun.”

  “What?” I lean forward.

  “I know.” He draws an audible breath. “Anna Maxwell was armed with a Walther PPK when she broke in to your dad’s place. Didn’t fire a shot, as you know. But Mabel Mathews was shot once with a .380 slug. Kill shot to the head. Ballistics lab paired Mabel’s bullet to Anna’s gun.”