An Unexpected Truth: A Novella in the Alastair Stone Chronicles

by R. L. King

  He doesn’t look convinced, but sighs again. “What about her friends?”

  Once again I consider, picturing each of the Harpies’ faces in turn. Hezzie can be devious, but she and Kyla aren’t close enough that she’d take the breakup as a personal insult. Greta’s close with Kyla, but she’s even more straightforward. And with her leg injury, she’s not getting around too well these days. I doubt she’d put herself out to come all the way to my place and stuff something in my mailbox, or even hire somebody else do to it. Tani’s just plain weird—I guess it’s possible, but my gut tells me no. In fact, my gut’s telling me none of the Harpies had anything to do with this. Especially since Kyla was the only one I ever told about my childhood, and I doubt she’d blab it around.

  “Sorry,” I finally say. “I don’t think it’s them, either.”

  He leans back in his chair. “Okay…well, then, what about—”

  “Stan, wait.” I hold up my hand to stop him.

  “What?”

  “I—didn’t come down here because I want you to help me figure out who did it. I want to know about my parents. You’re the only person I know who was around them when I was born, and old enough to remember details. I want to know if…well, if it’s possible whoever wrote the note is right.”

  His brow furrows, and he frowns. “Come on, Verity—that’s crazy.”

  “Is it, though?” I feel terrible, thinking such disloyal thoughts about my parents. My dad was the kindest, most loving father I could have wished for, and everybody who knew my mom—including Alastair—tells me the same thing: that she loved me and Jason more than anything in the world.

  “What are you getting at?”

  I sneak a peek at his aura, and I’m not surprised that it looks disturbed. Maybe even a little angry. My dad was his best friend, after all. They went up through the ranks in the police department together. I swallow hard, not wanting to say what’s on my mind, but if I don’t, this whole trip down here will end up being for nothing. “Look—I don’t want to believe it any more than you do. I don’t even want to think about it. But all I’m asking you is—is it even possible?”

  He looks like he’s about to snap out a quick denial, but then suddenly his expression changes to reluctant, thoughtful concern. When his aura flares again, this time it’s not anger.

  “What? You know something, don’t you?” I jump out of my chair, careful not to jostle Matilda.

  “Hell, Verity, I don’t know.” He picks up a newspaper section from the table and pages through it. I can tell he’s not reading anything, though.

  “Come on, Stan…please. If you know something, please tell me. I have to know whether this could be true.”

  He doesn’t answer for a while, and keeps staring at the newspaper. Then, with another loud sigh, he throws it back on the table. “Look—I don’t want you to read too much into this, okay? I don’t know anything. Not for sure, anyway. And sit down. You’re making Matilda nervous, pacing around like that.”

  Matilda doesn’t look nervous, but he does. I throw myself back into my chair, and the dog immediately reclaims her spot on my feet. “Okay. I’m sitting. Tell me.”

  “Yeah.” He rubs his neck and doesn’t look at me. “I don’t know much about your mom’s cancer. Your dad wouldn’t tell me any details, because he said Lenore didn’t want anybody knowing them. That wasn’t unusual, since she was always a really private person. She kept herself to herself ever since I met her, and Thelma said the same thing.”

  That doesn’t surprise me. Mom was a mage, and as far as both Jason and I know, she never even told Dad about her magic. She probably had all kinds of magic-related stuff going on in her life that she didn’t tell her mundane friends and family about. Like the trip she took to England for the gathering—the one teenage Alastair showed up in the photo for. “There must have been records somewhere…”

  “Maybe, but I don’t know where they are. Carl had them. After he died, Jason went through the house, but he was pretty stressed out at the time, with you being messed up too. I think he just hired an estate-sale place to handle whatever he didn’t take. They probably trashed them.”

  “The hospital, then. They must have—”

  Stan spreads his hands. “I don’t know, Verity. I’m sorry, but I don’t. I do remember something about your mom being treated at a private hospital, because I remember Carl being worried they might not take his insurance. But I never knew where it was. Lenore didn’t want visitors when she was being treated.”

  I bow my head. This part sounds like a dead end, much as I don’t want to admit it. I make a mental note to ask Jason about it when he gets back, but that still leaves me another angle to pursue. “Stan…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is it possible my mom might have…been with somebody else?”

  He makes a sound that’s halfway between a snort and a grunt. “How the hell should I know? That’s none of my business.”

  “I know. But…did Dad ever talk to you about it? Did you ever suspect anything? Please—I know it’s hard to talk about. Think about how hard it is for me. But I have to know if the note might be true.”

  Now it’s his turn to get up and pace. He stands in front of the window, looking out into his neat front yard. He grips the sill with both hands, and once again his aura flares with unease. “Okay,” he says without turning around. “There was one time. Maybe.”

  “One time?” I sit up straighter, and Matilda snuffles. “One time what?”

  “It was back almost a year before you were born.”

  “Yeah?” My heart starts beating faster, and I feel my cheeks flush.

  “I don’t know if it means anything. But Carl and I used to get together for beers after our shift sometimes—just to shoot the shit, man to man. You know?”

  “Yeah, sure. I get it.”

  He spins. “Speaking of beers, I need one. You want one too?”

  I don’t like beer much, but right now I don’t care. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  He comes back with two cans of Bud Light and offers me one. He pops his, downs half of it at once, and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “One night, we went to a bar on East Main in Ventura. It wasn’t our usual place, but Carl said he wanted to go someplace where nobody knew us.”

  I sip my beer. It tastes terrible, but I force myself not to wrinkle my nose. “Yeah…?”

  “We have a few, and Carl eventually opens up. He tells me he and Lenore are going through a bit of a rough patch.”

  “What kind of rough patch?” I tense. All the time I knew him, Dad never spoke of Mom in anything but glowing terms. He was crazy about her.

  Stan shrugs. “Nothing momentous. It happens a lot with cops—hell, it happened to Thelma and me a few times before we finally gave up and called it a day. Police work can get pretty stressful, both for the cop and for spouses and kids. Especially when there’s a lot of overtime, or a close call.”

  “So Mom was stressed because Dad was working a lot of overtime?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Carl said she told him she was feeling neglected, like he was never around for her. Like I said, it’s common: Jason was only six or so at the time, and he was a handful. It’s hard raising a six-year-old on your own. Most wives just deal with it. Lenore did too, most of the time.”

  “But…not this time?”

  Stan shakes his head, looking uncomfortable. “It got pretty bad there for a couple months. Carl was working a bunch of OT, and he told me Lenore had brought it up more than once that she thought he might be stepping out on her.”

  I grow tense in my chair, and Matilda whines again. “Was he?”

  “No. I’m one hundred percent sure he wasn’t.” His voice is as firm as his head-shake. “Carl Thayer was a good man, Verity. He was a simple guy, and liked simple things—but he worshipped the ground Lenore walked on. He’d never have cheated on her.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Absolutely. And that’s not just because he was m
y best friend. I loved Carl like a brother. He told me things he didn’t even tell his wife. And he was not cheating.”

  “But…you think my mom might have been.” My voice is barely more than a whisper, almost like if I don’t actually say it, I won’t be disloyal to my mother.

  Stan closes his eyes and bows his head. “I don’t know. But it’s possible. She used to go away occasionally to these get-togethers—maybe once a year or so. She didn’t take Carl or Jason with her. She said they were gatherings of her old friends from school, and she needed the time away. Carl never minded. He wanted her to be happy.”

  I remember the photo with the other mages and teenage Alastair. “They were mage gatherings. One of the photos in the box Jason gave me for my birthday was from one in England. That’s probably why she couldn’t tell him about them, if he didn’t know about…”

  “Yeah, that makes sense.” He finishes the other half of his beer, crushes the can in his fist, and tosses it on top of the newspaper.

  “So…why do you think this one might have been any different?”

  “They had a big fight right before she left. Carl was just sick about it. He was off his game all day, and when I finally got it out of him that night at the bar, he told me he wasn’t sure she was planning to come back.”

  I stare at him. “No…it was that bad?”

  “Yeah, apparently. But she did come back, and he said she seemed a lot better after that. Like maybe that big fight and then the time away might have cleared the air. That happens sometimes. I’m sure you know that.”

  Oh, yeah, I know that. I picture Kyla again, but in her case I don’t think she’s coming back.

  I don’t want to ask the next question, but there’s no way to avoid it. “Do you know where she went? On her trip that time, I mean?”

  He shakes his head. “Carl didn’t say. She may not have told him.”

  “Damn.” I try another sip of beer, but it still tastes every bit as bad as the last one. I set the can aside and focus on petting Matilda again.

  “I’m sorry, Verity. Like I said, I don’t know for sure. But if that note’s right and your mom…well, if she was with somebody else…that’d be the time it happened.”

  “And you said it was less than a year before I was born.” My voice is bleak. It all fits together too well. A queasy feeling begins building in the pit of my stomach, and now I wish I hadn’t eaten all that barbecued steak.

  “Yeah. You can do math as well as I can.” He gets up and grips my shoulder. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” I still don’t look at him. “I mean, what can I do? Mom’s dead. Dad’s dead. It’s not like I can ask them about it.”

  “Are you going to tell Jason?”

  I hadn’t even considered that. On the one hand, it’s not his problem—he looks so much like our dad that there’s no question in anybody’s mind about his parentage. Finding out our mom cheated and that I’m only his half-sister would probably devastate his loyal, Boy-Scout heart.

  But on the other hand, he’s my brother—my only living relative.

  As far as I know, anyway.

  That thought makes me shudder.

  “You okay?” Stan asks.

  I jerk my head up. “What? Oh—yeah, I’m fine. Just…a little shocked, is all. I don’t know whether I’m going to tell Jason. But I did ask you to tell me, so don’t feel bad about it. I wanted to know.”

  “You still don’t know,” he reminds me gently. “I don’t know for sure what happened back then. The only people who know are gone. If you want my advice, I’d just file the information away and move on with your life. I promise you this: Carl Thayer was a good man, a good father, and he loved you with all his heart. Even if it turns out he wasn’t your biological father, he was your dad in every sense of the word.”

  Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes. He’s right: I have no idea if Dad ever suspected anything—it’s possible, since I don’t have any features in common with him—but even if he did, he never showed it. I remember all the times when I was a little girl, when he’d give me horsey rides or pull me around the neighborhood in a wagon, or run next to my two-wheeler while I learned to ride. He must have been dead tired from working so hard, but he never let me see that.

  He was my Dad.

  One of the prickling tears breaks loose and trails down my cheek. I brush it away angrily, but not before Stan sees.

  “Hey, come on,” he says—and his calm, soft voice is every bit as comforting as Dad’s would have been. “It’s okay.”

  “Is it?” I swallow hard, but don’t try another sip of beer. I love Stan, but his taste in beer is vile. Almost as bad as the Guinness Alastair loves so much.

  “Okay,” he admits, perching on the arm of the couch closest to me. “It’s not okay. It sucks. Finding out something like that from an anonymous letter sucks even more. But all I’m saying is that it’s a lot more common than you think, and it’s entirely up to you whether you want to let it mess up your life.”

  He’s right, of course. Nothing’s really changed. My wisest plan right now would be to tear up the letter and flush it down the toilet. What possible good would I find by digging up twenty-plus-year-old dirt?

  But if you do that, you’ll never find out if your father’s alive.

  The little voice in my head sounds almost nervous, like it’s afraid of how I might respond to that thought. I’m about to stand up and give Stan a hug when another thought pops in:

  Besides, that might cover the part about your dad. But what about your mom? If she didn’t die of cancer, what did she die of?

  And who sent the letter?

  I must have let something show on my face, because Stan tilts his head at me. “Something else?”

  “Uh—no. Nothing else. It’s all just a little overwhelming.” I do stand then, and motion for him to do the same. When he does, I pull him into a hard, crushing hug. “Thanks, Stan. For everything. I don’t know yet what I’m going to do, but at least now I have more to think about than I did before.”

  He doesn’t look convinced, but he does return the hug. “That’s…good, I guess. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, of course.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it. But I think I need to get back home.” I don’t like lying to him, but I don’t have a choice. While it’s true he can’t stop me from continuing on to Fairbreeze, I’d rather not have him or Jason or anybody else getting involved until I have more information.

  Actually, there’s one exception to that—but he’s halfway around the world and completely out of communication.

  So I’m on my own.

  I squeeze Stan again and then bend to pet Matilda. “I think I’m gonna head to bed, if you don’t mind. I’m kinda tired and I’ve got a long drive back tomorrow.”

  He offers a faint smile. “Don’t be surprised if Tilly comes and tries to sleep with you. And don’t be afraid to kick her out if she bugs you.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible tonight.”

  6

  I sleep like crap, which doesn’t surprise me at all. Matilda does climb into bed with me, and hugging her warm, furry body helps me calm down and stop thrashing around, but as a sleep aid she’s terrible. That’s okay, though. I want to get an early start.

  Stan’s out front waiting for me when I emerge carrying my bag. Matilda’s already deserted me, probably because she heard him puttering around out there and figures she’s got better odds of getting fed if she sucks up to him instead of me.

  “Leaving already?” he asks, though it’s obvious he already knows the answer.

  “Yeah. Like I said, it’s a long drive back.”

  He sets two plates of eggs and bacon on the table, along with glasses of OJ and cups of steaming coffee. “At least eat something before you go.”

  I don’t want to. My stomach’s still grumbling from the steak, and besides, I don’t want to risk further conversation. But what can you do when somebody cooks you breakfa
st? I drop into the chair and shovel the food down as fast as politely possible.

  Stan doesn’t try to start a conversation, but he does watch me with a thoughtful, worried expression. When I check his aura, it confirms my suspicion: he’s got something on his mind. I wonder if he has any other bombshells to drop on me, or if he suspects I’m not being completely truthful with him.

  He doesn’t say anything, though, and a few minutes later I’m climbing into my little black SUV after thanking him once again for his hospitality and giving Matilda one last goodbye hug. My tension doesn’t settle until I’ve turned the corner and can no longer see him standing there waving.

  I’ve already plotted out my route to Fairbreeze. I’d never heard of it before, and had trouble finding it on the map because it’s so small. It’s up in the hills south of highway 1, half an hour or so past the point where 101 and 1 split. I looked it up on the internet before I left, but there’s not much information available. It’s too far from the ocean and 1 to be a tourist destination, and apparently it only has one road leading in and out. Reminds me a bit of Encantada, the tiny town near Stanford where Alastair moved after inheriting a house from an old friend: the kind of place where the locals keep to themselves and don’t welcome visitors.

  I can’t shut my mind up as I drive; even my loud music doesn’t help. I keep speculating about whether my mom really did cheat on my dad, whether I do have another father out there somewhere—maybe in Fairbreeze—and who must have sent the note. Did whoever it was hire someone to deliver it, or did they come to San Francisco and drop it off on their own? If I really do have another dad out there, did he drop it off?

  Or was the whole thing nothing but a big joke from somebody who wants to get back at me for something I don’t even remember?

  I sigh, gripping the steering wheel tighter. That way lies madness, as Alastair says sometimes. If I want to find out, I have to show up.

  It occurs to me, when I’m only ten miles or so away, that I could be making a big mistake. Nobody knows I’m here. Nobody knows my destination. As far as Stan’s aware, I’m on my way back to San Francisco. If something does go wrong, I could be in big trouble.