Steve’s body is revolting. Two years ago, he swore off hard alcohol, but last night, he needed to disappear. The half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels blurs into focus, and he groans as he sits up, head throbbing.
Wobbling as he stands, he realizes he’s still a little drunk and considers taking a swig to restore his equilibrium, then pushes the thought away. It’s a slippery slope, one he slid down for over a year after Danny’s death.
Dick is dead. The thought brings a new level of pain and nausea.
The morning light through the windows works like daggers on his brain as he stutter-walks to the bathroom. He downs two Advil, splashes his face with cold water, then returns to the front room to check his phone for messages. There are several, but only the last one, left at 4:58, matters.
We all make our choices. Thank you for allowing me to make mine.
Now it’s your turn.
You know the address: 12541 Rockingham. The house is lined with red roses, each bush planted in honor of a boy. There are a few new seedlings that have only just begun to sprout. Others have been there for decades.
The gas began to seep in around nine last night. If you get there before seven, you might still have time to save him. If not, your conscience will be spared.
Take care of my sister and nephew.
Steve looks at his watch, 6:02.
His hangover combined with the surge of adrenaline makes the air thick and his body clunky as he races from the hotel to his borrowed agency car. He considers calling for backup, but something stops him. Two moves ahead. Whatever Dick’s up to, Steve isn’t certain he wants anyone else involved.
The email arrived a little over an hour ago, which means Dick didn’t jump. Steve wishes his brain was working better. None of it makes sense.
If he wanted to run, why the scene on the roof?
* * *
There is no traffic, and he reaches Ingall’s house in record time. His hangover has really heated up now and pulses behind his eyes as he pulls to a stop in front of the monogrammed gate. When the buzzer isn’t answered, he uses the hood of his car to scale it and runs up the drive. He bangs on the door, then rings the bell.
He waits a full minute, timing it on his watch, then tries the door.
Finding it locked, he runs the perimeter, looking for another way in. Sweat drips beneath his shirt as he tries each window, his skin and clothes tearing on the bramble of rose bushes that line the house, each with large red blooms and wicked long thorns.
The third patio door is unlatched, and he yanks it open and races inside. His watch says 6:43.
He allows a small sniff and smells nothing but lemon wax. Returning outside, he takes a deep gulp of air, then charges back in, up the sweeping staircase, and straight for the double doors at the end of the hall.
The smell of gas hits him as he bursts into the room, and his head snaps to the source, a marble fireplace with the gas key cranked right.
Grayson Ingall lies on the bed across from it, the covers pulled to his chest.
Steve moves closer, wondering if he’s too late.
He touches the man’s wrist, and his fingers register a slight pulse. He runs to the window, wrenches it open, and sticks his head through. His intention was to grab a breath of air then haul the dying man down the stairs to safety, but the perfume stops him.
He stares. The rose bushes are planted not only around the house but around the sweeping green yard as well . . . each bush planted in honor of a boy. There are a few new seedlings that have just begun to sprout, others have been there for decades.
There must be hundreds. From below, it looked like dozens. But from here, Steve can see the true expanse, morning dew glistening like diamonds on the red felt petals. His throat closes, and emotions rise in his eyes. He thinks of that boy last night. And of Jesse. He thinks of Danny as a boy. He thinks of Ally and of Diego Ramirez. He thinks of Shea and Memphs and all their victims who the system failed to protect.
Dick once told Steve that he was the checks and balances, the one to decide if the law is at odds with what is right. And now, in this final chess move, he has laid down the gauntlet, challenging him to make a choice. His heart pounds, and he wonders if it is possible to do both: serve the law and also serve justice when that same law fails.
A truck labors up the hill, and a moment later, a crow flies overhead and lands on one of the spearheads of the iron fence.
His heartbeat slowing, he turns back to look at the man on the edge of death. On the bedside table is a pot, two thorny branches sticking out at odd angles. He moves closer. In careful cursive around the rim of the terra cotta, a single word: Phillip.
Turning back to the window, he lowers the pane, then using his sleeve, wipes it clean and returns downstairs.