I don’t feel up to having this conversation, but it has to happen. I should have broached the subject ages ago.
I wait to exit the school parking lot. Owen’s slouched in the Range Rover’s passenger seat, his backpack on his lap. He fiddles with a strap. Head down, his hair hides his face. He’s obviously waiting for me to berate him.
There’s a gap in the traffic. I edge out.
Owen’s drug use is terrifying: first the spice, now the oxys. Did it start with Stan’s death, or did I miss the earlier signs? I’m obviously failing as a mother, his sole remaining parent. I’d be terrified to send him to rehab.
I’m so preoccupied I fail to notice we’re barely moving. A sharp honk rouses me. I glance in the rearview. A blue BMW is riding my bumper, its driver glaring.
Jo would slow further to spite him. I speed up a little.
Beside me, Owen shifts in his seat. I sense his eyes on me. I feel jittery, unsure where to start. My thoughts keep squirming free.
What do I know for sure? My husband of sixteen years was fucking Angie Costin, who was in our guesthouse on the night he died. She could have watched me and Jo lug his corpse down to our dock. A woman I wouldn’t trust to feed my fish knows my worst secret.
You can’t actually see the dock from the guesthouse, but it’s a short walk. If Angie heard something, she’d check. She was born nosy. I picture her hiding in the trees, trying to work out what she was seeing.
Anyone decent would have called 911. But not Angie. So it’s clear who’s been blackmailing me: fucking Angie Costin. I’m amazed she had the balls. Or the brains. I underestimated her.
I should be relieved. She’s not that smart, just lucky. Surely Jo and I can outwit her, maybe get the money back. As far as adversaries go, we got lucky.
Yet I don’t feel relieved, because a new can of worms just got opened. When Jo asked me why Owen had Stan’s burner phone, I changed the subject. But she’s no fool. I’ll need to explain how Owen grabbed it that night. I’m scared of Jo’s questions.
I shift. My seat belt is digging into my hip bone.
Stan’s secret phone is now stashed in Jo’s car, in case the cops search my stuff. I wonder what else it might reveal. For all I know, Stan had a whole other life. Like Jo’s duplicitous dad.
“Mom?”
I squint through the windshield. I’m not fit to drive. The guy behind me is still tailgating. His BMW is a small two-door with a soft top. If it hit my Range Rover, I’d come out fine. I try to ignore him.
My son twists my way. “Mom?” he repeats.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry.”
I wait. A city bus has pulled out just ahead. I slow further to keep a suitable gap. The guy in my rearview throws up an irate hand. I wonder what his hurry is. Is he late or just habitually angry?
People—men especially—seem more impatient of late, even here in the picture-perfect Oaks. Stan was like that—railing at stupid drivers, complaining about idiots on social media. Contempt was his default setting. He wasn’t that way when we met. I don’t understand how it happened. He had it all, by anyone’s standards: wealth, prestige, a family who loved him.
I shift in my seat. The guy behind me is glaring.
My son’s breathing is broken. “I’m really sorry.” Head bent, he’s started crying.
His tears start mine. There’s nothing worse than to see your child suffer and not know how to help. I don’t have answers, only questions.
I surprise myself by voicing one out loud: “Why was Emmett grounded?”
“What?” He swipes his hand under his nose.
“Emmett Isles. His dad said he was grounded.”
My son pushes his hair from his eyes. He looks my way, confused but careful. “He, um, he got caught sneaking out.”
“Where to?”
A blush creeps up Owen’s neck. It’s so transfixing I forget to look where I’m going.
“Mom!”
I look up and hit the brakes. The bus has stopped just in front of me. We jolt to a halt right behind it. I exhale shakily. My son’s hands are braced on the dash. They look too big for his thin wrists, which stick out of his school blazer.
The bus starts up again. I hardly dare tap the gas.
Owen’s gaze is fixed forward, like he no longer trusts my driving. The flush on his neck has receded.
“Was Emmett at our place?” I ask.
His head jerks my way. His whole face colors.
I’m squeezing the wheel, my voice just as tight. “Was it the night Dad died?” It comes out in a whisper.
“Yes.” Tears trickle down his pale cheeks.
Without thinking, I stomp on the brake. The car behind me blasts its horn. I pull over and park. I can’t drive. I cut the engine.
Owen’s hands are splayed on the dash. He’s staring straight ahead. His lower lip quivers. “Mom, I’m gay,” he says softly.
I release the wheel and turn to him. I clench and unclench my hands to loosen my stiff fingers. “I wondered.”
Owen cups his face in his hands. His voice is rough. “It’s weird.”
I shake my head. “Why? Lots of people are gay.”
“Dad saw . . .” His face crumples. “He saw me that night. Me and Emmett kissing.”
I reach for him, only to be stopped by my seat belt. I undo it and bend his way. I put my arms around him.
I’m scared he’ll pull back, but he leans in, like he did when he was tiny. Back then, he was small and compact. Huggable. Now, he’s long and bony, all ungainly angles. I rub his back, unsure how to comfort him, still a boy, but not little. Nostalgia rips through me.
When he was younger, problems could be solved with a kiss or a song or a toy. But no, I’m remembering things wrong. That was Chad.
I’ve forgotten Owen’s screaming fits. Strangers’ disapproving stares and embarrassed-for-me pity. Stan’s frustration, blaming me for Owen’s outbursts.
Beneath my arms, his narrow shoulders shudder. “Shhhh.” I rub his back. “It’ll be okay, hon.”
“Dad hated me.” His voice is muffled.
I hug him. “No! I’m sure he was just shocked. He’d have come around and accepted it. Me and Dad, all we want . . . wanted . . .” I trip over the tenses, stagger on. “We just want you to be happy.”
My son shakes his head. “He would not have!” The anger in his voice kills my reply. I stroke his hair. It could use a wash. He’s stopped crying.
Bent close to my son, I fear my heart will crack open. For three weeks I’ve avoided this moment, as if by not voicing the truth, I could change it.
Jo said we were in denial about the blackmail. If only she knew the full extent of my denial. I’ve been like a kid with my fingers in my ears, eyes shut, and screaming so I wouldn’t hear.
Owen leans back. He scours his face with his sleeve.
I straighten too. There I was, thinking our house was a private oasis when it was Grand Central Station. There’s no choice. I must ask.
That night, Angie may have seen us. What about Emmett Isles? “The night Dad died. Did Emmett see . . .” My throat shuts, the words poison. I swallow. “Did Emmett see . . . everything?”
Owen bites his lip. “What do you mean?” His confusion looks genuine.
I wait. Does he really think I don’t know? I start to talk but stop. My lips feel rubbery.
What I want is a drink—something stronger than wine. Whiskey. Or vodka. Straight from the bottle, like when Jo and I were teens. She’d down cheap booze straight to show how tough she was. I mixed mine with whatever was on hand—apple juice, root beer, Slurpees.
Beneath his shaggy hair, Owen’s watching me, his eyes dry and wary. I can’t avoid this. Half knowing isn’t enough. Or rather half not-knowing. I need to know the whole truth before I can bury it so deeply it’ll stay down.
I lick my lips. “Did Emmett see you and Dad fight?”
A tight nod. “Yeah. Dad was screaming at us. I tried to talk to him, but he kept yelling at me.”
“Did Emmett see Dad hit you?”
My son studies the backpack in his lap. “No. He left before that.” A single tear trickles down his cheek. While his eyes are angry, his bottom lip quivers.
Tears fill my eyes. Does he blame himself? My heart twists. “It wasn’t your fault! None of this was your fault! You must know that, Owen!”
Another tear snakes down his thin cheek. “It’s all my fault,” he says.
“That’s not true!” My voice is shrill. I take a long breath. I need to get the truth, not doctor it, not yet. “So, Emmett didn’t see?” I ask.
Owen’s forehead crinkles. He swipes the wetness from his cheek. “See what?”
“The . . .” I try again. “The rest of the fight.”
His head turns, dark eyes fixed on mine. “What do you mean?” I have his full attention.
“The fight. You and Dad fought . . .”
The heat’s on, but I’m freezing—just like that night in my studio with the AC blasting. From that first instant I saw Stan’s body, I knew two things: Owen had snapped and killed him, and Stan deserved it. I force down a shiver, force myself to hurry on. “It was an accident, I know that. You didn’t mean it.” My voice wavers.
Owen’s mouth twists open. “What? Really?” His laugh is bitter. “For real, Mom? You think I killed him?”