Chapter Thirty-Three

Virginia

THERE HAD BEEN so many intolerable Sunday dinners in the past, but this one was by far the worst. There was a trifecta of horrible things weighing on my mind that I had to ignore to get through it. There was finding Linda puking all over herself earlier in the week, the reopening of Jenny’s case, and my father being a sociopathic liar. At least Linda had finally cooked something.

The three of us sat at the table set with the good china and candles that flickered against the wallpaper. It was a far cry from the previous week’s pizza party. Everything my father ever said or did needed to be reevaluated under a new lens. Nothing stood out, thinking back on it. I didn’t even know what to look for. If I didn’t know the reason for a lie, it might as well be the truth.

“Now that you’ve drawn all this attention back to us, you can’t be talking to the media,” said my father. “No more outbursts. We don’t need to give them any more reasons to look at you.”

I hated every word that seeped from his mouth, but he had a point. Now that the case was reopened, would I be a suspect? The evil half sister who had seduced the lead detective. What kind of world do we live in that I could be among a list of suspects who were all pedophiles?

“They like your face on the cover,” my father continued, trying to flex his knowledge of the world. “You look innocent, but with nothing to show for yourself, you could be perceived as suspicious, someone with nothing to lose.” He spoke as if he weren’t aware he was insulting me. “The sheriff from Hartsfield called us,” he continued. “He wouldn’t tell us much about this new suspect. They’re keeping the details out of the media so they don’t spook him. They can’t find him, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” I said.

“Do you know anything else?” Linda chimed in.

“No.”

“Not even from that other detective? You know—”

“No,” I cut her off. Butt out, Linda.

The next twenty minutes were unbearable. Conversation ceased, and it was just a chorus of silverware scraping against the china. Finally, my father removed his napkin from his lap and placed it on the table, signifying the end of the meal.

I left with little theatrics, backed my car out of the driveway, pulled around the corner, and killed the lights. My father wouldn’t leave for hours, but I would be waiting.

I HAD NEARLY nodded off when I heard a car approaching. I pulled myself up in my seat, clenched the steering wheel, and waited to see if it was him. The car passed in front of me, and in the split second between when its headlights were blinding me and when it slipped into darkness, I recognized the silver Mercedes.

He rounded the bend, and I turned on my car. I did my best to keep a comfortable distance, and within ten minutes I could tell we weren’t on our way to New York. Pulling onto Main Street, he turned right, north, and away from the city.

An hour and a half into the drive, I worried that I should have brought snacks, or at least water. He stopped only once at a gas station in New Lofton. He was back on the road in five minutes, and any hope that we were close faded away.

Another hour past the gas station, he began navigating side streets and I knew we were almost there. A sign a few miles back told me we were in Rutland, Vermont. It was very New England, with trees lining the streets and quaint houses with swings in the front yard. I’m sure it was a lovely place, but it made no sense.

The farther we got from the main street, the more nervous I became about getting caught. I pulled over and cut the lights. The neighborhood was a simple grid, and I was confident I could find his car in one of the driveways ahead.

I waited five long minutes, fidgeting with the radio, putting my hair up, then letting it back down. Unable to bear the anticipation any longer, I fired the car back up and crept through the streets, turning one way, then looping back when I didn’t find him.

I finally spotted his car in the driveway of a single-story yellow house. The landscape was well manicured, with two rocking chairs on the front porch that gave it character. I drove to the end of the street and parked my car. I’d done it. I found him.

I had no plan. What was I going to find? A secret family? A serial killer’s lair? Just a stupid house he went to because he hated us? I thought about him sitting on that porch, rocking back and forth as my mother hung from a tree. How could he be so selfish?

Whatever I was going to find inside, it was going to destroy him. This was even better than marching into his office. I was going to corrupt his private space. Infect it with memories that he could no longer lock outside. I pressed my finger against the doorbell, alerting those inside to my presence and setting off the high-pitched yaps of a dog.

The door opened, and a man in his fifties who was not my father stood in front of me holding the tiny dog. I didn’t recognize him. His face was warm, and for a second I dreamed he was my father and inside this magic house he transformed into the pleasant-looking man in front of me.

“Virginia?” the man asked. He knew who I was.

I said nothing. I had no theories.

“What are you doing here?”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I’m Charlie,” he said, providing zero useful information. His forehead wrinkled behind his soft tone, nerves battling his desire to be hospitable.

“Do you live here?” I asked.

“I do.”

“Is my dad in there?”

Charlie hesitated. He looked behind him into the house, then back at me. His legs twitched like he might have to go to the bathroom. “Can you give me a minute?” he asked, shutting the door in my face.

I stood on the doorstep, trying to make out any noise from inside. The dog started yapping again, almost on cue, and any voices were drowned out.

Three minutes later the door opened again. This time the man in his fifties who greeted me was my father. “Virginia, what are you doing here?”

“I followed you.”

“Why?” he asked, like a good reason could erase what I was seeing. His voice was loose, not the stern delivery I was used to.

“I went to New York. I know you don’t work in that office.”

My father swallowed hard. He was caught with no time to prepare a story. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, like I would just leave.

“Tell me I shouldn’t call Detective Colsen.”

“Detective Colsen? Why would you call Detective Colsen?”

“You are living a secret life! Did she find out about it? Did you do something to Jenny? Do you know what happened to her?”

“No. Please, calm down.”

“Tell me,” I demanded.

“Come inside,” he beckoned, surveying the neighborhood to see if my voice had triggered any reaction. “Let me explain.”

Inside I found Charlie sitting on a fabric sofa, failing to look comfortable. The fireplace was roaring, and a bottle of wine chilled in a bucket on the coffee table. My father shut the door behind me as I drifted toward the mantel and a row of framed pictures. The first three were pageant photos of Jenny. The third was a picture of me holding Jenny when she was only a week old. Whatever this place was, we weren’t secrets here.

The fourth picture answered all my questions, then created more. It was my father sitting on a large rock, smiling to the point I almost didn’t recognize him. Behind him, with comfy sweater arms wrapped around his waist, was Charlie.

“Dad …” I turned to face my father as he bit his lip. He couldn’t say anything the picture didn’t already say. My father had a boyfriend.

I SAT THROUGH A LONG STORY, spanning nearly thirty years, told mostly by Charlie as my father sat in a chair with his legs crossed and his hands folded. Charlie was a good storyteller. He almost made me forget about my family too.

The two men worked together at the New York office, successful investors making money and names for themselves within the company. The futures they planned on imploded one night twenty-five years ago when they gave in to feelings both were denying. The office was a boys’ club, and not the kind that would welcome two gay men. My father was married with a one-year-old and told Charlie he would never come out. Charlie was ready to tell the world, but understood.

My father promised Charlie it would never happen again. Charlie was devastated and a month later approached management about working remotely from home. He was a top earner and the company didn’t want to lose him. A week later, Charlie bought this house in Vermont.

The two men didn’t speak for over a year until my father showed up on Charlie’s doorstep with a proposition; they would be together, but it would be a secret and my dad would keep his family, forever his cover story. They argued at first. Charlie didn’t want to be in the closet, but the more he pushed, the further my father retreated. It was a compromise that Charlie insisted was worth it, and I added Charlie to the list of people my father mistreated.

I wanted to give Charlie a hug. I wanted my father to leave and I wanted to talk to Charlie all night. Instead, the opposite happened. After an hour of storytelling and a genuine attempt to get to know me, Charlie stood. “Well, I’m going to head to bed and give you two a chance to talk without me hogging the conversation.”

He stopped and gave me a hug. He whispered in my ear as he did, “Forgive him. He’s a good man.” Then he kissed my cheek.

He walked behind my father toward the bedroom, stopping to kiss him on top of his head. My father reached up to touch Charlie’s shoulder, a gentle apologetic touch that was unrecognizable. Then Charlie left us to silence.

One of us had to speak first. I didn’t know what to say. Did I hate him less knowing the truth, or did I hate him more? Living in the closet all those years, stuck in a loveless marriage, it was sad and it explained so much, but he did this. He dragged all of us down with him because he was too afraid to be different, to seem anything less than perfect. He was already too far in with me and my mother when it happened, but he chose to marry Linda knowing. He chose to have Jenny as some sick cover.

I didn’t want to talk about his pretend life anymore. Or I guess we were his pretend life. Either way, I didn’t want to partake in this fantasy where my father was a loving, happy man. I’d rather talk about perverts.

“I told you it wasn’t Benjy,” I said.

“I knew it wasn’t him.”

“What do you mean? You said it was him a million times. You yelled at me for firing up Linda with my theories.”

“Virginia, please. There’s no need to yell.” He lowered his voice to compensate for mine.

“You should have said something to the cops. Do you know how much time they wasted on Benjy? And now they can’t find the other guy. It’s probably too late—”

“I didn’t tell the cops because I’m afraid of who did it,” he said.

“You know who did it?”

“I’m not afraid of who did it,” he clarified. “I’m afraid for who did it.”

I wasn’t understanding. He was being cryptic, and I couldn’t keep up. There was so much information to process already.

“Just tell me,” I begged, exhausted.

He finally uncrossed his legs. He had sat in one position for over an hour, and whatever he was about to say needed his feet to be grounded. He rested both elbows on his thighs and leaned toward me.

“You called me that night. I was driving to meet Charlie in Hartsfield and you called my cell. You were incoherent, yelling about Jenny.” He waited for my response.

I had none. There was no memory. It was a Saturday night. “What did I say?”

“Nothing. All I could understand was her name. You were slurring, yelling, then whispering, then you just hung up.”

What did I know about Jenny? Why had I called my father, of all people?

“Why didn’t you call the police?” I asked. If I knew something, if I had done something, maybe he could have stopped it before it was too late. Then he said something that made an unbearable situation worse.

“It wasn’t the first time I got a call like that from you.”

My eyes started to flutter, blinking back tears.

“Usually on Saturday nights, you’ll call. You never say much, at least nothing I can really understand. Sometimes, you just hang up as soon as I answer, but that’s why I didn’t think anything of it. Not until after, of course.”

Tears poured down my face. I was embarrassed. I was scared. “Dad …”

He rose from the chair and joined me on the couch. He put his arm around me, and I cried into his chest. There was no time to make a pros and cons list about letting him comfort me. I just broke down.

I cried and cried forever, and he stayed, rubbing my head until I stopped. “I didn’t hurt her, I couldn’t have,” I choked out.

“Shhh,” he whispered. I pushed myself off of him and swallowed to compose myself, my face drenched in the tears that hadn’t soaked into his shirt.

“Dad, I swear I didn’t do anything to her. I drank too much and I took pills and I don’t remember anything, but I woke up in my bed, in my pajamas, when the police called the next day. I wasn’t in the woods and I certainly didn’t rape her.”

“But you called. You were saying her name at the same time she was being killed. You knew something.”

I closed my eyes and tried to focus, tried to revive dead brain cells. What did I know? There was nothing there. There never was. Eight years of calls to Mark Renkin. Eight years of calls to my father. One night with my sister. They were all lost.

Instead, I had a realization. “You were going to meet Charlie?”

He sighed, ashamed. “I try not to see him on the weekends, try to let that be family time, but I just needed to get out for a little while.”

“You lied.”

My father looked around the room, everything a lie, and waited for me to justify making such an obvious statement.

“No, you lied about your alibi. You said you were home. What about Linda? You were her alibi too. You said Jenny was asleep in her bed. You said you and Linda were home all night and didn’t hear anything. What if she did hear something? What if she did something and she’s covering it up and you gave her an alibi?”

My father’s head tilted, an instinctive reaction to the implausible thought of Linda’s involvement. After a beat, he came back to center, opening his mind to the possibility.