Drayco knew he wasn’t alone the second he stepped inside his townhome. Every muscle in his body tensed as he looked around for signs of Iago. Or someone worse.
From the kitchen came sounds of the freezer door opening and ice cubes being dropped into a glass. Since most intruders wouldn’t help themselves to his food supplies, he relaxed a bit as he headed to the kitchen. Maybe Darcie was back with more lasagna? And if she was wearing that red bow again ... He headed into the kitchen.
Brock straightened up and turned around so fast that he almost fell over. His tie was partially undone, his jacket and pants rumpled, and he squinted at Drayco through a half-sloshed fog. Drayco walked over to him and picked up the bottle of Scotch that was nearly full when Drayco left this morning.
Brock grabbed the bottle from him, tipped his glass in salute, and staggered to the sofa in the den. “Hate being on the receiving end of an interrogation. Halabi and his ‘minions,’” Brock made quote marks in the air, “had me in for a couple hours today. Who, What, Where, Why, When, Which, Whatever.”
“I thought they grilled you already. Unless this has to do with some kind of illegal scheme they uncovered?” He wasn’t about to bring up Iago. Not yet.
“No, but it wouldn’t surprise me one whit.”
For one microsecond, Drayco entertained the idea Brock had him totally snowed all this time and was in cahoots with Maura, but a microsecond later dismissed the idea as preposterous. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you drunk.”
“Drunk? This is stewed. Rhymes with screwed. Next is smashed, rhymes with trashed. Then on to drunk. Drunk, drunk ... oh, yeah. Funk. Or Flunk.” He took another sip. “Last time I was screwed-trashed-drunk was when that woman disappeared. Now she’s back. You do the ...” He belched. “Math.”
Brock sagged into the sofa as he balanced the Scotch in his hands. He sat there without saying anything or taking another drink for several moments. Finally, he said, “I lied.”
Drayco had just decided to head to the kitchen and make some coffee, but Brock’s words stopped him in mid-stride. “You lied to Halabi?”
“No.” Brock sipped some of the Scotch and tilted his head to let the liquid trickle down the back of his throat. “To you.”
“When? What about?”
“I had your mother declared legally dead to tie up all the legal mumbo jumbo. Closure. Hell, to me she was dead. Then I got a letter. When you were fifteen. From her.”
“You sure it was from her?”
“Didn’t have the handwriting analyzed, but didn’t matter. I knew.”
Drayco stood over his father, trying to rein in his anger. “Do you still have it?”
“Threw it away. But I ’member what it said. She knew she was declared legally dead. She wanted to stay that way as far as everyone was concerned. ’Specially you. Said it was for the best.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I agreed with her. Better she stay dead.”
Screw the coffee. Drayco needed another bottle of Scotch all to himself. “Casting aside—for now—the million reasons you should have told me, why would she bother contacting you at all? What did she gain?”
“Hell if I know. Why’d she leave in the first place? Why’d she even marry me? What makes oranges orange and blueberries blue? Why are sofas so damn hard?” He pounded the one he was sitting on.
Brock’s hand shook, and he dropped the drink on the table. Rivulets of Scotch flowed over the edge and onto the area rug. He said, “I wish you better luck in prying anything out of her,” then got up to rummage through Drayco’s cabinets to get another drink while Drayco mopped up the spill.
Drayco called after him, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
Brock stopped making the drink, then lurched forward and stood close to Drayco. “I’ll tell ya what I’ve had enough of. This.” He gestured at the space between the two men. “This distance. It’s always there. You. Me. An ocean between. The Arctic Ocean, with little icebergs circling around.”
“And you blame me for that?”
“I blame the whole fuck-sucking universe for that.”
“Let me guess. This is the point where you tell me I’m adopted.”
“You may wish you were. Hell, I may wish you were, after all of this.” Brock pushed on Drayco’s chest. “We should duke it out. Right here and now.”
He raised his other fist, but even though Brock was still fit and only a couple of inches shorter than his son, Drayco easily grabbed his father’s hands to interrupt his half-hearted attack. “Some other day. With a boxing ring and gloves. Right now, we need to put you to bed.”
Brock deflated faster than a child’s balloon and allowed his son to cart him off to the guest bedroom. Brock mumbled, “Waste of your time and skills, this thing. Won’t even get paid for it. Leave it alone.”
Drayco managed to wrestle off Brock’s shoes, jacket, and tie. Brock always wore ties. Maybe even to bed, for all Drayco knew. Drayco flipped off the light to the guest room. He wandered out to the den and sat in almost-silence as the faint snores from his father wafted out to him.
After Drayco’s piano career was cut short, he’d always thought he chose to go into law enforcement due to his father’s influence. Was it really that? Or had part of his subconscious dragged him into it because deep down, he never accepted his father’s story of Maura just up and abandoning them without one word?
Maybe he blamed Brock but never admitted it to himself. For not going after her, for not trying to seek the truth. All part of the distance between them, and now, another lie. Lies on top of lies.
In the cosmic pool of irony, it would be fitting if this case destroyed the relationship he had with his father, even as he got reacquainted with his mother. Had everything in his life been one gargantuan, universe-sized lie?
The mostly empty bottle of Scotch stood on the table, but Drayco didn’t make a move toward it. Despite himself, when the snoring from the guest bedroom stopped, he got up to make sure his father was still breathing. The snoring started up again, and suddenly tired beyond words, Drayco stumbled up the stairs to his own bedroom. Following his father’s example, he fell onto the bed, clothes and all.