THE FUNERAL WAS HELD IN ST. HELEN’S CHAPEL IN THE gloom of a cloudy late-afternoon and the casket was closed. I thanked God for small favors, not sure if I could have held it together if confronted with Robbie’s embalmed face. I was struggling enough as it was; my breath shallow and my pulse erratic even with Case’s steady arm around my waist, I stared blankly at the mass of mostly-unfamiliar faces, recognizing only Robbie’s parents, both litigators at Damon and Benson. Asher, somber and immaculate in a three-piece suit, quietly greeted guests while Stella, ghostly and drawn, hovered near the coffin, supported by a woman who resembled her closely, likely a sister. Robbie had been the Bensons’ only child.
Dad led us to a walnut pew on the left side of the chapel, speaking very little despite the fact he probably knew far more attendees than I did. He patted my knee once we were seated and whispered, “Doing all right?”
I nodded and tucked my hand around Case’s bicep; my husband sat with a protective angle to his shoulders, solemn and imposing, as if daring anyone to send a threatening look my way. I realized, however ridiculously, that I’d never seen Case in a tie.
“I don’t remember my mom’s very well,” Case had told me last night as we curled together in the guestroom bed; we’d been discussing the funerals of our past. He murmured, “I was eight, old enough to have it in my memory but I was so devastated I blocked it out, I think. And my dad didn’t have a service, never wanted one. He was cremated after he died. Gus and I scattered his ashes up in the mountains.”
“I remember my great-grandma’s,” I’d whispered. “Gran died the summer we moved to Landon, over ten years ago, but I still miss her. I can still see her, and hear her voice. She was a lady not to be crossed.”
“Just like the woman I’m in love with,” Case murmured, resting his lips against my temple.
Later he’d said, “Faye’s funeral is the worst one in my past. It was like losing my mother all over again. It was so sad. I couldn’t handle my own sadness, let alone anyone else’s. And she died so unexpectedly. One morning she was alive and by that afternoon she’d been hit by a truck on the interstate. I know that’s why Marsh was so worried about Ruthie driving alone to Minnesota. He’s never gotten over his mom getting killed so sudden like that.” “I know,” I whispered, resting my forehead against his jaw as we snuggled beneath the covers. “I really do. I don’t blame him. I was overreacting that day, I was so scared.”
“Ruthie was already out of the car before the crash, she had to have been,” Case said. We’d discussed this already, reaching no satisfactory conclusion. We could only speculate, using the extremely limited information in our possession. Building on an earlier discussion, he added, “It was the life or death situation. I think she disappeared from her car because her life was in danger.”
“Just like the man in our barn that night, last August,” I murmured.
“Exactly. The seatbelt was still hooked but Ruthie wasn’t in it, right? That makes me think her disappearance was just as accidental as the car losing control on the snow. As accidental as touching those letters Una Spicer wrote. And those letters were still buried in the trunk in our trailer that night. Ruthie didn’t have them. The past wanted her to come but she didn’t intend to go, not right then.”
It made sense; at least more sense than anything else we had to go on at this point. I whispered, “Ruthie meant to drive to Minnesota, she was headed to Landon. She would never purposely hurt us, even if she was angry as hell. Oh God, what if…”
“Marshall will find her. He won’t rest until he does,” Case said, and I’d let the certainty in his voice comfort, if not convince, me.
Dad’s quiet greeting to someone approaching our pew dragged my focus back to the here and now, sitting stiffly in this ornate Catholic chapel as a grim evening encroached on the reds and blues of the window glass. It was phantasmal; I half-expected Robbie to pull a Tom Sawyer and appear at his own funeral. He’d wait for everyone to get settled, maybe let a few people begin crying delicately into their hankies before waltzing down the long central aisle to flank his own coffin. He’d scan the crowd, then laugh and say, Well. It’s nice to see who really gives a damn about me.
“Jackson,” said an unexpected voice, one I recognized all too well; Case’s attention snapped in the same direction.
My father rose, unaware of our bristling ire. Derrick Yancy, however, was well aware and did not dare to come any closer than the far end of the row, leaning to shake Dad’s hand while bracing against the top of the pew with his other. Derrick was unpleasantly familiar and his gaze settled on me, as it invariably did, before flickering nervously away. And then right back. I refused to give him the satisfaction of fidgeting or appearing in any other way uncomfortable.
“Derrick,” Dad acknowledged, his back to us.
If you ask him to join us I will make a scene like you’ve never seen, I warned my father without words.
Derrick nodded at Case and me; despite his pristine appearance and the fact that he was an expert at hiding it I could tell he’d been drinking.
“Jackie, good to see you,” said another man two rows back, commandeering my father’s attention. This man carried on, “Such a shame under these circumstances, though. Robert was a good boy. A fine boy. No one saw this coming.”
Dad gritted his teeth, muttering, “Excuse me, I’ll be right back,” and stepped to the end of the row, nodding at Derrick as he slipped past him.
Derrick continued standing there like one of the stone pillars; searching my face, he said quietly, “Patricia. Are you well?”
Case all but gritted his teeth but kept his voice likewise low. “You’re on my last nerve, Yancy.”
Ignoring the menace in Case’s tone, Derrick advanced a step. “I’d like to talk to you.”
“You can’t,” I said at once, wanting only to diffuse the situation. When he appeared puzzled by my words, I elaborated, “We’re engaged in court proceedings with you. It would be a conflict of interest.”
Derrick’s attention was snagged by someone behind us; turning, I caught sight of the Turnbulls approaching. Ron’s silver hair took on the hues of the primary colors in the stained glass adorning the chapel and Christina’s breasts led the way, as usual, her sleek hair smoothed to a glossy waterfall over her tanned bare shoulders. Her gown was uncharacteristically conservative and I watched as her smoky-shadowed eyes fluttered to the casket; was there a hint of sincere emotion on her flawless face? I suddenly realized that while she bore no other resemblance to my mother, her coloring was just the same – green eyes, golden-brown skin, golden hair. A wintry chill clutched at my spine; was this why Dad had been initially drawn to her?
Neither she nor Ron had seen me yet.
Immediately I sought my father, determined to gauge his reaction to Christina; she glanced his way and her composure took a noticeable nosedive. I watched heat climb her face. Her haughty expression did not alter but she was obviously flustered and I thought of Robbie saying, It’s all Jackson, all the time, in reference to Christina. My stomach bottomed out a few more inches.
Dad was still chatting with the couple two rows back and didn’t pause in his conversation; his gaze held Christina’s and even if I’d had no suspicions regarding their extramarital activities until just this moment, all doubts would be erased; something was broiling between them. Dad had shaved, combed his hair, and was wearing a suit, but there were deep shadows beneath his eyes. He looked abruptly away, mouth twisting in an expression I recognized as disdain. Christina’s face drained of color but I didn’t know her well enough to determine if she was angry or ashamed.
I realized Ron had continued down the center aisle without his wife and paused at the end of our row.
“Ms. Gordon.” Ron spoke with contrived politeness, ignoring both Case and Derrick. “How good to see you.”
I mustered my lawyer voice. “My name is Patricia Spicer.”
“My mistake,” Ron said.
You killed him, didn’t you? The sensation of being cornered increased, sitting in a pew bracketed by Derrick and Ron. Why? What did Robbie know? What dirt did he dig up on you, you fucking bastard?
Ron’s eyes bore into mine. “Pity about Benson. Smart boy. I hate to see a smart boy go so quickly downhill. Pressures of the job, I suppose.”
All the air in the chapel was siphoned away. Despite the intensity of my desire to stride over to the older man and claw at his smug face, I understood that now, more than ever, I could not react. It was most certainly what Ron wanted – for me to lose my cool, to inadvertently admit I’d been part of Robbie’s undercover activities at Turnbull and Hinckley. I understood right then that Ron had Robbie’s phone; he’d seen the incriminating message from me. And I saw in his predatory eyes the confidence of his own authority, his unchallenged assumption of power. I was less than nothing to him, a trifling young woman, easily eliminated if the need arose.
And he was reading me right now for that very reason, searching for a need.
Christina slithered to Ron’s side before I could respond. Ron’s mouth lifted in a smile but his eyes were deadly. Christina did not look our way, instead tugging impatiently at her husband’s elbow. I watched in silence as the Turnbulls continued to the casket to greet Asher and Stella, Ron the picture of solicitous sympathy. I felt like a pitiful little goldfish chucked into an ocean crammed with writhing eels and sleek, darting sharks; the water all around me foamed and churned with predators. Sweat beaded over my skin. The service was about to start, people shuffling to their seats. I watched the priest climbing the elevated altar, lifting the hem of his long white robe like he would an ankle-length skirt.
“I can’t…” I turned desperately to Case.
He was pale, his eyebrows crooked in an expression of barely-contained horror. I didn’t finish the statement but he understood, gathering our outerwear and leading me from the chapel. I didn’t glance at Dad as we passed him, concentrating on nothing but getting to the door that allowed escape. Outside, I gulped deep breaths of cold February air as Case wrapped me first in my coat and then into his arms. He helped me down the front steps and then drew us to the side of the immense stone building. Sheltered against him, thick white snowflakes dusting our heads, I clung to my husband and inhaled his scent, which smelled of home. Of our dear little home in Jalesville, which we should not have left. Where we might not be safe from this point forward.
“It’s all right,” Case kept saying. He pressed his mouth to my hair and his body was so very warm and solid, his arms anchoring me to reality.
“It’s not all right,” I gasped. “Oh God, we shouldn’t be here…”
“I will never let anything happen to you,” Case said with quiet ferocity, lifting my chin. Even in the gloom of the snowy evening the flecks of auburn were apparent in his dear, beautiful eyes. I could see his breath in the cold air. I wanted to beg, But what about you? Will you let anything happen to you?
He cupped my shoulders. “Those assholes think they’re above the law, but they’re not. We’ll prove their claim on our land is false, along with Clark.”
I wanted so badly to believe what he said was possible. “But they have so much power, it scares me so much…did you see Ron’s face…”
“If we think like that, we’ve already lost.” Case stared deeply into my eyes. “You are the bravest woman I know, and the most determined. We will see this through together, I swear to you.”
“But what if…”
The double doors at the top of the steps opened and Derrick appeared between them; it was obvious he was looking for us.
Case’s shoulders squared. “What the hell do you want, Yancy?”
Apparently this terse question did not register; Derrick stepped all the way outside without responding, his sharp features softened by the gloaming light. Cars scrolled past on the busy four-lane, headlights beaming, wipers scraping aside the falling snow; Derrick studied the traffic as if confused. As though he wasn’t sure in this moment exactly where he was; I thought of Case telling me, not too long ago, that Derrick had no one in the world to care about him. Arrogant, entitled, devious – all words I would use to describe Derrick. But was he evil? Was he like Ron? Or was he truly an unloved second son, desiring so badly to get his father’s attention he was willing to do anything required?
I hated myself for feeling a flicker of sympathy.
Derrick looked away from the traffic and blinked a couple of times, refocusing. He’d left the chapel without his coat or scarf and snow fell on his suit jacket, on his uncovered head. And then, sudden as a wind gust, urgency radiated from him. He descended the stone steps at a jog, peering down the sidewalk behind Case and me; I resisted the desire to look over my shoulder. One stair from the snowy ground he stopped, his breath creating a steam cloud in the cold air. He said, “You two should go.”
Case met my eyes and asked without speaking, What the hell?
Thinking of the conversation I’d tried to initiate with Derrick last autumn, in the parking lot of The Spoke on the night of Marshall’s birthday party, I responded to my husband, Give me a second here.
Keeping my tone neutral, I asked, “Why is that?”
Instead of answering, Derrick’s eyes detoured to my stomach. Extending a solicitous hand toward me, just short of making physical contact, he whispered, “When is the baby due?”
A deep, hostile sound issued from Case’s throat at the same instant a strange, powerful rush of awareness hammered at my senses. That night last autumn, Derrick had also mentioned a child.
Driven by instinct, I played along. “In November.”
Derrick looked between our faces, his own pale and grim; he was on the very precipice of revelation. Despite the chill winter air, fresh sweat beaded on my skin. My heart accelerated with each breath but now was not the time to lose control. I scoured my mind for anything I could use and then it occurred to me. Franklin doesn’t exist. Robbie’s last text suggested he’d found something on Franklin. Growing desperate, I grabbed Derrick’s forearm and played my ace card. “Why would you say your brother doesn’t exist?”
Derrick froze, eyes becoming ice chips – but they were fixated on something down the sidewalk.
“Charles and Patricia Spicer,” someone said from behind us. “Leaving so soon?”
Case and I turned to see a stranger approaching through the falling snow, tall and slender and with the sort of superficial, angular features seen on men in expensive cologne advertisements. He wore a charcoal greatcoat and matching scarf but no hat over his blond hair. His eyes were pale and penetrating. He stopped with two squares of sidewalk concrete between our bodies and I squinted in confusion, struck by the sense that I’d seen him before. He’d addressed us with barely-concealed derision.
“Who are you?” Case demanded, angling in front of me.
“Why do you ask, Charles?”
“How the fuck do you know my name? Answer me.”
The man’s repellent smile only widened.
I hardly recognized Derrick’s voice as he asked, “What are you doing here?”
That was all it took for me to understand; I realized I’d once seen his picture on a brochure for their company, Capital Overland. Elusive older brother, Number One, the reason for Derrick’s inferiority complex. It hadn’t occurred to me he might appear at Robbie’s funeral, but of course the Yancy home base was in Chicago. I looked for their father but no one else was in sight. Just an empty sidewalk, dusted by snow and his striding footprints. I felt the first stab of fear.
Before I could bite my tongue I whispered, “Franklin.”
At the sound of his name his upper lip lifted just slightly, not quite a sneer.
Derrick hadn’t moved from his perch on the steps. With more insistence in his tone he repeated, “What are you doing here?”
Franklin’s eyes flicked to his brother. A bluish glow emanating from a nearby streetlight made blades of his cheekbones and his eyes were as remote as a reptile’s, but he was flesh and blood, standing before us. Existing, as it were.
You two should go, Derrick had said. He’d attempted to warn us.
“Far from home, aren’t you?” Franklin asked, addressing Case. “Dirt grubbers don’t much like to leave their dirt, isn’t that so?”
Case seemed constructed of cement; he’d shifted so that I was behind him, shoulders rigid with tension. Though every bit as mystified by this bizarre confrontation, I sensed Case’s measured calculation – gauging each movement, each potential threat. He refused to dignify the question with a response.
Franklin’s attention swung my way; studying me like a scientist would a lab rat, amusement gained the upper hand in his expression. He wasn’t a physically imposing man; slim and fine-boned, his features almost delicate in structure – but then something stirred in the depths of his pale irises and my bowels turned to ice.
He said, “Patricia. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Back the fuck off, now,” Case said, but Franklin ignored this command.
My lips were stiff and cold, rendering me unable to reply. Franklin’s tone oozed with both familiarity and contempt; what the hell did he mean, I hadn’t changed a bit? He’d never met me before this moment.
Unless…
My brain churned through a dozen fragments of information, struggling to make a whole.
Franklin doesn’t exist.
Derrick tried to warn us. He told us we should go.
He’s dangerous, Derrick had said last autumn, and I thought he’d meant Ron – but maybe he was referring to Franklin. I sensed more than saw Derrick descending the final step to the sidewalk. The tension in the air grew dense, compressing my lungs. My skull seemed to be vibrating to a low-pitched frequency. But it was no time to be a coward.
Franklin doesn’t exist…
I located my voice, braved Franklin’s eyes, and took a chance. “What year were you born?”
A flicker of discomposure – but nothing more. A smile exposed his teeth and his tone became almost conversational. “It’s the eyes, I suppose. You can always tell a whore by her eyes.”
Case had Franklin in a headlock and on his knees almost before I could blink. Franklin struggled, grunting and cursing, elbows flying; his greatcoat gaped and I saw what Case was angled wrong to notice – a small black pistol in a holster strapped around his waist. The world shifted in a slow-motion phantasm; my ankles seemed chained to the ground even as a detailed image of what I must do – lunge and grab that gun before Franklin could use it – formed in my head. There was a flurry of movement from the corner of my eye, which didn’t shape itself into sense until Derrick, on the same intercept course, took Franklin flat to the cold pavement. Snow lay in thick swirls and Derrick’s momentum propelled their bodies a solid yard. Struck in the hip by Derrick’s shoulder, Case was jerked sideways, quickly righting himself.
I cried, “No!” and grabbed for him, terrified he would return to the fight.
But he had no intention of doing that, instead grabbing me around the waist. We fled. Cars continued scrolling along the busy street, headlights beaming through the gray light; no one paid us any attention even though I could hear Derrick and Franklin shouting furiously at each other, somewhere behind us. We didn’t slow down until we’d rounded a corner and dashed across two lanes. I tried to believe someone would have stopped had there been a shot fired.
“He had a gun…” My words and breath were all tangled together. I bent forward, straining to draw a lungful. I was wearing heeled boots and my ankles ached; my thoughts latched onto stupid things like my feet so they wouldn’t fixate on what might have happened if Franklin Yancy had drawn his pistol.
Case, shot in the gut, dying, his blood soaking my lap…
A low, aching groan escaped my lips and I dove into Case’s arms, holding him as tightly as I was able and pressing my nose to his chest, overtaken by sobs. St. Helen’s chapel remained in view but we were well away, blending with those exiting shops and cafes to hail taxis. Case sheltered me, easing to the side of a brick building, keeping us out of the bright, oblong square thrown by the business’s interior lighting.
“It’s all right,” he said. I could feel the trembling deep in his muscles but he kept his voice steady. “It’s all right.”
Case waited for me to calm before getting us a taxi. Dad’s condo was dark and cold on this winter’s night, the vivid glitter of downtown Chicago the only illumination in the place, perfectly framed by the unadorned picture windows. I groped for a light switch. Case strode through the living room, shedding both his overcoat and suit jacket, yanking loose his tie; once in the spare bedroom, he began cramming our clothes into the travel bag. He was upset, jerking through his movements with none of his usual grace; away from immediate danger and having regained a tentative hold on my emotions, I watched in silence, not sure if offering to help would soothe him or only add fuel to the fire. I braced a hand on the leather loveseat and bent my right leg, slowly unzipping my boot; the sound seemed as loud as a buzz saw.
At last his frenzied energy propelled him to the doorway between the two rooms, where he grasped the frame on either side. Pinning me with his gaze, he rasped, “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s –”
“Don’t tell me it’s all right,” he requested harshly. “Don’t pacify me, oh God, I can’t bear it. I’m angry at myself, not you, and I’m so goddamn sorry.”
“Case, listen to me…”
“You ran into the barn after me!” His words fell like halves of a split log, husky and raw. “You ran into a burning barn to save me when I should have been the one saving you. Oh Jesus, sweetheart, I can’t bear what could have happened. Just the thought fucking destroys me. It’s my job to protect you. I love you so goddamn much, I’ve longed for you for so long now, even when you didn’t know it, for so many years…”
“I’m right here,” I whispered, hating how he was punishing himself. “I’m not the girl in a picture anymore and I will never be her again, the girl who’s distant from you and who doesn’t know how much you love her. I’m here with you and I love you. You are the love of my lifetimes, Case. Come here.” He closed the distance between us, wrapping me in the security of his arms. Tears blurred my sight as I whispered, “It’s like everything around us is threatened, like everything we know could just vanish. Camille feels the same way.” “I know, I’ve talked to Mathias about it.” Case rocked me side to side; my eyes were closed and he softly kissed each one, as he was often inclined to do. I spread one hand on his warm, lean belly, reassuring myself it was intact; no bullet hole leaking blood had appeared there. I heaved a shuddering sigh, possessively closing my fist around the material of his shirt, and he buried both hands in my hair.
“C’mere,” he murmured, lifting my chin, the soft sounds of invitation rising from my throat caught between our mouths. He bracketed my jaws and tilted my head, our tongues joining and stroking. Shifting, he scooped me into his arms without breaking our kiss and carried me to the couch. I had just yanked the bottom of Case’s shirt from his pants when I heard my father in the outer hallway, the keypad beeping as he engaged the code and threw open the door.
“Dad,” I said lamely.
Case discreetly withdrew his right hand from beneath my long black skirt, drawing the hem safely south and resituating, keeping me on his lap but in a less intimate position.
Dad stormed to within three feet of us and demanded, “What happened? Why did you leave so suddenly?”
“I was about to have a panic attack. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you before we left, Dad, I really am.”
“I left as soon as I could.” Dad all but collapsed into a nearby armchair. He covered his eyes with one hand. “It was terrible, all around.”
He wore his overcoat, along with a scarf and matching gloves, and I was struck by a sudden memory, an old one from many years ago, of Mom sitting on Dad’s lap and helping him remove his scarf, unwinding it in a way I now realized was seductive, one slow loop at a time; it had been a winter’s evening and they thought Camille and I were sleeping. Camille had been dutifully snoozing but I’d crept from our room at the sound of the front door, which meant Dad was finally home, and spied my parents kissing. Dad took the scarf from Mom’s hands and draped it around her like a shawl, tugging her closer.
I’d felt so safe back then, reassured that my parents loved each other and always would. And now, sitting near my father, whose poor choices had led to him being alone, I felt a pang of stinging sympathy.
Did you pick Christina Turnbull because she looks like Mom?
I was dying to ask but couldn’t bear to hear the answer.
Dad indicated the spare room. “Are you leaving?”
“By tomorrow, remember?” I said. “We want to get home.”
I sensed Dad’s restraint; he wanted to ask us to stay, knowing he could not. He narrowed his eyes but not in an angry way; it was an attempt to glean from my tone and posture what was really going on, just as any well-trained lawyer would.
It was now or never. “Dammit, Dad, I know about you and Christina.”
Dad blinked twice. Then he stood and stalked to the kitchen, disappearing around the corner and slamming a cupboard, then the freezer door; I heard ice rattling into a glass.
“Don’t walk away from me!” I leaped to my feet, stumbling over my long skirt.
Case steadied me with one hand around my hip; his eyes said, Maybe now isn’t the time…
It has to be, I said back.
Dad reappeared, clutching a scotch. “That is none of your business!”
“It is my business! Don’t treat me like a child. You cheated on another wife, Dad, how low can you possibly –”
Dad pointed a finger at my nose. “I am your father and you will not –”
“What does she know?” I interrupted, changing tactics, fists on hips. Case moved his hand to my lower back, patting gently; I forced a calmer tone. “What has she told you?”
“What would Christina have to tell me?” Dad spoke with a deceptively level tone, almost as if he wanted me to start listing things so he could determine what I knew. I refused to believe Dad would conceal something of magnitude, even if his mistress requested it.
Misgivings growing by the second, I whispered, “Maybe I should ask what you have to tell me,” and sank back to the couch cushions. Case waited for Dad’s reaction in complete silence; I was afraid if Dad said the wrong thing, if he’d somehow jeopardized us, I could not be responsible for my husband’s actions.
“Christina and I have been seeing each other, yes,” Dad admitted, cupping the nape of his neck in an ages-old gesture of defeat. He directed his gaze at the carpet. “We’ve been in a relationship for over a year. We’re discreet. We never mention Ron. But it’s over now, unequivocally.”
“Jesus Christ, Dad. Where’s Lanny? When did she leave?”
Dad closed his eyes. “Three days ago.”
“Did Ron order him killed?” Unable to stop, my heart pounding like a hammer on a stubborn nail, I faced off with my father. My throat was dry and tasted metallic. “Tell me, Dad. Tell me if he ordered Robbie killed.”
Dad gaped at me with genuine shock. His mouth opened and closed, then opened again as he rasped, “I hope you know if I believed that to be true, Ron couldn’t hide from what I would do to him.”
“Like what?” I insisted. “What the fuck would you do?”
“I’d kill him,” he said tightly. “You’re my daughter. For Christ’s sake, Patricia, I once hoped you’d work for the man. Do you think I’d have let you work for someone I believed capable of such things?”
“You agreed he was a criminal,” Case said. I could hear in his tone he believed Dad’s words. He elaborated, “Last summer, in Jalesville, you told Tish that. What did you mean?”
“Ron turns a blind eye when funds are misappropriated. He’s an embezzler, not a murderer.” Dad sounded like he was on the witness stand.
“Does he pay you off?” I gasped.
“Of course not.” Dad was terse, on the defensive.
“Because you’re fucking his wife and don’t want his suspicion directed your way!” A small, more rational part of my brain registered bald shock that I would dare speak to my father in such a manner.
Dad’s eyes blazed and I tensed, ready to face his wrath. But then he deflated, sinking to his armchair and draining his scotch before asking, with quiet intensity, “What reason would Ron have to kill Robbie?”
“Because Robbie knew something.” Spurred by the insanity of this entire trip, by the horrible sensation of time running out, I gripped one of the plushy arms on Dad’s chair, leaning toward him. “Robbie was having an affair with her too, Dad. Did you know that?”
Dad’s eyes darted between mine, right, left, right, left, in obvious shock.
“Do you think Ron found out about them?” I pressed. But Robbie’s news, his final text, hadn’t been about Ron; it had referred to Christina…and Franklin Yancy.
Dad’s shock was morphing to outright horror. He rasped, “No. It can’t be true. I would have known.”
“How? Like either of them were planning to tell you?” I bit back the urge to really lash into him, imagining what my great-grandmother would have to say just now; Gran had never been fond of Dad. I knelt beside his chair so our faces were at the same level. “We saw Franklin Yancy tonight, at the funeral. What do you know about him? Who the hell is he, really? Why would Derrick be afraid of him?”
Dad was pale, the lines bracketing his mouth and creating grooves in his forehead appearing deep and heavily drawn. I floundered; despite my outburst of questions I wasn’t sure how to proceed. Did I mention outright there was a chance the man everyone believed to be Franklin Yancy was an imposter? Which begged the question – who the hell was he? What was he? Someone not restricted by the usual limitations of time?
Just like Ruthann…
Without intending it, I began to weep. Dad dropped his drink, ice fanning the carpet, and leaned over the chair to hug me.
“Ruthie,” I sobbed, overpowered by the force of my sadness. What if we never saw her again? What if Franklin had drawn his gun and fired on Case? How did he know us well enough for such hatred?
It’s because we’re all connected. The answer is right in front of you.
You have to see, you have to understand…
Dad was crying too, low and devastating. “Oh God, my sweet Ruthann, my baby girl. I can’t bear not knowing where she is, or if she’s alive…”
Case knelt beside me, resting a hand between my shoulder blades. I swiped at my leaking eyes, overheated with agony, and met my husband’s gaze. At his unspoken question, I nodded with two small bobs of my head.
And then I whispered, “Dad, we have to tell you something.”