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“What are you saying?” It’s a grumble from my father.
The detective was correct on some things. Mom and Dad did fight in those last months. The memories of listening to her weep between the thin walls as Dad tore off on his bike still haunt me. And he brought a parade of women home a few short weeks after Mom died and then one stayed the night this week. But the idea my father worshipped me? That’s bullshit.
I suck in air and toss myself over the cliff. “Did she kill herself?”
“Razor,” starts Cyrus, but my father turns toward us and raises his hand in the air.
“Do you think the Terror had anything to do with her death?” Dad asks.
I should keep my mouth shut. I’ve tried to discuss Mom’s death with Dad. Each time, he shut me down, but I’ve never done it before in front of the board. Doing this could be a sign of disrespect, but it could also put pressure on him to grant me answers.
“I didn’t ask about the Terror,” I say. “I asked if she killed herself. I’m asking if she was so miserable with you and—” the words catch in my throat “—with me that she pressed on the gas and not on the brake and drove her car over the bridge.”
“Are those the options?” Dad challenges. “That she either killed herself or that one of us, one of your brothers, one of your family, killed her?”
“Did she hate us so much that death was her only option?”
“It was an accident,” says Eli, and I round on him too quick for it to be respectful.
“We all know that wasn’t an accident!”
“So you’re calling us liars?” Dad roars.
“Yes!” I jump to my feet because there’s too much adrenaline coursing through my body. They stare at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. Maybe I never had sanity to begin with. “I want the truth!”
“Say it, Razor!” Dad points at me. “Look me in the face and tell me you think one of us, one of your brothers, killed your mother.”
There’s pounding. The wooden gavel hitting the table. It shuts Dad up and that’s when I notice it—Dad and I are angled toward each other, primed and ready to attack, chests pumping hard in hurried breaths. The solid table the barrier that’s preventing us
from going to blows.
“Sit down!” Cyrus demands.
Dad does, but I remain on my feet. “I want the truth!”
“We told you it was an accident!” Dad yells.
“And you’re full of shit!”
Cyrus beats the gavel against the table again and one by one the men of the board give me the same damn look of sympathy everyone in town does and it’s like someone has stoned me with sharp-edged rocks. Even now no one will tell me the full story.
“The cop said you and Mom fought,” I continue, not giving a fuck I’m in violation of a direct order.
“Razor,” warns Cyrus, but I ignore him.
“He said she was going to leave you. He said you notified the police of a problem with her way before you should have known there was one.”
“Thomas,” Cyrus tries again in a stronger voice, but even the use of my given name doesn’t stop the flood.
“He said you were the first to find her. If what you’ve given me is the truth, then why the hell didn’t I know any of that? All of it sounds like lies to me!”
“That’s enough!” Cyrus shouts.
But it’s not enough. It will never be enough until I get the truth. I’m dying and I’m begging. I’m mentally on my hands and knees willing anyone to tell me what I already know—that my mother committed suicide.
Because if someone tells the truth, maybe I can find a way to not be so screwed up.
But I don’t get an answer. Dad edges back his chair, stalks across the room and then throws open the door with so much force that it bangs off the wall. My insides hollow out as I realize no matter what I do, no matter what I say, I’m doomed to live in this gray, haunted realm of the unknown for the rest of my life.
