Page 59 of The Dearly Departed

My eyes noted the people still inside the library. They had been told to leave, yet they continued to whisper among themselves, looking on as if this was all nothing but a performance or minor inconvenience.

They’re used to this, I noted. None of them are shocked. None of them care that two men are dead on the floor.

Like it was all just dinner and a show, a part of Gerald’s big fiftieth birthday bash.

They need to leave. Now.

“Get these fucking people out of here,” I ordered.

Gerald raised a brow, his lips quirking into an approving smile, as he said to the other man, the same one who’d retrieved him from the terrace, “You heard him, Dean. Get these people out.”

Then he raised a hand and gestured for me to follow him out of the library, and for the first time in my life, without a second thought, I did as he’d asked.

***

“Right this way, my boy,” Gerald said, heading down the upstairs hallway.

For someone who had just witnessed the murder of two men, he certainly seemed unfazed. But come to think of it, I wasn’t sure I was as affected as I probably should’ve been either, given the circumstances.

Maybe I’m in shock, I thought as Gerald led me into a room enclosed by twin wooden doors.

An office, as it would seem—a space not unlike the library downstairs—with lots of dark woods, tall bookshelves surrounding the perimeter, and black leather furniture. In here though, there was a massive desk in the center of the room, an executive chair on one side, and two smaller armchairs on the other.

Gerald approached a bar cart behind the sofa and asked, “Want a drink?”

“No,” I replied flatly.

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. And, by the way, you can take off that stupid mask in here. It’s just the two of us.”

“And if someone else comes in?”

“Door’s locked, and I’m the only one with the key.”

“Hmm,” I replied, knowing I probably shouldn’t trust him. Yet, despite my better judgment, I pulled the mask off anyway, grateful for the moment of fresh air.

He poured himself a drink of straight whiskey into a tumbler while keeping his eyes on me the entire time. His stare was scrutinizing and—dare I say—held a hint of concern.

After I had enough of him staring, I asked, “What the fuck are you looking at?”

He dropped his eyes to the glass, now full, and said, “I was just wondering if you were okay.”

I barked a laugh at the sheer audacity. “Am I okay?”

He held the glass in hand and rounded the couch to take a seat. He crossed his ankle over his thigh, then looked up into my eyes as he nodded and said, "Yeah. I'm asking, are you okay?"

"Wow," I said with a snort, then rubbed beneath my nose with the back of my gloved hand. "Thirty-three years."

"What?"

I continued to chuckle, stuffing my hands into my pockets as I turned from him to pace the length of the room. "Thirty-three fucking years of abuse and abandonment, and finally, after I found the only person who ever gave a single fuck about me with a bullet in his fucking brain, you ask me if I'm okay."

"Well”—he shrugged nonchalantly—"are you?"

I spun on my heel to stare at him with an incredulous look in my eye. "What the fuck do you think, Gerry?"

"I think you have a right to be angry with me," my father replied in an eerily calm and understanding tone. "And I think you have every right to question everything you've seen here tonight."

I stood in front of the window and looked out over the bluff and toward the water. It was a clear night; the water's surface was still. An exact opposite of what I was feeling inside.