Page 109 of Not a Word

“I don’t know why they would be.”

“You said they seemed to have some kind of connection.”

I thought back to the previous night, when Gage and I had found Holden and his friend, Alicia, at the coffee place. How they’d exchanged glances, like sharing a private joke or something.

“I think they’ve spent more time together than they’ve let on,” I said.

If they had, it would make sense that Gage kept it a secret. He knew we had reservations about him hanging out with his uncle, for obvious reasons. But Gage was fourteen, and you really couldn’t control who your kid hung out with at that age no matter how hard you tried. And to his credit, Gage saw the best in his uncle.

I had my phone out and called my brother.

It rang several times before it went to voicemail. “Hey, it’s me,” I said. “Give me a call when you have a sec. We’re looking for Gage, wondered if he’d been in touch.”

I put the phone away.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Diana said, “but maybe we should do your mother a solid and head over to Holden’s again.”

As I nodded my agreement and started heading for the door, she put a hand on my arm to stop me.

“What?” I asked.

“Could she be right?” She maintained her grip, sensing that I was ready to pull away, leaning toward the door.

“Could who be right about what?”

“Your mother. Could she be right, thinking that it wasn’t a murder-suicide? That your father didn’t kill himself? That he didn’t shoot Leah Kennard?”

“Come on, Diana. My mother’s not being rational right now.”

“Maybe not, but I think Gage is.”

I stopped my lean, and she let her hand fall from my arm. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“When Gage told that story, about stealing the chips, your father going to the police station, rescuing him, he was offering that up as proof that your dad was at his core a decent man. That was proof enough for him that Brent couldn’t have shot Leah, or that other woman he used to work with.”

“I know, but—”

“I have a story like that too,” Diana said.

I said nothing for a moment, holding my breath. I didn’t know whether I was ready for another revelation. Finally, I said, half-joking, “Are you a shoplifter, too.”

“No,” she said. “It was bigger than that.”

I waited.

“I wrecked his Barracuda.”

“I’m sorry, you what?”

My father’s beloved 1972 Plymouth Barracuda? He’d bought it a year or two before Gage was born. A recapturing-his-youth moment. There were times I believed he loved that car as much as he loved any of us.

“Gage was four months old,” Diana said. “I didn’t even have a job yet. We were fresh out of school. I had that old Volvo that had been my mom’s, and she gave it to me because we were pretty desperate at the time. It was a tank, that car. Your dad was still doing his consulting work then, working from home, and as much as your parents were not thrilled with our situation, he adored Gage and invited us to drop by after I’d done the groceries. And so we did.”

I listened. This was all new to me. I remembered, around that time, I was working at a small community newspaper, making a miserable wage. We were just getting by. Tough times.

“Your mom was in the city—I don’t know what she was doing—so it was just your father. We came in, your dad gave Gage a bottle, played with him. Gage was so happy he didn’t want to leave and when I got him back in his car seat he was crying and I was frazzled and as I was backing out of the driveway I hit a car parked on the opposite side of the street. It was your dad’s Barracuda. He’d had it out earlier and hadn’t put it back in the garage.”

“Oh god,” I said.