Page 8 of Not a Word

“What restaurant are you at?”

“Benjamin’s.”

“Stay there. I’ll come get you.”

“Why would you—” She cut herself off, then asked, “Has something happened?”

“Just stay there.”

“Go by the house first and check on your father.”

“I’m at the house.”

A pause at the other end. “Why didn’t you say so? Tell him to check his phone. He’ll see the texts I sent.” There was an edge in her voice that was verging on panic.

“I’ll come get you.”

“Reece!” she said sharply. “Tell me what’s going on.”

What was I supposed to say? Dad killed some strange woman in bed and then shot himself.

And then I thought, maybe she wasn’t some strange woman. She might be someone I knew, would recognize, but from the back, with hair color pretty much the same as my mother’s and matted with blood, I’d jumped to a conclusion that didn’t seem like much of a jump at the time. It was also very possible that, even if I didn’t know who the woman was, my mother did.

“If something’s happened to your father, tell me.”

“Yes, there’s been . . . an incident,” I said.

“Put him on.”

“I can’t.”

I could hear an intake of breath. “Oh my god,” she said.

“I can be there in just a few minutes.” There was a short whoop from the street, as though someone had accidentally hit a police siren for half a second.

“What was that?”

“Mom—”

“Was that a police car? A fire engine? Has there been a fire at the house?”

“There hasn’t been a fire.”

She went quiet for a moment, as though working up to a question. I wasn’t surprised when it came, straight out.

“Reece, is your father dead?”

“Mom,” I said evenly, “let me come and get you.”

Another extended silence so lengthy I thought maybe I’d lost the signal. Finally, she said, “I’ll be out front,” and ended the call.

I put the phone back into my pocket and turned to look at the house. The front door open, that one uniformed cop stationed there, Detective McCabe somewhere inside. Should I tell her about the call? That my mother was not the woman in that bed, that I’d just spoken with her?

That would prompt a dozen questions, and while I attempted to answer them, my mother would be standing out in front of Benjamin’s. It made more sense to get her first, bring her back, and let McCabe ask whatever she wanted of the two of us.

I headed for my car. There was a cruiser half blocking the end of the driveway, so as I was opening the door of my aging BMW, I called out to the officer behind the wheel, “Can you back up so I can get out?”

“McCabe give you the okay?” he asked.