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Yet he could not help himself. The words burned in his chest, desperate for release, for someone, anyone to understand the pain his father went through—so awful that a God-fearing man could think of no other way out than to kill himself.
“He was thought to be of a certain way,” he said slowly, meeting her gaze.
“A certain way?” She frowned then her mouth rounded. “Oh. You mean...”
“Yes. He had been seen with men of that type.”
“So....he really was...that way?”
“Indeed.” He waited for the disgust or for her to snatch back her hand. He struggled to understand why his father felt such a way, but he had always been an excellent, loving father and a good husband and he could only judge his father on that, rather than desires that were illegal.
Instead, she squeezed his hand. “Now I understand why Mr. Harper’s death impacts you so much. It reminds you of how your father died.”
She did not. And never would. Yes, the fact his father had committed suicide meant he comprehended all too well the impact such an event had on a family, but he would not confess the rest.
She did not need more. No matter how tempted he was to tell her everything, to bare his soul, he must not. His sister’s memory had to remain intact, and he could not risk someone so enmeshed into society to know of his family’s sordid history. She already knew one too many of his secrets.
