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Beau rubbed his arm. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
He gave her a weak smile. “I hope all of you will be too.”
“You’re going to be so busy. Teague and Lincoln are having babies. Well, they’re not, but—“ Beau waved absently. “You know what I mean.”
“For a moment, I thought we’d reached a scientific breakthrough,” he said dryly. “I do hope you’ll bring the children to see me.”
She frowned. “You sound like you’re going away.”
“I’ll have to make living arrangements—”
“You’ll live with us,” Lincoln said.
The older man’s eyes widened. “Oh, I couldn’t impose.”
“You’re the only real father we’ve ever had. I’m sorry we ever let that bastard keep us distant,” Lincoln said sternly.
Teague put a hand on Winston’s shoulder. “I know you cared about him. I’m sorry for your loss.”
It seemed like something that should be said the other way around. Maybe one day the three of them would mourn, but it was likely for what Samuel Hollingsworth had never given them.
Winston’s expression turned hard. “There are some things that are unforgivable.”
Lines creased Teague’s forehead. “But when he had his heart attack, you saved him.”
“Much has happened in the time since. It could not be allowed to continue.” He put an arm around Beau, and she leaned her head on his shoulder.
“Someday will you tell me about her?” she asked softly.
“It might be best if she does it herself.”
Beau bolted upright.
Was her mother alive?
“I’m sorry. It’s not what you think.” He flashed the three of them an apologetic look. “I’ve collected her things in storage. But I’ll be happy to supplement whatever I can that you don’t discover there.”
“How did you get him to let go of any of it?” she asked. From what Beau had said, her father was unnaturally attached to his wife’s stuff.
“He was quite preoccupied with other things.” He took a sip of the tea. “I am not defending him, but your mother’s death was very difficult on him. He became consumed with protecting the three of you because she loved you so much.”
I didn’t miss what he’d said, and neither did Beau, judging by the disappointed look on her face. Her mother had loved them, nothim.
“Why did he cover up who killed her?” Lincoln balled his fist on the table. “It doesn’t make sense unless he had something to do with it.”
“He would never have harmed your mother.”
Beau didn’t look so certain. Look at what he’d allowed to be done to her. “Then why not tell the whole world?”
“For him, prison was not a just punishment.”
I gripped the back of the chair in front of me, glad my family didn’t talk in shrouded sentences. Whatever we knew, we came out with it.
“When we were on the roof, he said he got his revenge but it wasn’t enough,” I said.
“Because the only satisfactory solution was to have his wife alive again . . . an impossibility.” He sipped his tea again. “He blamed himself for her murder. It blinded him. He couldn’t stand that he had lived and she had died.”
“How did he get revenge?” Teague asked.
