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Callum, of course, has to pop that fictional bubble with a sigh. “We can avoid it all you want, but we both know you came here to discover who killed your mom…”
“I know, and I haven’t forgotten it.” No matter how much I wish I could. I raise my head from his shoulder, studying his blank expression. “Somebody killed her, and my dad thinks it was you. He has this entire scenario made up in his mind. It’s insane, but it’s also hard to believe that it’s completely made up.”
“The loss of those we love can affect each of us differently. When we lose someone we love without an explanation, the brain is forced to devise a logical explanation, which means putting the blame, especially something like thinking your spouse was murdered, onto someone else.” He gives me what could pass for a guilty look. “No matter what, I can see why he’d think I was responsible, but he doesn’t know me. Not truly. He knows what the media and his peers know. He knows what my rap sheet says about me, but certainly, he believes what he wants to.”
“But it wasn’t you?”
I can’t believe how much I’m hanging on to his response right now. This could mean continuing together or ripping my still-beating heart out of my chest.
He scowls, shaking his head. “I swear to you it wasn’t me. I had no reason to kill your mother. That isn't how I do things—murdering innocent women to get a point across?” A look of disgust twists his features into something ugly. “That's not me. Believe what you want about me otherwise, but that is one thing I need you to believe.”
I want to believe him. I need to believe him. Part of me knew all along that it wasn’t him, even as uncertainty makes a person believe in anything that might seem like a rational answer.
“If you didn't do it, then who did?”
He runs his fingers through my hair, distracting me from the fear of discovering the truth. “Honestly, Bianca, if I knew I would tell you. Sometimes, things like this happen, and there are never any answers. If all these years have passed and there hasn't been a conclusion reached, maybe it's time for him to try to heal. For both of you.”
“It’s not me that I’m worried about.”
He takes my chin into his hand, smiling softly. “Of course, it’s not. You’re never worried about yourself.”
“Don't do that.” I jerk my chin away and try to ignore the hurt I leave behind. Now is not the time to break down or get off-topic. “This isn't about me, though even if it was, I'm not some angel. You don’t need to tell me how good of a person I am. Yes, I’m worried about my father, nevertheless he's not the only one who needs an answer. I want to know the truth too. Was my mother shot? Was it an accident? He said the original autopsy included a gunshot wound to the head. I mean, I guess that would’ve been what killed her, but if that’s true the autopsy was changed. He swears there's an original report and told me he found it.”
“Do you believe him?”
That is the big question, and because it's too important to fire off a thoughtless answer, I take a second to give it actual thought. Do I believe him? Nobody else seems to. They must know something I don't. Then again...
“I guess it's easy for people who don't know him as well as I do to write this off as a grieving husband grasping at straws after all this time,” I muse. “Trying to make sense of something that doesn't make sense. I can see why they would want to dismiss him right away, but I know him. He’s my dad, and well, he might be a little cracked. However, I also know he wouldn't make this up. I don’t think he would keep pushing this hard, or putting this much effort into something that wasn’t real. He believes he's right. And he's already...” I hate admitting this, but I want Callum to know how serious this is. “He's already lost his job because of it.”
Somehow, that statement awakens him. The mask of concern falls away in favor of complete shock. “They fired him? After all the years he put in on the force?”
“Yeah.” I frown. “He didn't even tell me. I’m sure he’s thought about it, although it can’t be easy. My guess is that he’s too ashamed to tell the truth.”
“This is way worse than I thought,” he murmurs, staring into space like he's talking to himself.
“He doesn't know that I know. I only found out today. I haven't been home yet.” A shiver ripples through me, and I draw my arms around myself. “I'm not looking forward to going home either. Am I supposed to tell him I know? Or do I wait for him to tell me?”
