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“No, John’s right, it’s embarrassing.”
“Dad, TJ’s going to call if you don’t. It should come from you, don’t you think?”
“Okay, fine.” My father huffed, slid his phone from his pocket, and scrolled through it, pressing the button. “Not one word, you two.”
I shut up, breathing hard.
John fell silent.
“Stan, it’s Paul here,” my father began, fake-cheery. “Sorry to bother. How are you? Good, glad to hear it. Listen. John and I have been talking. Do you mind if I put you on speaker? Thanks.” He pressed the button.
“So, what can I help you with?” Stan asked matter-of-factly.
“It’s about the acquisition.” My father held up the phone. “Were there any accounting issues that surfaced during John’s due diligence?”
“God, no, not that I know of. John tells me we’re good to go. I even gave an interview to theInquirertoday about the acquisition—”
No.“Dad, he’s lying. He doesn’t want the embezzlement to come out. He wants to keep the acquisition on track. He stands to make—”
“TJ, quiet!” My father covered the phone, but Stan kept talking.
“What did TJ say? Is John there? John, is there a problem?”
John answered, “Absolutely not. I’m sorry we called—”
“Stan?” I grabbed the phone from my father’s hand. “This is TJ. Tell the truth. Lemaire embezzled from you, and you and John are covering it up to keep the acquisition—”
“TJ, yo!” Stan raised his voice, angry. “Are you calling me a liar? What the hell are you—”
“Stan, admit it! Lemaire was murdered—”
“Are you nuts? Neil Lemaire committed suicide! The coroner confirmed it today! Paul? Paul, are you there? Get this drunk off the phone!”
“I’m here.” My father grabbed the phone back. “Stan, excuse us. Every family has rough patches, and we’re having one now. Sorry we bothered you.” He hung up and pushed me back against the door.
“Dad, no, please!”
“Get out, TJ! I’m done with you! Get out of my sight!”
My mother cried out, “Paul, no! Stop!”
“Get out!” My father yanked open the door, pushed me outside, and slammed it closed in my face.
Chapter Thirty
I drove home, numb and empty. It was drizzling, so I turned on the windshield wipers. The rhythm of their flapping matched my heartbeat. Traffic was sparse, and the asphalt streets were a slick black. Humidity formed halos around the streetlights and the bright signs of the passing strip malls and box stores.
I flashed on my mother crying. I hated that I had caused her pain again. I also hated that I couldn’t begin to understand John.
I drove on autopilot. I wanted to pick up at every block, but I kept going, trying to outrun my craving, racing myself to get home. I could almost hear the crack of a tab on the can. I could almost taste the first sip. My nostrils filled with the smell of hops. Miller Lite was my go-to, but I drank them all, foreign or domestic, canned or bottled, commercial or artisanal.
I pulled into my driveway, got out of the car, and looked around reflexively, then remembered that no Hyundai would be following me now.
I felt confused. I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know what Rigel’s death ended, if anything.
I went to the house, let myself in, and turned on the light. Mangosprinted from the windowsill and bolted to her hiding place under the couch. She needed her shot, so I got her works and went over to get her.
I knelt down and looked under the couch. Mango backed up, and I noticed a strange black line on the rug, coming from the baseboard.
