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3:42 p.m.: James enters. I watch as he checks over his shoulder, then hurries to the bottle of wine that I assume is almost empty by now.
I watch as he retrieves what appears to be a small plastic bag from his pocket.
I watch as he pours the powdery white contents into the wine bottle that Meredith is drinking from.
I watch him replace the cork and leave the room.
My pulse roars in my ears as I stare at the paused image of my son pouring what I know is crushed Xanax into Meredith’s bottle of wine.
Suddenly, everything becomes crystal clear. My gut was right.
James killed Meredith because she was a threat to his inheritance.
Money.
It is all aboutmoney.
Then another thought occurs to me: There is only one more roadblock to James inheriting my money.
Me.
25
James
My fingertips trace the letters carved into the weathered wooden bench that overlooks the ravine.
Tristan and Nina Foreverit reads, with a little heart at the end. It’s written in Tristan’s blocky script.
I wonder if Nina has even seen it. I wonder why Tristan carved the romantic sentiment in the first place. Guilt, perhaps? A last-ditch effort to convince himself that he cares about the wife he emotionally abandoned?
I will never understand my father, that much is certain. But I’ve realized that at this point, I don’t even care to anymore. I don’t even consider the man my blood.
“Hey.”
I turn toward the sound.
Tristan emerges from the tree line in a blue raincoat, the hood pulled over his head. A gray cloud of mist weaves through the trees behind him. The air is heavy with tiny droplets of water, the kind that tricks you into thinking you don’t need an umbrella, but soaks you the moment you step outside.
A black crow caws angrily at his arrival, then swoops off a nearby pine, gliding down the ravine and out of sight.
“I brought you a raincoat,” he says, stepping onto the cliff.
I wonder how long he’s known I’ve been out here.
When I don’t take the coat, he drapes it over the backrest.
Tristan stands beside the bench, his hands stuffed into his jeans pockets.
For a few minutes, we stare across the ravine, at the trees in the distance, their muted greens distorted by the fog. Above them, thick, ominous clouds blanket the sky as far as the eye can see. They’ll release soon, dropping a deluge across the mountains.
Finally, my father speaks. “How much money do you want, James?”
The question catches me off guard. “What’s the price tag for calling your son a faggot and forcing your wife to kill herself?”
“I’m not going to participate in this kind of conversation.” Tristan’s voice is calm. Controlled. “How much money do you want? I understand this is why you’ve come back. I will give you the amount you request and then I want you to leave—and I never want to see you again.”
“I’m not leaving Mom, Tristan.”
