A Good Marriage(98)

That wasn’t true, of course. Amanda had a son. I also had no idea if she’d left a will. If she hadn’t, any money in her name would have gone to Case, then Zach. Not that there was any money anyway, apparently.

“Amanda,” he said, then hung his head. It was over his bowed head that I glimpsed the large cross on the wall behind him. Little Jesus.

But when Xavier finally looked up, his expression was more resigned than guilty. “You’re the person who called before?”

I nodded. “I thought it might be easier if I came in person to explain.”

He looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry that I hung up on you.”

I nodded. “That’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. That’s not the person I am anymore. I mean, I have been that person, God knows.” He shook his head. “Once upon a time, hanging up on a nice lady would have been the least of the bad things I did in a day.”

Nice lady. The way he said it gave me the chills.

“I understand,” I said, though I did not.

“I’ve tried so hard to make it right,” he went on, leaning against the doorframe and gesturing behind him, to the cross maybe, to a family inside. I had no idea, though others living in that house would complicate any fingerprint analysis. What if I didn’t pull Xavier’s? “I’ve tried so hard to make me right. I’ve had whole years I’d just as soon forget. But this house, my job—I’m a supervisor at the Perdue processing plant two towns over. I’m even thinking about marrying my girlfriend if she wears me down a little more. Anyway, I’ve been keeping myself on the straight and narrow. It hasn’t always been easy, but these days I’m making my way.”

“I understand,” I said again, but dread was creeping up the back of my scalp.

Xavier Lynch looked away as he sniffled. Was he actually crying, or only pretending to? “How did Amanda die?”

I needed to be careful now. He was fishing for what I knew. And, polite or not, there was something decidedly off about Xavier Lynch. Like every moment that passed was yet another he’d survived without doing something monstrous. Xavier and I were doing okay so far, but maybe that was only because I hadn’t tried to bolt.

“She was found at the bottom of the stairs in her house. She died of a head injury,” I said. All true facts. “They’ve arrested her husband.”

Xavier winced slightly. “She always was on borrowed time.”

Well now, what did that mean?

“Had she told you about problems she was having?”

“Me?” He shook his head, frowned. “Oh, I haven’t talked to Amanda for at least twelve years, longer probably, since … you know.” He made a vague motion with his hand.

“No. I don’t know. Since what?”

His eyes narrowed and turned colder. “Who did you say you were again?”

“An attorney.” I tried to imagine how far the car was behind me. How quickly I could turn and race toward it. “Amanda’s estate needs to be divided.”

My mouth felt tacky, and my eyes had started to burn. Like I was staring into the lights of an oncoming train. Brace yourself.

Xavier was staring at me differently now. Not quite hostile, but nearly. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”

“I’m here because of the will, like I told you,” I said as calmly as I could. “As Amanda’s father, you’re her rightful next of kin.”

“What?” Xavier sounded almost offended. He shook his head vigorously. “No, no, no. Amanda is—was—my niece.”

Fuck. All the time I’d already wasted.

I tried to keep myself composed. “Excuse the mistake. Do you know where I can find Amanda’s father? I really do need to talk to him.”

Xavier’s eyebrows bunched as he tilted his head to the side. Like maybe I was messing with him. “Saint Ann’s Cemetery.”

“He’s dead?” I asked, my heart picking up speed. “What do you mean? When?”

“Oh, twelve, thirteen years ago now.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Afraid it sure is.” Angry now, definitely. “What the hell is this anyway? Are you fucking with me?”

What the hell was he talking about, dead?

“No, no. I’m sorry, Mr. Lynch, I just—I don’t understand. My information didn’t say anything about his having passed away.”

“I don’t know how you can know Amanda and not know that she killed her father. Not that it was her fault. My brother William always was a fucking asshole.”

My ears were ringing. Holy. Shit.

“I’m sorry, what?” My voice was high and shrill.

“Amanda killed her father. Twelve, thirteen years ago,” he said, with less of an edge this time. “But he deserved it for sure.”

“What happened?”

“Apparently Amanda came up on William in the bathroom on top of one of her girlfriends. They’d been spending the night at that dump of a trailer on prom weekend, of all damn things. William was drunk and, um, violating the friend, or trying to. Cops said the friend was already dead by then—William had hit her head on the bathtub. My guess is that part was an accident. He probably didn’t even notice. William was so damn huge, bigger than me. I know that doesn’t make what he was doing better, but …”