Beyond the Shadow of Night(87)

“Don’t, Brad. I can promise you I remember it better than you do. You asked me to marry you and I turned you down. I remember it because it made me cry for all the wrong reasons.”

“Point is, that was when I stopped asking you to move in with me. I could say it’s been a real hard twenty months since then, but it hasn’t; it’s been just great. I’ve known you for fifteen years in all and I like to think I know what makes you tick. But, you know, after all that time I still don’t understand the mystical hold your father had on you. Now, he’s gone, and I can see it must be terrible for you, but if that means I can start asking you that question again with some purpose, why should I care if you prefer not to tell me why Asher pulled that trigger?”

“That’s kind of the problem.”

Brad thought for a moment. “I . . . I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, just like you think you know me, I’ve known Asher for a few years. We had days out together—the three of us—and Asher stayed over with us a lot. On one or two occasions, when I was alone with him, he used to tell me about a few incidents from his past. He had some hard times after getting laid off. He didn’t go into detail, but I could make a good guess, and I got to know what makes him tick. I think I have a feel for how he reacts. And this week, when he opened up and told me his life story, I learned even more, and . . .”

“And what?”

“Well, a part of me finds it hard to believe he did pull that trigger.”

“Excuse me?” Brad’s face went rigid, his nostrils twitching with suppressed anger.

“I know the guy. I know it sounds illogical, but I have serious doubts.”

“But you told me they have a confession?”

“They do. And the evidence. His blood on the glass door panel that was smashed to break in. His blood and Father’s blood all over the grip of the pistol found in the backyard. Paint on his shoe. And they have eyewitnesses.”

“Well, isn’t that everything apart from a motive?”

“It’s all so straightforward, but then again, it isn’t. There were one or two things Asher told me that don’t add up.”

“Such as what?”

“Well, in his younger days he shot a few Nazis.”

“Jeez. Really?”

Diane shrugged. “It was the war. I guess it was a way of life.”

“Well . . . yeah, I guess so.”

“But he said he hated it—that he never got used to the idea that ending any life was acceptable, even the enemy’s. And he really doted on Father, thought of him as his brother. I find it hard to accept he’d kill anyone, but kill Father?” She shook her head dolefully.

“Unless he’s lying to you about that. Unless he really got a kick out of killing Nazis. Most people would.”

“Why would he lie to me about how he found it difficult to kill? Why would he even do that?”

“He might think saying he enjoyed killing would make him sound like a monster.”

“But why would he try to make himself appear empathetic and some kind of pacifist, but at the same time take himself to a cop station and confess to murder? If he’d just got on the bus home to Detroit that night, he might easily have gotten away with it. You do realize that, don’t you?”

Brad didn’t reply, just thought.

“Surely you can see that something here doesn’t make sense?”

“I can. And I can see this whole thing is tearing you up. You haven’t slept properly for days.”

Diane felt her eyes grow weary at the observation, almost self-fulfilling.

“Why not give it a break? You should try to get back to your normal routine just a little bit. Why not relax and let me cook?”

She let out a long sigh. “Sure. Thanks. Perhaps I could do with a little normal right now.”



Brad cooked pasta, while Diane showered off the smell of the jail. They ate listening to Easy Hits FM, then tried to watch a movie, but had to admit defeat when Diane couldn’t keep her eyes open.

“Been a hard few days for you,” Brad said as he turned the bedroom light out a few minutes later.

Diane didn’t reply, just lay back on the bed and closed her eyes to the mess of the world outside. She felt her shoulder being stroked, and moved across, letting his arm encase her shoulders, her head resting on his chest, her hand absentmindedly caressing his belly.

Then she burst into tears, not really knowing why because she hadn’t cried once over this whole damn affair. But today she’d learned more about her father’s life than ever before.

Brad understood—Brad always understood—and so the bedside lamp stayed off, his mouth stayed shut, and a box of Kleenex appeared in front of her. Most importantly, his arm was still around her shoulders.

A good few minutes of wiping and sniffing later, it was Diane who spoke.

“Have you heard that quote from the Bible?” she said. “The one about the sins of the father being passed down the generations.”

“It’s bullshit,” he said, the profanity rare for him. “And whatever your father did, whatever it was that provoked Asher to kill him—”

“If he did kill him,” Diane said as Brad paused for breath.

“As you wish, if he did. But whatever sins or crimes your father committed, I don’t care. They were his. Not yours.”