The Winter Sister(90)

“I’m not your personal savings account, Thomas. I’ve told you this.”

“Just look,” Tommy said. “Look—it’s her blanket or whatever.”

Through the branches, I watched as Tommy opened a box—the box, I saw through squinting eyes, the one I’d brought to his house the day before, then stupidly left behind when Ben dragged me out the door. I hadn’t really thought about it—there had been too many other things tugging me this way and that—but now, seeing it in Tommy’s arms, I could barely breathe. He pulled out a single corner of Persephone’s afghan, and my stomach lurched.

“See?” Tommy said. “I bet she used this all the time. Way more often than an old sweater or a dingy copy of some dumbass book—and you paid for all that shit no problem.”

It took me a moment to catch up—I was still staring at the afghan—but as I began to process Tommy’s words, I felt the nausea slither up my esophagus. I tried to swallow it down, but everything inside me was stiffening, my throat heavy and immobile as stone.

Will had Persephone’s things. Tommy had said he’d sold them to someone who needed them more than he did. But why would Will have needed them? My mind raced through possibilities. Had Persephone’s death made him feel guilty for ignoring his daughter during her life? Had he sought, too late, to know her through the things that had been hers?

I looked at Ben, whose face was contorted by confusion and surprise. Still in the dark about his dad’s relationship to Persephone, he had no context with which to make sense of it.

“You’re not supposed to just show up like this,” Will scolded. “There’s a procedure.”

“Yeah, well, fuck the procedure, because I called your secretary all day and she gave me nothing but bullshit. And I’m so sick of your rules. That was great and all when I needed a lawyer, or a place to live, or even back when it happened, but you know what I realized? I hold the fucking cards, and they’re all coming up aces.”

“Oh, is that right—you hold the cards?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, let’s call the police, then, shall we? I’ll tell them how you’re trespassing on my property, and then you can tell them . . . whatever it is you want, and we’ll see who they believe—the mayor, or a convicted sex offender.”

“They’ll believe me,” Tommy said, but there was something in his voice now that sounded unsure.

“All right, then,” Will said. “Do you want to call or should I? Because to tell you the truth, you’ve never been anything but a headache, Thomas, and I’d be happy to see you arrested again. I only gave you money when it happened because you were so easily bought. Such a bargain. But I guess that’s what happens when you never have any money—you have no idea what things are actually worth.”

Will took a step toward Tommy, and his eyes, blacker than his son’s, glinted in the light.

“You could have drained me of millions,” he continued. “Although, at a certain point, I would have just found other ways of dealing with you, I suppose.”

“Bullshit,” Tommy spat. “I see what you’re doing—you’re trying to scare me—but I’m not afraid of you. I know you’re not a killer.”

“I’m not?”

“I saw your face that night. You were fucked up about it. Snot running down your nose. Crying all over her. Begging her to ‘wake up, oh God, just please wake up,’ even as you were dumping her on the ground. It was pathetic. You’re not a killer. It was just what you’ve always said. You were pushed too far.”

“I’d be careful, Thomas. I’m feeling a little pushed right now.”

“Dad,” Ben said. He stood up from behind the tree and walked toward his father. At the same time, as if we had choreographed the move, I followed him, my body in step with his as we stomped onto the driveway.

Tommy startled when he saw us. The box slipped from his hands, and I grabbed it.

Will, too, looked shaken, the fierceness in his expression now replaced with unmasked surprise. “Ben,” he said, and then, looking at me, his eyes narrowing in on mine, he added, “You. What are you two doing—spying on me?”

“What are you doing?” Ben demanded. “What did you do?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the shit, Dad,” Ben said through his teeth. He took a step toward his father, and even through his sweatshirt and jeans, I could tell that all the muscles in his body were tensed. “Please tell me you didn’t do it.”

“Do what?” Will asked. “You’re babbling, son.”

“Tell me you didn’t kill her.”

The air in my lungs solidified. I managed only the thinnest breath.

“Kill who?” Will asked. “That—that girlfriend of yours? Really, Ben, it’s been years. You have to move on from that.”

Ben grabbed Will by the shoulders and pushed him against the garage door. I heard Will’s back slam against the wood.

“Take your hands off me, son. Right now,” Will said.

His voice was as cold as I knew the air should have been—but I couldn’t feel anything, not even my own body. I could only watch as the scene unfolded, as if I were in the audience of a play, as if I could leave anytime I wanted to, and the story would end right there.