Before the Fall(105)

“Who is?” asks Bill. “Plus, you’re—how old are you even?”

“I’m thirty-four.”

“A baby.”

“Not—I mean—I work hard, okay? I’m trying to start a restaurant, to rebuild—while also—and, okay, sometimes I have a few beers.”

“Who doesn’t?” says Bill. “At the end of a long day. In my book that makes a man a patriot.”

“Right, and—look, the guy’s a—hero—Scott—clearly, but—well, he kind of moved in—”

“Scott Burroughs? He moved into your house.”

“Well, he—he showed up a couple of days ago to see the kid, which—again—he saved him, right? So that’s—nobody’s saying he can’t see JJ. But—a man’s home is supposed to be his—and my wife—you know, it’s a lot to handle, with the boy—a lot to process—so maybe she’s just—confused, but—”

Bill bites his lip. Though he doesn’t show the audience at home, he’s losing his patience with Doug, who is clearly a basket case and who—left to his own devices—will implode without communicating the story Bill has brought him here to tell.

“Let me see,” he interrupts, “not to interrupt, but let me see if I can clarify a few things here, because, well, you’re clearly upset.”

Doug stops, nods. Bill turns slightly so he’s speaking into the camera.

“Your wife’s sister and her husband were killed, along with their daughter, under very suspicious circumstances in a private plane crash, leaving their son, JJ, an orphan at four. So you and your wife took him in, out of the goodness of your hearts, and have been trying to give him some kind of family, help him through this terrible time. And then another man—Scott Burroughs—a man rumored to have been romantically involved with your sister-in-law, who was last seen leaving the home of a loose and notoriously single heiress—has moved into your house, while you—meanwhile—have been asked to leave by your wife.”

He turns to Doug.

“You were thrown out,” he says, “to call it what it is. Where did you sleep last night?”

“In my truck,” Doug mumbles.

“What?”

“In my truck. I slept in my truck.”

Bill shakes his head.

“You slept in a truck, while Scott Burroughs slept in your house. With your wife.”

“No. I mean, I don’t know if there’s—that it’s something romantic—I’m not—”

“Son, please. What else would it be? The man saves the boy—allegedly—and your wife takes him in, both of them, as if to make, what? A new family? Who cares that her actual husband is now homeless? Heartbroken.”

Doug nods, the urge to cry suddenly unstoppable. But he pulls himself together.

“Don’t forget about the money,” he says.

Bill nods. Bingo.

“What money?” he says innocently.

Doug wipes his eyes, aware that he is slumped over. He straightens, trying to regain control.

“So—David and Maggie, JJ’s parents—they were—well, you know—he ran this network. That’s not to say anything shady, but—I mean, they were very wealthy people.”

“Worth what? Approximately.”

“Uh, I don’t know that I should—”

“Ten million, fifty?”

Doug hesitates.

“More?” asks Bill.

“Maybe double,” says Doug reluctantly.

“Wow. Okay. A hundred million dollars. And this money—”

Doug rubs his beard a few quick times with his hand, like a man trying to sober up.

“A lot of it goes to charity,” he says, “but then, of course, the rest is JJ’s. In a trust. Which—you know—he’s four, so—”

“You’re saying,” says Bill, “I think you’re saying, that whoever gets the boy, gets the money.”

“That’s, I mean, a coarse way of—”

Bill stares at him with disdain.

“I prefer the word blunt. My point is—and maybe I’m being dumb here—but there are tens of millions of dollars at stake for whoever parents this kid—my godchild, I should add. So—yeah—I’m not—in the spirit of full transparency—I’m not objective here by a long shot. After what he’s been through, the death of his—everybody he loves—that this kid would become a pawn—”

“Well, I mean, Eleanor’s not—she’s a good person. Means well. I just—my thought is, she must be—it’s manipulation somehow.”

“By the painter.”

“Or—I don’t know—maybe the money made her—the idea of it—changed her somehow.”

“Because you thought you had a happy marriage.”

“Well, I mean, there’s some struggle, right? We don’t always—but that’s—in your twenties, thirties—it’s hard work—life. Making your mark? And you’re supposed to—stick by each other, not—”

Bill nods, sits back. In his right pant pocket, his phone vibrates. He slips it out and looks at the text message, his eyes narrowing. As he does, a second message comes in, then a third. Namor has been bugging the wife’s home phone, and is writing to say he heard something.