Keep Her Safe(139)

“You mean Abe wouldn’t have ended up dead.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “I never wanted Abe dead. But then he had to go toe-to-toe with Mantis. Your mother tried to talk him out of it. She warned him that Mantis had made a threat.” Silas shakes his head. “Canning wanted me in that DA seat and Mantis chasing down drug dealers, and he is one damn determined man. Abe was not earning any points with him.”

My heart starts racing. “What are you saying? That Canning was behind Abe’s death?”

Silas fills his glass again, like he’s a man on a mission to black out, and soon. “I don’t know that he went as far as to spell it out to Mantis. But I know he told Mantis to leave that bag of money in Abe’s car, see if Abe would be fool enough to bite.” He chuckles. “When Canning came looking for it, your mother told him she’d burned the money. Boy was he mad when he found out she’d squirreled it away instead.” He sighs. “And he’s likely the one who told Mantis about Abe’s search for Betsy. That’s how Mantis lured Abe to the Lucky Nine.” Another long sip. “And he certainly made sure the whole mess was all wrapped up with shiny paper and a pretty bow, to hide the ugly underneath.”

Silence hangs. “How many girls, Silas?”

He sets his jaw, and my heart speeds up, thinking he’s going to shut down.

“Three. I was weak only three times.”

I cringe as mental images flash through my mind. “Including Betsy?”

“Four,” he corrects softly.

I sway as I struggle to stand and head for the door, unable to bear this for one more second. “It’s over for you.”

“That damn federal agent.” Silas’s voice turns bitter, his tongue loose from drink. “Did he blackmail her? I’ll bet he did. I’ll bet that’s why she called me up that night. She told me the feds had found out about her making the IA investigation against Mantis go away.”

Jesus. He knew about that too? Every word out of Silas’s mouth since stepping onto the porch the night my mother died has been a complete lie.

“She was unhinged, rambling about Betsy. This is all his fault. The bastard had managed to spin your mother into such a web of anxiety that she’d drink herself into passing out on her kitchen table, with a damn gun lying next to her head. He’s a bastard, through and through . . .”

Silas’s voice drifts into the background as I process what he’s just said. “Wait. Why would you say she was passed out on the table?”

“What?” He pauses as if to replay his own words in his head, a flicker of something in his eyes.

“You said she was passed out on the kitchen table with a ‘damn gun lying next to her head.’?”

“Oh. Just . . . I assumed that’s what happened.” He tries to brush it off with a wave, but I hear the rare stumble in his words; I see the flash of panic, the way he holds his breath.

And the one piece that’s been missing this entire time—that one glaring piece I couldn’t see, because there’s no way I could possibly imagine this version of the truth—falls into place.

“My mother didn’t kill herself, did she?”

And with those words, that realization, an overwhelming wave of relief weakens my knees.

Racing fast behind it is a wave of paralyzing shock. Because if my mom didn’t kill herself, it means someone slipped into the kitchen while I was in the shower and, finding her passed out on the table, put the gun into her hand and pulled the trigger.

Someone who knew the alarm’s code by heart.

Someone who had a lot to lose if my unhinged mother came clean to the feds about what she knew.

My mother phoned Klein that night to make a deal. She had no intention of killing herself. And she wasn’t saying I’d be “just fine” after she shot herself. She was saying I’d be able to handle the backlash that came once I learned the mountain of poisonous truth that had been hidden from me. She hid that money from everyone—especially Silas—because she knew what it represented, and she wanted it going to Dina and Gracie, though she wasn’t brave enough to hand it over herself and risk answering questions.

“Silas . . .” Hot tears roll down my cheeks, my voice barely audible.

“I just wanted to talk some sense into her. That’s why I drove there that night. To talk some sense into her. I don’t know what came over me. The gun was there and she sounded so sure on the phone. I don’t . . .” He shakes his head, his words drifting.

I start backing away. I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe I’m hearing this.

“She was going to ruin so many lives, including yours. I don’t know what came over me in that moment, but I couldn’t let her do that. I couldn’t lose everything. I couldn’t spend my life in prison. But this . . . if I had any idea what it would feel like, to carry this guilt, day in, day out . . .”

His increasingly pronounced limp, the dark rings under his eyes from countless sleepless nights . . . it’s not because my mother killed herself.

It’s because he killed her.

“But, I don’t . . . I bolted out of the shower . . .” How did he get away?

“I heard you coming,” he confirms. “You called out to her, and then your feet were pounding down the stairs, just as I closed the door behind me. I thought you would have heard the alarm activating. I thought someone might notice me pulling away in my car. And when the cruiser rolled down our driveway that night, I was sure I’d be leaving in handcuffs.”