The Shadow Box(50)

“What old girls?” I asked.

“A case I once worked on,” Griffin snapped, before Alexander could reply. “And I shared the details with my sons—because I don’t like secrets in the family. Meanwhile, one of my sons is having an affair with a married woman who’s fucking one of our neighbors, and the other is raising secret keeping to a high art.” He glared at Alexander.

“You knew? About Ford and Sallie?” I asked. Griffin’s cell phone buzzed, and without responding, he walked into the kitchen to take the call.

“He knows everything,” Alexander said, sounding miserable. “The security guards spy for him. Markham is always looking around. Plus, the men talk at the Last Monday Club. Edward probably bragged about it now that Dan stopped going. I don’t know why Ford wants to join that stupid club so much.”

“You don’t want to join?” I asked, wondering how he would know whether Dan Benson went or not.

Alexander shook his head. “I wouldn’t belong to a club that doesn’t take women. I wouldn’t do that to Emily. We don’t want a life like her parents’. Or yours and Dad’s.” He gave me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry.”

“I try not to let you see it,” I said.

“Yeah, well, I do see it.” He took a deep breath. “Ford is so fucked up. He won’t let anyone be on his side—it’s like he feels he doesn’t deserve it. And now, all I can think of is him seeing that little kid, Sallie’s son—” Alexander shook his head hard as if to dislodge the image. “Hurting a little boy just like we were hurt.” He lowered his voice. “My father sucks. It’s his fault Ford’s the way he is.”

Griffin came back into the hall. “That was Wade. Ford’s been sleeping it off over there, but he’s awake now.”

It didn’t surprise me that Ford would go to the Lockwoods’ house. Wade and Leonora were practically grandparents to the boys.

“He could have called,” Alexander said.

“Well, we know where he is,” Griffin said. “Let him vent to Wade, as long as he doesn’t go out of the inner circle. We have to know who to trust in this world. Sallie Benson and her husband are not among them. I’ll deal with this later.”

Griffin headed back into the kitchen, and Alexander rushed to his car, keys out.

“Where are you going?” I called to Alexander.

“To get Ford,” he said. “Dad sounds calm, but he’s not. He’s going to head to the Lockwoods’ in two minutes, I guarantee, and yank Ford out of bed, and who knows what he’ll do. I don’t want that to happen. Will you stall him, Claire?”

“No,” I said.

“What?” Alexander asked.

“Ford brought this on himself, Alexander,” I said. “Your brother needs rehab, some kind of intervention, before he hurts someone—or himself. He could have killed someone, driving drunk.”

“Please, Claire,” Alexander said. “Don’t turn on him—you’ve always been good to us. He’s going to need it even more now.”

Just then the garage door began to open, and I heard Griffin’s car start up. Alexander was so agitated that he fumbled the car keys, dropped them, practically fell as he got into his car.

Alexander started the Porsche, gunned it, and sped through the turnaround. As he entered the Catamount Road tunnel of trees, dark in morning shadow, I saw something dark yellow flash in front of his car. Alexander braked, skidded sideways, and fighting the wheel, crashed into the stone wall.

Griffin and I tore across the driveway. The car’s front end had crumpled like an accordion. The airbag had deployed, and Alexander was slumped into it. Griffin yanked at Alexander’s door, but it was out of whack from the impact and wouldn’t open. We ran to the passenger side—same thing. Griffin grabbed a rock from the old wall and smashed the car window. He reached in and, working the inside handle as I pulled from outside, we got the door open.

Alexander tried to wriggle free of the airbag as Griffin leaned in.

“Jesus,” Griffin said.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Alexander said.

“Are you okay?” I asked over Griffin’s shoulder.

Alexander didn’t answer me—he was staring at his father. “Something ran in front of the car—an animal. A big cat, I think. I didn’t want to hit it.”

“You swerved to avoid a cat?” Griffin asked.

“Yes,” Alexander said. His voice broke, and he tried to struggle free of the airbag.

“You crashed a hundred-thousand-dollar car for a cat?” Griffin asked. “Next time, Alexander, hit the goddamned animal.” He shook his head at me—disgust at Alexander? At me? I heard voices coming from down the road—Wade and Ford were walking toward our house. Griffin stalked over.

Alexander climbed across the front seats; I helped him get out, and he leaned unsteadily against the car.

“Are you okay?” I asked again.

“My chest hurts,” he said. “The airbag really got me.”

“I’m going to call 911,” I said.

“No,” he said quickly, grabbing my wrist as I pulled my phone from my pocket. “It’s nothing, seriously.”

“Alexander, sit down. You’re in shock,” I said.