It was Sunday morning and Kate had just informed her father of Peter’s request to meet.
“Peter needs your help,” she said. “So do I.”
“No. It’s too late for Peter. I told you this would end tragically if he persisted. Now he’s wanted for murder, and that cockamamie alibi of his isn’t going to hold.”
“He didn’t kill that woman. If you’d only—”
“For God’s sake, Kate, wake up to what’s happening. Stenman’s guards deny seeing Peter last night. According to arson investigators, a cigar, left burning, started the fire. Morgan denies the theft of any money. Howard Muller is vacationing in the south of Mexico as we speak. The ambulance drivers claim they drove somebody, but whoever it was forced them to stop. And they don’t recognize Peter as that person. Even if he was there— and I’m not saying he was—he still could have murdered the woman. The time of death may have been mid-afternoon. Even this Drew fellow told police he left Peter before two.”
“The initial DNA tests will be ready tomorrow or early the next day,” Kate said. “They’ll prove he’s innocent.”
“You’re not doing him any favors by pretending to be his attorney. You’re smart, but you have no experience. He needs a real lawyer.”
“He needs a . . . a friend. You can’t be this cold-blooded. Somebody murdered Hannah Neil. You as much as said so yesterday. Peter confirmed that with Ellis.”
“He went to see Detective Ellis? No wonder . . .”
“No wonder someone set him up?”
“I didn’t say that.” Ayers went to the cabinet near the sink. He reached for and retrieved a bottle of Jameson. He filled a six-ounce tumbler.
“It’s not even eight in the morning,” Kate said, her voice a knife’s edge. “You’re killing yourself, and rather than do something noble to ease your mind, you wallow, morning, noon, and night. Come on, Father. Did you love Hannah? What happened between you and Matthew Neil that caused best friends to quit being friends? Why do you turn your back on their only son? He needs your help.”
Kate heard a noise at the kitchen door. She turned. Standing in the doorframe, looking old and defeated, was the forgotten woman.
“M . . . other,” Kate stuttered. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s all right, Kathryn.” Anne Ayers, her chin trembling, looked at her husband of over thirty years. “Answer your daughter, Jason. Do you still love Hannah and her memory? I do—and I forgave both of you long ago... Answer Kate: what happened between you and Matthew Neil?”
“Anne. I’ll be with you in a minute—”
“Do not put me off,” she said. “I’m tired. Tired of deceiving myself. Tired of your weak and worn explanations. I’ve known for too long that your firm works for dangerous people. Is it drug money, Jason? I’ve told myself it isn’t, but that’s a lie. Isn’t it?”
An awkward silence filled the kitchen.
Anne raised her index finger and aimed. “Goddammit, Jason! Answer me. Instead of getting drunk, say something.”
“You don’t understand, Anne. This is beyond—”
“Beyond your ability to do anything? Is that your cellophane explanation for everything? I’m sick of being your wife. I know I’m too old and worn-out to ever find another husband. I don’t care. I’ll live alone before I live another day with the man you’ve become. Thank God our daughter knows right from wrong.”
“Please, Anne.”
“Curtis overdosed on drugs,” Anne said. “He was fourteen. Have you forgotten that? You are partially responsible for his death.”
“No! I loved our son.”
“You knowingly set up the legal defenses and bank accounts for killers. You are no better than they are.” Anne Ayers turned. Three steps later, she stopped. Without looking back, she said, “In fifteen minutes I leave, unless you begin doing what’s right. When I’m gone, it’ll be forever.”
“Don’t.”
“Then tell Kate and Peter what’s happening. If it’s still possible, help them.”
Ayers took his half-full drink to the sink and poured it down the drain. Kate thought her father looked relieved. Maybe he wouldn’t need to spend the rest of his life trying to hide the truth. They had all buried too many secrets, and this one, at least, might no longer eat away at him.
“Kate,” he said. “I’ll meet Peter in the guesthouse. Tell him to use Furlong Street—it’s secluded. I’ll leave the rear gate unlocked. But I warn you: no matter what Peter thinks, there’s nothing left to do. This has gone too far.”
“I want to be there, Father,” Kate said.
“No. I have things I need to share with Peter. Alone.”
Kate began to protest, but her mother shook her head. “This is between your father and Peter.”
“But, Mother—”
“Come, dear. Make your call. Set up the meeting.” With a hand on Kate’s shoulder, Anne Ayers led her daughter away.
An hour later, Peter ducked through Ayers’ back gate. He wondered why the man had changed his mind about cooperating, but what mattered most was Kate’s conviction that her father could be trusted.
Peter scanned the yard, dotted by fruit and shade trees. The sky was clear and birds were chirping, perhaps warning one another that a stranger lurked nearby. He knew the feeling. Tall hedges ran around the perimeter of the multi-acre backyard, ensuring privacy. Peter bent down and picked up a stray lemon. He sniffed the fruit, aimed at a tree, and tossed the yellow oval. It hit the target, a Eucalyptus trunk, and bounced sharply right before rolling down a gentle slope towards a row of roses.
Crickets, birds, a distant dog, and a fountain—all combined to produce a natural symphony. Ayers’ home felt peaceful. Peter knew it wasn’t.
A cottage sat back from the main house. That was where Kate had told Peter to meet her father. The structure looked small next to the mansion, but was at least two thousand square feet—or about the size of a middle-class suburban house. The wood shingle exterior was weathered, and the roof was peaked. A red brick chimney, entwined with thick ivy, ran up the near side. Without knocking, Peter entered as a rush of wind blew past him, disturbing a line of dust motes that vanished once he shut the front door behind him.
Inside the guesthouse, Peter glanced at the back of Ayers’ gray, motionless head, rising above a leather recliner. Across the surface of a mahogany table, Ayers had fanned out photographs, passing from one time, or year, or season, to another. Faces young and fresh grew heavy and lined. A stack of scrapbooks had fallen to the floor off to one side. They lay in a disheveled mound, pages open, slips of yellowed paper—press clippings it looked like—hanging out, bent and tired.
The room smelled musty. Dusty sheets covered most pieces of furniture. Drawn shutters, the slats closed, blocked out any hope of sunlight. The sole source of illumination came from a standup reading lamp, reflecting off the faces in the aged photographs.
Jason Ayers turned and weakly greeted Peter. As if weighing an extra hundred pounds, the attorney struggled to push himself up with the flats of his hands. He had red-rimmed eyes, strained, Peter suspected, from staring at the thousands of memories scattered across the room.
“I have so . . . many . . .” Ayers looked away. He tugged at a fleshy earlobe and took a half-step, stumbled, then tried again. His arms hung long and limp as if they had been de-boned. Wasting no time, Ayers began unloading four decades of pain. “I didn’t do anything to help your mother . . . but not just her. Your father. I killed him.”
Ayers turned in on himself as he laid out the story of Matthew and Hannah Neil and his role in bending their lives.
“The university investigated your father, because of me. It was done quietly . . .” Ayers spoke haltingly, and at length, and Peter listened without interrupting.
Later, when Ayers paused to drink a cup of water, Peter whispered, “So that’s what we’ve avoided all these years.”
