And you will always talk first.
The only signs of his aging are the deepened grooves forged by that squint, the dry riverbeds spider-webbing from the corners of his eyes. Etchings of time, and casualties of practiced, unwavering stares. My father would have made a hell of a professional gambler.
“Hello, Dad.”
“Rosie,” he says.
Only he calls me Rosie. To the rest of the world, I’m just Rose.
“Where’s Abril?” The housekeeper.
“She only works part-time now. I realized I didn’t need someone skulking about the house if there wasn’t enough work to do.”
Skulking is a fifty-cent Logan Yates word.
I haven’t seen my father in nine years. There are no hugs. Hugs are luxuries of the weak, and the Yates family tree is carved from petrified wood.
“Maxwell.”
Max squeezes my hand as if clinging to a flotation device. “Hi, Grandpa.”
The last time Max stood face-to-face with his grandfather, he was two. He’s only known him through phone calls and FaceTime since then. Max used to ask me why we never saw him, and I explained Grandpa didn’t like to travel, and I didn’t like going back to Bury. The answer never satisfied Max, but he eventually stopped asking. Children grow used to routine.
“No more Grandpa,” my father says. “You’re twelve, right?”
“Eleven.”
“Okay, eleven. How about you just call me Logan. I call you your name, you call me mine. Agreed?”
“I go by Max, not Maxwell.”
“Fine, Max.” My father reaches a hand out to his grandson, who hesitantly takes it and gives it a feeble pump. “Son, you shake a hand like that in the real world, and you may as well yank your pants down and bend over.”
“Dad.”
My father looks at me in mock surprise, and still the squint remains.
“What? He’s gotta learn these things.” He turns back to Max, sticks his hand back out. “Take my hand, Max.”
Max hesitates, then does.
“Now squeeze, boy.” My father looks down at their joined hands. “Harder, Max. Come on.”
“Dad, please.”
Max grunts as he puts all his strength into his grip.
“Listen to me,” my father tells him, still squeezing Max’s bony hand. “A handshake isn’t a sign of friendship. It’s an assessment. You versus the other guy. Who would win in a fight? That’s what I want you to think about. You need to show the other guy that if you absolutely had to, you could tear his throat out. Now, squeeze like you mean it, son.”
“Oh, for chrissakes, Dad.”
Max grunts more and his eyes narrow; his intensity as he squeezes suggests he’s actually trying to inflict pain. Only then does my father allow a rare smile. “There you go,” he says. “That’s more like it. Now you’ve got me on the defensive. Good job.”
Max releases but his defiant expression remains. I feel years of my parenting efforts crumbling away.
“That’s not the kind of lesson he needs in his life right now,” I say. “Or maybe ever.”
My father puts his hands up. “Fine, by all means.” He’s poised to say something else, perhaps one of the quips he had loaded at all times, ready to fire. Then he appears to think better of it, saying, “You’re right. You’re right. You’ve both been through a lot. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
He stands aside and ushers us inside.
1734 Rum Hill Road.
There’s a faint current of electricity rippling through me as I enter, bringing goose bumps to my arms. Like walking through a collection of ghosts who desperately try to drive me away.
I look down at my son. If he senses a change in the atmosphere, I don’t see it on his face. Why should he? This house doesn’t hold the memories for him that it does for me. Max has no idea what happened here, long before he was born.
And now we’re here to live. For a while, anyway.
My father lured me back to Bury after Riley’s death a month ago, and against all my urges, I had to concede I couldn’t do things on my own. Riley and I had always lived independently of my father’s wealth, but really, it was hardly living. My husband’s entrepreneurial ventures were always doomed to fail, and we’d saved up just enough cash to hold us over until he tried something new. As for me, my income from writing novels is just past the “hobby” threshold as defined by the IRS. I was hoping my third book would be my breakout, but it just hasn’t happened.
Yet my father’s money wasn’t the only motivation for coming home. I couldn’t stay in Milwaukee. Not in that apartment where the coroner whisked away Riley’s body, which was cool to the touch when I placed a hand on his bare shoulder. I didn’t even want to remain in the city. Too many eyes, watching. Too many shadows, long and reaching. So I left the ghosts there to come face the ones here.
See, the thing is, I need to be here. I need to face the things I ran from a long time ago. I have this idea of finding peace, but could be such a thing doesn’t exist.
The goose bumps fade, and I breathe in the familiar smells of the house. The ghosts allow me to pass.
For now.
Three
Whitefish Bay, Wisconsin
Detective Colin Pearson looked down at his buzzing cell phone and saw the three letters on the screen he’d hoped against.
Mom
By the time he decided to answer, the call was already off to voicemail. He checked the time. Nearly 9:00 p.m.
Probably four or five drinks in by now, Colin thought. Which meant her lips were loose and ready to spew out whatever came to her mind.
“Jackie again?” Colin’s wife, Meg, rested an open book on her five-month-pregnant belly.
“Yup.”
Colin would listen to his mother’s voicemail, but he needed a minute. A minute, and a couple more sips of his beer.
Colin and Meg were snug on their living-room sectional, perpendicular to each other, her
