“No. She passed away before the accident. She had stomach cancer.”
Ray’s head dropped, his hand clenching into a fist on the sheet. After a few moments of silence, he lifted his head, his gaze trained on Sonia. He looked gutted and ashen—like an old rag someone had wrung out and tossed aside. ”Did you … know my wife? It’s just that … I can’t remember what she looked like.”
Sonia’s eyes prickled with tears. “I’m sorry, I never met her. I don’t even know her name. You must have photos of her.” As the words left her lips, she realized it was another anomaly that didn’t make sense. If Ray’s wife had died of cancer as he’d claimed, why didn’t he have a single picture of her anywhere in the house? Surely Henry must have a photo of his mother—stashed under his pillow, perhaps. She made a mental note to ask him about it when she got home.
”I don’t understand,” Ray said, scratching the back of his hand in an agitated fashion. “You must have known my wife if you live next door.”
“The thing is, Ray, you just moved here a few weeks ago. You inherited the house when your mother passed away. You thought it would be best for Henry to have a fresh start in a new neighborhood. There were too many memories of his mother in your old place. You’re a freelance journalist so you can work from anywhere.”
Ray gave a solemn nod, as if seeing the logic in her words. He traced his fingers back-and-forth across his forehead. ”You said there were some things we needed to talk about. If it’s about Henry, I really appreciate you helping out, and I promise not to burden you with him too much longer. The doctor’s coming by this afternoon. If everything checks out, they’ll discharge me tomorrow. I can pick up Henry then.” His eyes met Sonia’s with a plaintive appeal. ”I might need a ride home from the hospital. And a change of clothes—some sweats and a T-shirt.”
Sonia flashed him a stilted smile. ”Of course.” She fished in her purse for the newspaper article she’d pilfered from his family room and smoothed it out on the bed in front of him. ”I found this when I was picking up Henry’s things at your house.” Despite wanting to pepper him with questions, she forced herself to stay quiet—curious to see what his reaction would be. If he recognized the story, his expression might give him away.
Ray read silently for a few minutes and then gestured at the page. ”Why are you giving me this? I don’t remember this story.” His brow creased. “Did you say you found it … with Henry’s things?” He suddenly sounded confused and tired. Sonia quashed a pang of guilt and pressed on. ”No. It was in the family room, on the end table. You must have torn it out of the newspaper for some reason. Are you sure you don’t remember anything about the story? Were you working on it, perhaps?”
Ray bit his lip and frowned. ”It doesn’t ring a bell.” He folded the page back up and handed it to her.” Maybe I tore it out to set my coffee cup on. I don’t know.” He sank back in his pillows with a weary sigh and closed his eyes.
Curbing her frustration, Sonia slipped the article into her purse. ”Ray, do you remember telling me about your childhood? About your dad, and how abusive he was? You ran away from home when you were sixteen.”
Ray’s eyes shot open, bulging with the guarded look of a caged animal.
Sonia inhaled a shallow breath before continuing, ”He made you sleep in the dog pen in the garage overnight.”
A clip of pure terror flashed across Ray’s face and then it was gone. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before stammering, ”I remember … something now … fighting with a man.”
“Anything else?” Sonia asked encouragingly. “Try to think.”
Ray frowned. “I punched him, and he … “ His voice trailed off.
“It’s okay, Ray. That’s good. Keep going. Your memories are starting to come back.”
“He fell … backwards. There was … blood … everywhere.” A sheen of sweat formed on his face. “I … I think I killed him.”
12
Sonia drove home from the hospital with Ray’s words ringing in her ears. They had stared at each other for a long moment afterward, neither of them quite knowing where to go from there. Ray had admitted he couldn’t be sure it was his father he’d been fighting with. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if it was a real memory, or some fabrication his injured brain had dreamed up. Sonia reminded him that he’d told her his father succumbed to a heart attack shortly after he left home. But then he began to wonder if the fight had triggered the heart attack. Despite further prodding, Ray couldn’t remember any additional details. “It’s a foggy memory. I don’t know when or where the fight happened. And I can’t say for sure it was my father I was fighting with. It’s just an impression I have of a man falling backwards, but each time the memory starts to resurface, his face blurs.”
Sonia hadn’t quite known what to make of it all. If Ray had killed his father, then Finn’s instincts about him were right. It also meant that Celia had been covering for Ray all these years. And what about the large transfer of money she’d been making on a monthly basis? Was that to buy Tom’s silence? Had he threatened to expose what his brother had done? In the end, Sonia had half-heartedly assured Ray that even if the fight had brought on his father’s heart attack, he couldn’t be held responsible for what was essentially a natural death. But the truth was, she was
