“Listen, if you’ve got people visiting my brothers and my sister right now, you can check in with them. Every one of them except for Marco will confirm my identity. I’m Julian Santos, Jr. I’m not dead. Mom isn’t here because she’s in the hospital recovering from the stroke Julian Santos, Sr. gave her before the chickenshit disappeared on another assignment. Assuming he’s the one whose death you’re here to report.”
It occurs to me that I should act surprised. I should act the part of the grieving son, but I just can’t bring myself to dig that deep.
That elicits a pair of frowns and another exchanged glance, but it gets through to them. Sark takes a deep breath and nods, handing me the envelope. He begins his spiel.
“The commandant of the Marine Corps has entrusted me to express his deep regret that your father, Julian, was killed in action in Kandahar, Afghanistan, on January 14th . . . ”
He dives deeper into the cause of death—a simple slip and fall while doing routine aircraft maintenance, something Dad’s spent his entire military career doing and could likely do in his sleep. But it was an unusually cold morning, and there may have been a patch of ice he didn’t see. He hit his head on the way down, the injury causing a brain hemorrhage the doctors couldn’t control. The irony isn’t lost on me, but I manage to restrain a bitter laugh.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and reach up to place my hand over Callie’s. The show of comfort is appreciated, but an even more profound coldness seeps in. This is my fault. I may not have landed the killing blow, but I set the ball into motion. I’m the one who demanded that Flores make it happen, which I did in a fit of rage. But now that I have perspective on what it means to be a good father, I’m torn.
There’s no suggestion they think it was foul play, but I know better. It’s not going to get back to me at least; Flores is far too careful for that. But I have trouble looking Callie in the eyes when I show the men out after agreeing to meet them at the hospital so we can break the news to Mom.
Callie doesn’t say anything when I return to the bedroom to change, but when I move to exit the room, she’s standing in the doorway and presses a hand against my chest. “Mason, whatever’s going through your head right now, I want you to know you can open up to me. Please don’t shut me out, okay?”
I can’t untangle my thoughts enough to say anything. I just shake my head and push past her, slipping into Zoe’s nursery.
I pause beside her crib, hesitating to tear my baby girl out of a sound sleep. The little mobile over her crib casts starlight around the room, and I close my eyes trying to pretend the whooshing ocean sounds are the actual ocean, that I could dive in and hide beneath the dark, chilly water.
I wasn’t prepared for this. I wanted it, but I guess I didn’t expect it to happen so goddamn soon. Does the fact that I’m not grieving my own dad’s death make me a terrible father? What would my daughter think if she knew I had a hand in this?
Callie appears by my side again, silent as we both stand and stare down at the sleeping angel in the crib.
“I hated him so much.” It’s still hard to speak past the knot in my chest. I should feel relieved, shouldn’t I? But it’s only made me question my own morality.
She rests a hand on my arm and squeezes. “It’s okay.”
“No, it really isn’t. You don’t know what I was willing to do—what I did—to protect my family from him. I . . .”
I wince, unable to finish the sentence, but I finally look at her, and I’m blown away by the depth of love and concern in her eyes. She’ll never look at me that way again if she knows the truth.
But she surprises me yet again.
“Mason, whatever you did, I know you had a good reason. You’re forgetting that I met the man. I have seen firsthand the damage he’s caused in the scans of your mother’s brain. And for what it’s worth, I am in this with you. Come hell or high water, I’m not above taking drastic measures to protect the people I love, and that includes you.”
She turns with a sigh, resting her butt against Zoe’s changing table. “I need to tell you something. Earlier this week, I had a long talk with Yao. I asked him why he was working for Flores . . . He’s risking his license, after all, and I needed to understand what his motivations were.”
I look up at her, curiosity piqued. I can’t deny I’ve wondered about the doctor’s ties to Flores, but he never struck me as working under duress. “What’s his story?”
“They go back a few decades, believe it or not. Yao and his family were smuggled into San Diego from China in the early 90s in a shipping container. He was a teenager, old enough to grasp the suffering that surrounded him. Things weren’t exactly good for them at the time. They were basically forced into slavery by some rich asshole who had no concept of human rights. It turned out that rich asshole was someone who had it out for Flores, and evidently didn’t survive the conflict. But rather than put Yao’s family out on the street, Flores took them under his wing. Helped them get legitimate identities, find jobs, and even funded Yao’s studies.
“He said that old rich asshole and Flores were like night and day when it came to how they treat people. He also said the other guy was someone who looked good on paper, whereas with Flores,
