Low Pressure

“Even when I was researching my book, he was reluctant to talk to me about that Memorial Day. We’d never discussed it as adults. I wanted to hear his point of view.”

The warmth she’d shared with Olivia just moments earlier cooled significantly. Olivia bowed her head and stroked her furrowed forehead with the pads of her fingers.

“Bellamy, Howard and I held our peace when you were writing the book. We didn’t like the idea, but it wasn’t our place to interfere. But this… this obsession of yours is puzzling and upsetting. Terribly upsetting if I’m being honest. We don’t understand it.” Raising her head, she met Bellamy eye to eye. “Don’t you want to put the incident behind you, forget it?”

“I can’t,” Bellamy whispered earnestly. But she refrained from telling her stepmother that she couldn’t forget what she couldn’t remember.

She was spared having to say anything more when a nurse entered the room. “Mrs. Lyston, the doctor will be available shortly to speak with you. In the meantime, Mr. Lyston is conscious if you want to go in.”

Olivia gave Bellamy a nudge. “You go. He’ll want to see you.” Then, clutching Bellamy’s hand, she added, “But promise me you won’t upset him with talk of Susan’s death.”

Bellamy was shocked by how much her father had declined over the two days since she’d seen him. His cheeks and eye sockets were deeply sunken, making his face look skeletal. He breathed through colorless, partially open lips even though he was getting supplemental oxygen through a cannula. Beneath the light blanket, his form looked pathetically unsubstantial.

She moved to the bedside and took his frail hand in hers. At her touch, his eyes fluttered open. “Hi,” she whispered.

“Hey, good-lookin’. Whacha got cookin’?”

It was their special greeting, one that had made her giggle as a girl, especially if it was accompanied by a gentle poke to her ribs. Now, she smiled through her tears.

“Forgive me for not standing,” he said.

“You’re forgiven.” She leaned down and kissed his cheek.

“Sit.”

Mindful of all the tubes and lines snaking from beneath the covers to various machines, she carefully lowered herself onto the edge of the bed.

“Where’s Olivia?” he asked.

“Waiting to talk to the doctor.”

“He’s going to tell her she needs to give up and let go.” His voice was creaky with emotion and his eyes shone with unshed tears. “Help her through this, Bellamy.”

“You know I will.”

He clasped her hand more tightly. “There’s something else I need you to do for me.”

“Don’t worry about the business. It’s a well-oiled machine that practically runs itself. But I’m willing to do whatever you need me to.”

“This isn’t about the company. It’s about Susan.”

Bellamy glanced over her shoulder, almost expecting Olivia to be there admonishing her to remember her promise. “Let’s not talk about her, Daddy. It pains you too much.”

“Your book—”

“Upset you. I know. I’m sorry. I never meant—”

“You raised questions.”

Unsure of what he was getting at, she said nothing.

“Was that intentional?”

“No,” she replied, releasing her breath slowly. “But as the story unfolded, implied questions emerged. I suppose they’ve been buried in my subconscious.”

“In mine, too.”

“What?”

“I’ve harbored questions, too.”

She was stunned. “Such as?”

“Primarily, I question the same thing that tabloid columnist did. Allen Strickland went to prison for killing Susan. But did he do it? I don’t want to die with uncertainty, Bellamy.”

“What makes you think it wasn’t him?”

“Maybe it was. But I don’t want to spend eternity with maybe. I need to know.”

Her visit with Steven had left her feeling that the preteen Bellamy had been better off not knowing everything that was happening around her. She also came away realizing that Low Pressure had been written from a very naive perspective.

On that Memorial Day, there had been strong undercurrents at play, nuances that, as a twelve-year-old, she hadn’t perceived. Even if she had sensed them, she wouldn’t have had the maturity to identify and understand them.

Dent had cautioned her that any truths uncovered might be terribly ugly, possibly explosive, worse even than the one she’d learned about Steven and Susan. She had come close to believing that the course safest to her peace of mind would be to leave the past alone.

But now, her father was asking her to dig deeper. How could she refuse to grant—or at least attempt to grant—his dying wish? His asking this of her renewed her resolve to continue turning over stones regardless of the ugliness she might find beneath.

“I want to know with certainty, too, Daddy. Since I wrote the book, very recently in fact, some things have come to light that I didn’t know.”

“For instance?”

“Susan was seeing other boys, not just Dent Carter.”

“You’ve been talking to him?”

“Among others.”

“Do you trust him?”

“He’s given me no reason to distrust him.”

“He wouldn’t, though, would he? Has he romanced you yet?”

She cast her eyes down.

Knowing what that signified, he grimaced. “Ask yourself why he’s latched on to you, Bellamy.”

“Why do you think he has?”

“He wants to trump all of us. What better way to get the last laugh than by taking you to bed?” As though the thought of that caused him grief, he sighed and closed his eyes. Several moments ticked by before he reopened them. “Talk to the detective.”

“Dale Moody?”

“Start with him. I watched him during Strickland’s trial. He was a troubled man. Find out why.” He squeezed her hand again. “Will you do this for me?”

She made him the only promise she could. “I’ll do my best.”

“You always have.” He reached up and touched her cheek with fingers the color and texture of parchment. “You always strived to please. You wanted everyone to be happy. I think you even married a man you didn’t love only because you knew Olivia and I approved of him.”

“Water under the bridge, Daddy.”

“Don’t let me off the hook so easily. I didn’t consider your happiness nearly as often as you considered mine. You sort of got obscured by the tragedy of Susan, which preoccupied Olivia and me through Strickland’s trial. Then we became so wrapped up in rebuilding our lives, I fear we viewed the big picture, and didn’t pay enough attention to what was right in front of us.”

“Daddy, I never felt obscured or overlooked. I swear. I was shy. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.” She patted his hand. “You were there anytime I needed you, and I always knew you loved me.”

She wanted to throw herself over him, to hold on tight, and beg him not to leave her. When he was gone, she wouldn’t have any blood relatives left, and knowing that filled her with despair and a terrifying sense of finality.