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“Matthew, go to him.”

He nodded. “Come home when you're done with the planning tonight. I'll have him calmed down by then.”

I pressed one last kiss on his lips.

If anyone could get Richard to understand I had to do this, it was Matthew.

Maybe he'd listen.

Maybe I wouldn't lose them.

Maybe my father wouldn't take everything from me this time.

Damn. The house was huge.

How the hell had I ended up standing in front of my parents’ home in a downpour? The same scared kid I'd been in junior high, afraid to go inside and face the wrath of my father after the nuns had caught me smoking behind the school.

Thunder struck overhead. I jumped and landed in a puddle. The rainwater sloshed above the sides of my shoes, soaking my socks through to the skin.

Maybe if I hadn't spent the last two nights on Walter's couch, and had spent them wrapped up in the arms of the men who said they loved me, I wouldn't have been as nervous. Maybe I'd have felt bolder, more confident, more at ease with wearing a listening device hidden under my shirt in search of a confession to save us all.

It didn't matter if I ever had the chance to sleep with them again, or talk to them again, or even if I ever saw them again. They'd be safe.

I hiked up the many steps that led to my parents’ front door. I wanted to hurry, to get it all over with, but my body wouldn't cooperate. My foot slipped on the last step of my ascent, and I slid as if the cement stairs were a slippery slide at a water park. I reached out and clasped the railing before I ended up back on the sidewalk again. No way in hell was I starting the entire trek over.

I trudged the final steps again and surveyed the house. The exterior was brick, not a worn or damaged block in the bunch. Every curtain was drawn closed from the first floor to the third.

I'd never lived there. My parents moved during my sophomore year in college. After my father had made certain Tim couldn't love me anymore, they never invited me for Thanksgiving dinner or the Christmas gift exchange. I never received one phone call or letter. And it'd been fine by me. I hadn't wanted to enter a home where I wasn't welcome, where I wasn't loved like a son deserved to be.

I pushed the doorbell and stashed my hands behind my back. I was about to walk into a hell I had done all I could to avoid.

I expected a maid or some other member of the live-in staff and was surprised when my mother opened the door. Something had changed in her since I'd last seen her at Richard's party. She was still beautiful, but it wasn't as prominent. It was hidden, a remnant of the woman she had been. Her expression was stern, the lines on her face deeper than they should have been for a woman her age. Her eyes were haunted. Misery had settled in.

She wore a brown skirt and a stiff, frumpy blouse. It made her look less feminine than if she'd worn a man's business suit, but at the same time, elegance encased her like it had been painted on. She had her hair pinned back, not a strand out of place, and the poise of her posture was well rehearsed. From an external point of view, she was going to make an excellent first lady.

She looked up at me, and her face brightened. The lines vanished with her smile as if the grin shot collagen into her skin. “Oh, Lukas.” She stepped forward onto the porch and closed the door behind her. The smile faded away. “Why are you here? What's wrong?”

“I have an answer for him.”

“What did he ask you?”

Was she really that clueless? Or was it all an act? “Can I come in or not?”

She stood still, staring at me for a minute, and then she led me inside. I followed her into a large living room. The decor was an odd mix of modern, Victorian, and Oriental furniture and collectibles. I expected to find museum-style barriers fortifying the perimeter, protecting their priceless furnishings. Low elevator music played from hidden speakers. Who had that shit playing in their house like some sort of department store?

She shuffled across the room and faced me, avoiding my stare. She raised her hands to her blouse, lifted her collar, and pressed it flat in a repeated loop. When her hands finally stilled, she stepped toward me. Her eyes met mine, and she touched my arm in the slightest contact.

I withdrew out of her reach. “Mom, go get him.”

“He has a migraine. He's lying down.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “He'll want my answer.”

“I'll go see if I can wake him.” She crept across the room. The heels of her shoes were silent as she stepped off the rug onto the wood floor.

Something in me didn't want to let her walk out, didn't want to make it easy for her. “Mom.”

She stopped, her back to me.

“Do you have any idea who your husband is? What kind of a man he is? What he's done?”

She whirled around, but didn't respond.

“Why would you?” I said. “You don't even know your own son.”

She gasped, her voice tense and loud when she spoke again, her arms stiff and straight at her sides. “I may not know the man you've become, Lukas, but I knew the boy you were. I gave birth to you. I held you when you cried at night. I put lotion on your chicken pox and held your hand when you got your vaccinations. I loved you before anyone else knew you.” She shook her head and covered her mouth with her hand as if to stop herself from saying more or letting herself release the sobs trapped below the surface. She fled the room.

If she'd just let herself see who he was, the tears would come, of course, but so would the truth. But I learned when Tim left me; some people didn't have it in them. Believing an easy lie was the less difficult path than facing a hard truth.

I forced myself to look away from where she had escaped the room and sorted through what to say to exact a confession from my father. Nerves grappled with determination. I broke out in a cold sweat, and my hands shook.

I couldn't let him see the fear.

I distracted myself by touring the room. Among the vases and paintings and pricey antiques, I spotted several family photographs: a professional portrait of my maternal grandparents who had died when I was in junior high school, a candid shot of my aunt and uncle at a celebration of some sort, and another of my younger cousin holding a birthday cake. Not one picture of me. Not one baby photo. Not one snapshot of me playing T-ball. Not one photograph of me at my high school graduation. It stung to know my entire childhood had meant nothing to them.

I turned away from the last photo. I didn't want to see anymore.

A sewing basket sat next to a chair across the room. The only item besides the photos that signified real people lived there. A reminder of the mother I had as a child. The one who had hand-sewn a bumblebee costume for my school play. The one who had baked me chocolate chip cookies despite the full-time cook on staff. The one I had let myself forget.

I picked up the quilted basket and lifted the lid. Along with the spools of thread and pin cushions, taped to the back of the basket, was a wallet-sized photo. My high school senior portrait.

Part of me wanted to rip the picture from the basket, chase her down, and demand an answer to one question: why?

But I also needed to do what I had come for. I would not let her distract me.

I returned the basket to the floor. A sliver of light from a doorway across the hall caught my eye. I stepped forward and glanced inside. My father's office.

Since the day I could walk, no matter where we lived, that room had been off limits.
Nothing in here you need to see, son.

I bet.

I slipped inside my father's office and drew the door shut behind me, wincing when the door's latch caught the metal strike plate and clicked in place.

Richard was going to kill me.

It was a different room than the office my father had during my childhood, but it was identical to how I remembered it. Same stupid leather books he'd never read. Same credenza showcasing autographed photos of him with celebrities and politicians. Same leather swivel chair with polished brass trim. Yet every piece of furniture couldn't have been more than a couple of years old. In the middle of it all was an antique-style wood desk with carved columns and an electronic keypad discreetly positioned near the right-hand set of drawers. Nothing but the best for Johnathan Moore.

I lowered myself into the chair, hesitating a moment before I moved the last few inches to sit. This was my father's throne. His cologne rose up around me. It was all over the chair, the desk, the papers stacked off to the side. The entire room reeked of it.

I tried the top drawer. Locked. As were the drawers on either side. I fingered the keypad. How long until my father walked into the living room and saw I wasn't there? How long until he found me in his private sanctum?

I breathed deep and ran my fingers over the numbers as fast as I could. My mother's birthday. Nope. My father's. No. Their anniversary. No.
What the hell
? I tried my own birthday. Nothing. I entered the only other date that came to mind. May 11, 1974. The day Danny Conner died. A red light on the keypad turned green.

I tugged on the top drawer again and it slid open. Pens, paper clips, empty notepads, the usual suspects. I shut the drawer and tried a couple of others. More office supplies, business cards, and an old datebook. I flipped through the latter but if there was anything of significance, I'd have to take the book with me to give it a more careful look. I put it back and opened the last drawer.

A bottle of whiskey and a glass. I removed both. The bottle was nearly empty. The glass smelled of the liquor.
How often do you need this, Dad?

I bent to put them back and stopped short. A leather-bound book lay face down in the bottom of the drawer. Sitting near the back was a small jewelry box. I ditched the whiskey and glass on the desk.

The black box was old, the corners crushed in, and the hinge on the lid was loose as if it'd been opened many times over the years. I lifted the lid. A silver pocket watch lay against the blue velvet lining.

I forced myself to set the watch down and turn the book over. There in gold print was a name: “Daniel Lukas Conner.”

I stared at the journal. Danny Conner's full name meant nothing and everything at once.

I turned to the first page, and a paper slipped out and fell to the floor. I fetched it and carefully unfolded it, my hands shaking. Fear of being discovered? Or fear of what I was about to discover?

The handwritten letter was dated the day before Danny Conner died.

John,

Happy graduation.

I want you to have my dad's watch. It's the only thing I have that means anything to me. Except for you. I'd be honored if you'd keep it.

I'm sorry for our fight the other night. I'd give anything not to see you hurting like this. I want to be able to tell you all of this in person, but I know you'll argue back. I know you'll give me the same reasons you already have. I know you want a career. A family. A wife. A son. Elizabeth seems like a lovely person, someone who could give you the life you're looking for. I want to be strong enough to walk away for you. But I can't. I love you. I want a life with you. A friendship. A partnership. A life together. I don't understand how you can't. I know how you feel about me. I feel it every time we're together.

Please tell me how you can let us go. I need to understand. Don't give me your reasons again, just tell me how you expect us to live without each other. How you expect me to stop loving you.

How you can stop loving me.

Danny

I flipped through the book, spotting one passage after another that depicted a year-long love affair between my father and Danny Conner. The last page was dated one week after Conner's death and was penned in my father's handwriting.

I'm sorry, Danny. Sorry for what I've done to you, what I had to do. My greatest regret is I never told you the words you needed to hear... I love you. I think I'll love you until I take my last breath.

The blood rushed out of my head. I felt cold, dizzy. My hands shook more, the words on the paper blurring.

Was it easier to confess your love to a dead man?

I slipped the letter inside the journal and returned everything to the drawer. The FBI needed to be the ones to find it. Not that it proved anything. But a confession would.

I stood. Before moving away from the desk, I reached into the drawer, removed the silver watch from the box, and slipped into my pocket.

Footsteps sounded somewhere down the hall. I pressed the lock button on the keypad and scrambled for the door. I just made it into the living room when he stepped up behind me. I faced him.

Despite the late hour, and his supposed migraine, my father wore a dark suit, dress shoes, cuff links, and a tie clip. Even in his own home, the man didn't know how to be casual or relaxed.

“I never would have guessed you'd show up here.” His voice brimmed with hatred.

“There are things that must be said. Sometimes a man has to say them in person.” The fear and anxiety were but a memory. This man was no father to me. I would not let him torment me or anyone else again.

He chuckled, the sound tense, flat, devoid of any joy, the laughter of a man who knew nothing but his own ambitions. “Yes, and sometimes a man must take every precaution.” He moved to a nearby table, grabbed the phone, and dialed a single number. “Come into the living room. I need you to check someone.” He hung up the phone and crossed his arms over his chest.

I was about to tell him of my refusal to comply with his demands when Fowler entered the room and came at me.

I stumbled backward a few steps and heard my father's empty laughter again. I stilled. I would give neither of them any satisfaction.

Fowler reached out for me. He held a long, black object in his hand. I swung at him and knocked his arm away.

He grasped his forearm. “Fuck. You shit.” He lifted the device he carried. “I'm checking you for any weapons or listening devices.”