"That's great."
"I'm proud of him." He glanced over at her for the first time, making eye contact, holding it for the fraction of an instant driving would allow. He wasn't sure why he said this, but it felt important to get it out: "I'm not so great with booze myself. I understand how hard my father has to fight."
"Oh," she said again.
He nodded at that. Oh summarized his life quite nicely these days. He'd killed a man, gotten involved with the victim's widow, realized he was an alcoholic, confronted a serial killer, and derailed his policing career all in the course of two years. Oh was pretty much the only summary he had left.
"Do you still miss your family?" Annabelle was asking now. "Do you think about them all the time? I honestly hadn't thought of Dori in twenty-five years. Now I wonder if I'll ever get her out of my head."
"I don't think about them the way I used to. I can go weeks, maybe even a month or two, not thinking of them at all. But then something will happen—you know, like the Red Sox winning the World Series—and I'll find myself wondering, What is George doing right now? Is he cheering in some bar in Florida, going nuts for the home team? Or when he left us, did he leave the Red Sox, too? Maybe he only roots for the Marlins these days. I don't know.
"And then my mind will go nuts for a few days. I'll find myself staring in the mirror, wondering if George has the same wrinkles around his eyes that I'm getting. Or maybe he's a plump insurance salesman with the beer gut and double chin. I haven't seen him since he was eighteen years old. I can't even picture him as a man. That gets to me sometimes. Makes me feel like he's dead."
"Do you call him?"
"I've left messages."
"He doesn't return your calls?" She sounded skeptical.
"Not so far."
"And your mom?"
"Ditto."
"Why? That doesn't make any sense. It's not your fault your father was a drunk. Why do they blame you?"
He had to smile. "You're a kind person."
She scowled back. "I am not."
That just made his smile grow. But then he sighed. It felt strange, but not bad, to be talking about his family. He had been thinking about them more and more since the shooting. And leaving more messages.
"So, I went to this shrink a couple years ago," he said. "Department orders. I'd been involved in a critical incident—"
"You killed Jimmy Gagnon," Annabelle said matter-of-factly
"I see you've been busy on the Internet."
"Were you sleeping with Catherine Gagnon?"
"I see you've been talking to D.D."
"So you were involved with her?" Annabelle sounded genuinely surprised. Apparently she'd just been fishing, and he'd stupidly taken the bait.
"I have never so much as kissed Catherine Gagnon," he said firmly "But the lawsuit—"
"Was ultimately dropped."
"Only after the shoot-out in the hotel—"
"Dropped is dropped."
"Sergeant Warren obviously hates her," Annabelle said.
"D.D. will always hate her."
"Are you sleeping with D.D?"
"So," he said loudly, "I did my job and shot an armed man holding his wife and child at gunpoint. And the department sent me to a shrink. And you know that old saw that shrinks only want to talk about your mother? It's true. All the woman did was ask about my mother."
"All right," Annabelle said, "let's talk about your mother."
"Exactly, one soul-baring moment at a time here. It was interesting. The longer my mother and brother stayed away, the more, on some level, I'd internalized things as being my fault. The shrink, however, raised some good points. My mother, brother, and I shared a pretty traumatic time in our lives. I felt guilty they'd had to run away. Maybe they felt guilty for leaving me behind."
Annabelle nodded, jingled her necklace again. "Makes some sense. So what are you supposed to do?"
"God give me the strength to change the things I can change, the courage to let go of the things I need to let go, and the wisdom to know the difference. My mother and my brother are two of those things I can't change, so I gotta let go." Their exit was coming up. He put on the blinker, worked on getting over.
She frowned at him. "What about the shooting? How are you supposed to handle that?"
"Sleep eight hours a day, eat healthy, drink plenty of water, and engage in moderate amounts of exercise."
"And that works?"
"Dunno. First night, I went to a bar, drank until I nearly passed out. Let's just say I'm still a work in progress."
She finally smiled. "Me, too," she said softly "Me, too."
She didn't speak again until he parked in front of her building. When she did, her voice had lost its edge. She simply sounded tired. Her hand went to the door latch.
"When do we leave in the morning?" she asked.
"I'll pick you up at ten."
"All right."
"Pack for one night. We'll handle the arrangements. Oh, and Annabelle—to board the plane you're going to need valid photo ID."