I sit down in the nearest chair with a groan. “No, but I’m sure you can educate me.”
“She doesn’t seem methodical or organized, but the killings are. Even the way the bodies were laid out matches the way your father lived his life—the mask of normal on the outside, broken and twisted on the inside.” He shakes his head and sits down in the chair next to mine. “You have to see that.”
“And a legal assistant who’s hiding her taste for murder doesn’t sound like that as well?”
“Can’t you see that I’m scared?” he pleads. “If your father is released, he might hurt you, but I’ve seen him with you and I doubt that.”
“Good.” It’s a relief to finally agree on something.
“But it’s also possible that he’ll come after the man who put him in prison in the first place.” Jordan’s voice is desperate to make me understand, but I can’t. Not right now. “Setting aside innocent or guilty, your father still must be so angry. What if he decides to get revenge for all the years he lost? I can’t let Matthew lose the only parent he has left.”
The energy and anger has been sucked out of me and now this argument is just breaking my heart. “You’ve never believed he could be innocent. You still don’t. Like father, like son—I shouldn’t have hoped for anything different.”
“And you never believed that he could really be guilty.” Jordan’s shoulders slump and I see the massive dark circles under his eyes. I can’t face the idea that what we had may be gone forever. I can’t look at him and see what trying to help me has done to him.
It hurts too much and I’m tired of all this pain.
“I think you should go now.” I push the tears away from my eyes before he can see and get to my feet.
He stands up immediately. “Don’t do this, Riley, please. I’m just worried. I’m scared that he’ll—”
“Come on,” I interrupt, and start moving toward the front door, waiting for him to follow me. When he doesn’t, I say, “We were idiots to think our differences wouldn’t rip us apart eventually.”
He follows me, but I can see the arguments he’s trying to formulate in his eyes as we walk and know that I need to get him out of here before I crumble completely.
“We’re too different and we’ve always been too different. Seeing you can only hurt me now … and you said you wouldn’t hurt me.”
Jordan stands on my front porch, his eyes filled with pain and worry. He reaches out, his fingers grasping my hand as it falls limp in his. “I don’t want to hurt you, Riley. I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to you.”
“Please leave me alone. You’ll only make this worse.” I shut the door before he can say anything else, then I get as far away from the front door as I can so I won’t change my mind and try to take it all back. In my room, I close and lock the door, turn off the lights, and cry silently into my pillow until I fall asleep.
35
BENJAMIN MASTERS’S FUNERAL IS CROWDED with clients, secretaries, lawyers, judges, and cops. People from all sides of the law gather together and mourn him.
My black dress doesn’t keep me warm enough even with the sunlight heating up the fabric. I tightly clutch the yellow flower Mama gave me to place on the casket.
We sit with the people from the law firm. They hug us and tell us they’re happy about the news with Daddy’s case. When we turn away they whisper about how Stacia “wasn’t ever quite right.” They say Mr. Masters must’ve figured out it was Stacia and decided to confront her. More whispers come next, calling him something none would have dared say to his face: “An old fool for trying to take on a killer by himself.” It reminds me of some of the things they’d whispered about Daddy during his trial, and I have to grit my teeth not to respond the way I want to.
I want to stand up, turn to them, and then scream in their faces, You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about! So would you please shut up?
Mama and I both bring yellow roses to put on his casket. First, because Mr. Masters always argued that the yellow rose should be the state flower. Second, because they symbolize friendship and we both agree that our family has never had a better friend.
I stand over his casket and put my hand on the cold silver metal that is so unlike Ben Masters. His thick, warm drawl will always comfort me, and his quick wit and intelligence are impossible to contain in such a small box. I hate knowing he’s in there, knowing we lost him—knowing I lost him.
Mama walks up beside me and wraps an arm around my shoulders. Bending closer, she whispers in my ear, “You have to stop blaming yourself.”