The Long Game
Page 54
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I wondered if he’d tried to use it.
Beside the open grave, the reverend continued talking, the low hum of his voice assuring us that the Lord worked in unfathomable ways. John Thomas’s family stood a few feet away. His mother was shaking, her shoulders rounded, her body on the verge of crumbling in on itself. Beside her, there were two younger boys: one in his early teens and another who couldn’t have been older than seven or eight.
The congressman stood on the opposite side of the boys, his hands balled into fists at his side. He looked grief-stricken—there was no other word for the lines of sorrow etched into the corners of his eyes and mouth. His whole face looked heavy, like the only thing keeping his skin on his face was the tense set of his jaw.
The congressman is very good at paying attention. John Thomas’s statement—his threat—came back to me, and I thought of the way father and son had interacted in the ballroom that night, the look on John Thomas’s face when Henry had said the word disappointment. Congressman Wilcox might have had a gift for ferreting out the skeletons in other people’s closets, but my gut said that he hadn’t paid attention to his son.
As the service ended, my gaze slid to my left—to Bodie. Adam had told me once that Bodie didn’t do funerals, and yet here he was. With me.
And here Ivy wasn’t.
I hadn’t told her I was planning on coming today. I hadn’t told her that I needed her here. I hadn’t asked her to stay, because she would have. And she would have taken one look at me—the way I was watching the congressman, the way I surveyed the presence of each and every mourner—and she would have known that I had more than one reason for coming.
“You ready?” Bodie asked me.
“Not yet,” I said, making my way toward the aisle. A few feet away, I caught a glimpse of a familiar head of strawberry-blond hair. Emilia Rhodes. She peeled away from the crowd and made her way to the far side of the grave. She stood, looking down at the casket. Without thinking, I started walking toward her. When I came up behind her, her head was bowed, and her eyes were closed. At first glance, she looked like she was praying, but when I got closer, I could hear the words her lips formed. They were barely more than a whisper, but her body shook with them.
“I hope it hurt.”
That was her prayer. That was her good-bye to John Thomas Wilcox.
After a moment, she looked up from the grave, her face a mask of grief, looking like any other mourner. She saw me standing beside her. “How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t need your help?” she asked me quietly.
“At least twice more,” I told her.
“I should go,” she said. “And so should you.”
I didn’t take Emilia’s advice. Instead, I slipped into the receiving line behind the other mourners. When I reached the front of the line, Congressman Wilcox took my hand. “Theresa,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”
Did you know that John Thomas was using your files? I curled my fingers around the congressman’s. Did you know that he knew about your affair?
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.
“You’re the one who found him.” Mrs. Wilcox’s voice was wispy and rough. “You were with him when he . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I was with him,” I said. I didn’t tell her that I’d tried to help. I didn’t tell her that I’d pressed my blazer to his chest to staunch the flow of blood. “I’m sorry,” I said again, and my eyes went back to the congressman. I’m sorry that your husband is cheating on you. I’m sorry something in his files might have gotten your son killed.
I turned to leave, but the congressman reached out to stop me. His hand was heavy on my shoulder. My stomach twisted.
“Did John Thomas say anything to you?” the congressman asked. “At the end, did he . . .” John Thomas’s father choked on the words.
Tell. Didn’t. Tell.
An hour before John Thomas’s death, I’d threatened to tell his father that he was spilling secrets. I’d threatened to tell the congressman that John Thomas had told me about his affair.
Tell him I didn’t tell.
“I have to go,” I said, pulling away from the congressman’s grasp. As I turned to leave, the next mourner in line stepped forward. She was in her early forties, with girl-next-door looks and red hair. She was wearing a black dress and matching heels.
I recognized her immediately.
“Congressman, Mrs. Wilcox,” the woman said, her manner professional, more colleague than family friend. “My deepest condolences.”
Beside the open grave, the reverend continued talking, the low hum of his voice assuring us that the Lord worked in unfathomable ways. John Thomas’s family stood a few feet away. His mother was shaking, her shoulders rounded, her body on the verge of crumbling in on itself. Beside her, there were two younger boys: one in his early teens and another who couldn’t have been older than seven or eight.
The congressman stood on the opposite side of the boys, his hands balled into fists at his side. He looked grief-stricken—there was no other word for the lines of sorrow etched into the corners of his eyes and mouth. His whole face looked heavy, like the only thing keeping his skin on his face was the tense set of his jaw.
The congressman is very good at paying attention. John Thomas’s statement—his threat—came back to me, and I thought of the way father and son had interacted in the ballroom that night, the look on John Thomas’s face when Henry had said the word disappointment. Congressman Wilcox might have had a gift for ferreting out the skeletons in other people’s closets, but my gut said that he hadn’t paid attention to his son.
As the service ended, my gaze slid to my left—to Bodie. Adam had told me once that Bodie didn’t do funerals, and yet here he was. With me.
And here Ivy wasn’t.
I hadn’t told her I was planning on coming today. I hadn’t told her that I needed her here. I hadn’t asked her to stay, because she would have. And she would have taken one look at me—the way I was watching the congressman, the way I surveyed the presence of each and every mourner—and she would have known that I had more than one reason for coming.
“You ready?” Bodie asked me.
“Not yet,” I said, making my way toward the aisle. A few feet away, I caught a glimpse of a familiar head of strawberry-blond hair. Emilia Rhodes. She peeled away from the crowd and made her way to the far side of the grave. She stood, looking down at the casket. Without thinking, I started walking toward her. When I came up behind her, her head was bowed, and her eyes were closed. At first glance, she looked like she was praying, but when I got closer, I could hear the words her lips formed. They were barely more than a whisper, but her body shook with them.
“I hope it hurt.”
That was her prayer. That was her good-bye to John Thomas Wilcox.
After a moment, she looked up from the grave, her face a mask of grief, looking like any other mourner. She saw me standing beside her. “How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t need your help?” she asked me quietly.
“At least twice more,” I told her.
“I should go,” she said. “And so should you.”
I didn’t take Emilia’s advice. Instead, I slipped into the receiving line behind the other mourners. When I reached the front of the line, Congressman Wilcox took my hand. “Theresa,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”
Did you know that John Thomas was using your files? I curled my fingers around the congressman’s. Did you know that he knew about your affair?
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.
“You’re the one who found him.” Mrs. Wilcox’s voice was wispy and rough. “You were with him when he . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I was with him,” I said. I didn’t tell her that I’d tried to help. I didn’t tell her that I’d pressed my blazer to his chest to staunch the flow of blood. “I’m sorry,” I said again, and my eyes went back to the congressman. I’m sorry that your husband is cheating on you. I’m sorry something in his files might have gotten your son killed.
I turned to leave, but the congressman reached out to stop me. His hand was heavy on my shoulder. My stomach twisted.
“Did John Thomas say anything to you?” the congressman asked. “At the end, did he . . .” John Thomas’s father choked on the words.
Tell. Didn’t. Tell.
An hour before John Thomas’s death, I’d threatened to tell his father that he was spilling secrets. I’d threatened to tell the congressman that John Thomas had told me about his affair.
Tell him I didn’t tell.
“I have to go,” I said, pulling away from the congressman’s grasp. As I turned to leave, the next mourner in line stepped forward. She was in her early forties, with girl-next-door looks and red hair. She was wearing a black dress and matching heels.
I recognized her immediately.
“Congressman, Mrs. Wilcox,” the woman said, her manner professional, more colleague than family friend. “My deepest condolences.”
