Beneath the coat, I wore a light blue button down shirt, a cream pencil skirt, and cream stockings. I’d paired the outfit with navy blue and off white stilettos. They were really pretty shoes.

We reached the top of the stairs, and I pushed thoughts of construction norms from my mind, tried to focus on the present. I gave Quinn a reassuring smile even though his face was as impassive as I’d ever seen it.

I attempted a swallow, but found it a bit difficult. With a shaking hand, I reached for the doorbell and pressed the button, flinching when the chime sounded from within the house.

I stepped back, waited, then blurted to Quinn in a rushed whisper, “I’m really nervous.”

His hand squeezed mine, his lips suddenly at my ear, and he whispered in response. “Don’t be. They’re going to love you.”

I didn’t get a chance to tell him that I wasn’t nervous for me.

Part 4: Meeting the Family

CHAPTER 15

*Quinn*

I was dreading this moment.

How do you face the people whose son you murdered? How do you greet your parents when you played a large part in the death of your brother?

I didn’t hold the gun or pull the trigger, but criminals had been free to shoot my brother Des because I’d helped them walk free.

I knew Dan being in the limo when we landed was his way of showing me support. He’d been there when it all went down. I still needed to ask him about being my best man, but it would have to wait.

Telling Janie about the death of my brother hadn’t been in my plans. I hadn’t expected to tell her; when I did, I thought she’d say the same thing everyone else said: it wasn’t your fault, you can’t hold yourself responsible, you couldn’t have known.

That was all bullshit.

I knew what I was doing. I knew I was putting people in danger. Even worse, I was a smart kid who came from a good family, and I knew better.

I knew better.

What she’d said was, “I understand why you blame yourself.”

Her words were a revelation. She didn’t try to make me feel better about it. She didn’t try to feed me a line. She looked at the situation with cold logic and concluded that the blame I carried made sense.

That’s why, when I asked her if she blamed me, her response was important, because her honest answer would be meaningful.

She’d responded, “I blame the bad guy who actually pulled the trigger and killed him. In this situation, you sound like a person who has recognized the error of his ways and attempted to change. If you recall, that is the difference between a good guy and a bad guy.”

And that made all the difference.

Her response was a rational analysis of the situation. She had nothing to gain, and she wasn’t the type to offer empty words meant to absolve me of my responsibility.

What I didn’t expect was that she would recognize that I needed to be held accountable.

I needed it.

I needed accountability so that I could change. I needed to make different decisions. I never would have made different decisions without taking responsibility for what I’d done.

I was responsible. I needed to be held accountable.

But none of that, no amount of restitution, would bring Des back.

That’s why meeting my father’s eyes was just as difficult as it had been on the day of my brother’s funeral.

But I did it.

The door opened and they were there. My father’s eyes found mine first. He looked older, shorter than I remembered—but that’s not to say that he was small. He was exactly my size now; when I was a kid, he’d just seemed so much larger.

My brother took after my mother, blonde hair and light brown eyes, medium build. But Shelly and I looked like my father. Janie said I reminded her of a hawk. If that was the case, then my father was an eagle—big and proud, and quiet until just before the kill.

He was also the most patient man I knew. He could out-wait a statue. Reading him had always been difficult, unless he wanted you to know what he was thinking. That’s probably why he was such an excellent police detective.

My mother was speaking to Janie, Janie had let go of my hand to accept a handshake, and still my father and I looked at each other, sharing nothing. The interaction was numbing.

I didn’t know what he was looking for—maybe remorse. Whatever it was, I couldn’t give it to him because it would never be enough. Nothing I would do would ever be enough.

“Quinn?”

I glanced at Janie, her upturned smiling face, her expectant amber eyes.

“Yes?” I said.

“Did you know that comity of handshaking originated in remote antiquity? At that time, human beings lived on hunting. If they happened to meet a stranger, they would throw their hunting tools aside and open their hands to show the person that they weren’t a threat.”

As she spoke, my attention flickered to my mother who was watching Janie with rapt attention. As soon as Janie finished, my mom stepped forward and touched her elbow.

“I was just cutting carrots, but I have no other weapons on my person.” She was smiling at Janie. She was smiling at her as though she liked her.

“Oh, me neither,” Janie responded with a warm smile. “But I imagine Quinn probably has a gun. But don’t worry, he has a license for it.”

My parents’ attention turned to me, and I had no choice but to stand still under their scrutiny. An uncomfortable moment passed while Janie glanced back and forth between us. I noticed her neck had flushed red and splotchy.

I knew what would come next. Janie would try to fill the silence with more facts.

But no gushing of information arrived, because my mom stepped out of the house. She stood directly in front of me, gave me a half smile, and wrapped her arms around my waist, her cheek pressed against my chest.

Startled, I glanced from the top of her head to Janie.

Janie’s eyes were wide, and she lifted her chin to my mother. When I frowned at her, Janie mimed a hugging motion and lifted her chin more urgently, mouthing the words, Give your mother a hug!

So I did. I wrapped my arms around the woman who’d raised me, who’d loved me until she didn’t, and she responded by sniffling against my jacket and squeezing tighter.

I swallowed a building lump in my throat and, for no reason in particular, my attention turned to my father. His stone-faced expression was gone as he looked at my mother’s head tucked against my shoulder, then his eyes lifted to mine.

They were wet.

The world tilted on its axis because this was the closest I’d ever seen my father come to crying.

***

Navigating the next hour was like being on a movie set from my childhood with no script.

My mother hugged me for a long time. This only ended after Janie, unable to contain herself any longer, lunged at my father and gave him a hug too. He was so surprised he started to laugh, which made my mother laugh. Then Janie laughed and gave my dad a kiss on the cheek.

“What was that for?” he asked.

“For laughing at me. I’ve never liked the sound of my laugh so much,” she said, then stepped back and apologized for being forward, and tried to explain that hugging—in some cultures—was more intimate than kissing, therefore she should have asked permission first.

My father responded by grinning at me and scooping her back into his arms. The hugging on the front porch finally culminated in a group hug between my fiancée and my parents, which I was forcefully pulled into by both Janie and my mother.

Then I was led into the house, my overcoat and suit jacket were taken, a beer was placed in my hand, and we were standing in the kitchen of the house where I grew up.

I didn’t know where to look. I didn’t know what to say, or how to talk to these people. Janie seemed happy to fill the silence, standing at my side with her arm around my waist and her hip against the counter.

She talked about her inability to knit, the origins of knitting, fiber as an art, the cultivation of carrots, the origins of the Easter Bunny, variations of rabbits, the reprehensible treatment of Irish immigrants in the United States during the Industrial Revolution, the largest rodents, the plague, modern viruses.

Janie was nervous. But as I glanced at my parents, this time really looking at them, I realized that she wasn’t the only one. I saw my mother looking at me as though I might disappear. When I caught her, her expression turned anxious and sad.

I tried giving her a small smile. She returned it with a larger one.

My father appeared to be absorbed in all the information Janie related. Occasionally, he’d stop her and ask a question, request clarification on a point or a fact.

When Janie had told me that she’d contacted my parents, all I’d felt was shame and a growing sense of dread. I don’t know what I was expecting when we arrived, but it wasn’t this.

Eventually, Janie separated herself from me, tied on an apron, and began helping my mother with dinner. They spoke about elementary number theory, about how Janie had been taking a free masters course online offered by Stanford University.

My attention caught on a picture held by magnets to the refrigerator and, upon recognizing it, my lungs hurt like I’d inhaled smoke from a fire. Without premeditation, I crossed to the fridge and stared at the picture.

It was of me when I was twelve. Next to it was another picture—of me, Des, and my father—taken on my first fishing trip. Another hung next to it of Shelly and me when I was six; she’d painted both of our faces with makeup.