Page 102 of Midnight Creed

“No, you imagined—”

“Stop it! Just shut up and stop for once!”

Even after all these years, she wanted to control the narrative. But it didn’t matter anymore. He had figured it out. After all these years, the dreams, the nightmares told the real story over and over in vivid detail. He could just never quite see the man’s face. Only the crowbar coming down on his father’s skull. The crowbar being held by an arm tattooed with a blue anchor.

“Whatever you believe, Peter, you must not take it out on a poor little boy. Where is he? What did you do with him?”

He couldn’t believe her. She hadn’t changed one bit.

“That’s what you care about right now? That’s really all you’ve ever cared about is your precious Mickey. And now, his precious offspring. I know that Carl was the man stranded on the side of the road that night.

“No, you’re wrong.”

“I know he killed my father.”

“Your imagination—”

“I couldn’t quite see his face until recently.”

“Of course not, because you’re wrong. You’re projecting—”

“But I clearly saw this.” He grabbed Carl’s arm and yanked it up. The man was fully awake, grunting in pain as the zip-tie dug deeper into his wrist.

“Oh, Peter.” The condescension...she still had it down pat. “You know how many men have that same tattoo?”

“His body was never found,” Carl said through gritted teeth. “Your father left you boys and your mother. He left.”

Gregory dropped the man’s arm and walked around behind the chair. He didn’t want to look at his face. He’d seen it too many times, shadowed in his dreams, the features blurred by his mother’s lies.

But he knew he was right.

He’d been right since he was a boy and confessed to his mother. Now, all these years later, he understood. Why she worked so hard to convince the authorities that her son had a habit of lying, making things up. A wicked and vivid imagination.

Carl shifted in the hardback chair, readjusted, sat a bit straighter. Gregory’s mother stood in the middle of the room where she faced him. Her eyes dropped to the knife now in his hand, but she didn’t appear concerned. She planned on winning this discussion. And why not? She always won. She was always right.

“If he chose to leave, why did he create a trust for me weeks before? Did you know his family had all that money?”

“Your father was a silly, weak man. He made us live in a ramshackle house.”

“So you knew. I remembered how you two argued about money all the time. Your arguments made Mickey cry. I just plugged my ears. Went off in my mind to somewhere, anywhere else.”

He watched her now. “But you didn’t know he put it in trust funds. For me. None for you. A small portion for Mickey. But not as much, because he knew you’d take good care of him. Your favorite. And you did. Anything he wanted, including medical school. But dear old dad knew you wouldn’t give a damn about me.”

“That’s not true. You always make up such lies.” But she stared at him. And for the first time, he saw her bristle at his words.

“Then Mickey was killed in Afghanistan. The remainder of his will eventually go to Will. That’s the way mine’s written. If we have any heirs. But you…you still didn’t get any.” Her nostrils flared with what? Indignation? Anger?

“Or did you discover a way to get your hands on it?”

“You’re being ridiculous. Willie will get his father’s when he turns twenty-five, just like you did. Just like Michael could have.”

Funny, she seemed to display sadness only about Mickey. Everything was still about Mickey. He and his father were always a distant second and third.

“I almost didn’t recognize this area,” Gregory said casually, waving the knife and gesturing toward the back patio doors and the woods that met the backyard.

“Interesting that you chose to live out here,” he continued. She’d even named the development Linden Estates. Mickey’s middle name. He couldn’t be distracted. Not now. “The country road is now asphalt. The forest used to come all the way up to the road. But that curve…that curve brought back a flood of memories.”

She tilted her head. The movement was slight, but he noticed it. She was trying to keep emotion from her face, but it was becoming a challenge. Still, she didn’t interrupt. Maybe she wanted to hear what he knew. What he remembered. All these years later, did her version still hold up?