Page 6 of The Chain House

And Trevor Harper, who had never raised his voice at Sam in all their years, howled without looking at his son, “I said go!”

Sam thought about arguing, because this wasn’t fair. But, like his father, Sam Harper wasn’t a fighter. Not only was it not fair, but so over-the-top, in Sam’s opinion, that his father’s reaction didn’t make any rational sense. Hating Sal Batise for what he did was one thing, but this, as far as Sam’s filmmaking career, was a game changer. A chance of a lifetime. While Sal Batise had given a dozen high-profile interviews during his time on death row, it had been nearly ten years since his last one, which had been with CNN on prime time and ended abruptly with Batise refusing to answer a question about being referred to as the Kentucky Cannibal. And he swore he’d never give another.

And while this interview was intended for the documentary alone, and Sam didn’t even know now if it would end up being on live television or not, the fact that a twenty-six-year-old no-name filmmaking upstart had managed to snag an interview on the day Batise was set to be killed was big-time news. Why couldn’t his father see that?

Sam backed away slowly, as if to give his father a chance to reconsider, to come to his senses. But instead of doing the dishes, Trevor watched out the window above the sink, to the house next door, where their neighbor Lizzie Hall sat on the top step of her concrete porch, battling her own emotions as she gazed out toward the street.

His father’s right hand was clenched into a fist.

Sam said, “You’re in love with a married woman, Dad. You know that, don’t you?”

He didn’t think his father’s fist could clench any tighter, but it did, his knuckles so white it looked like they might pop through the freckled skin. Sam knew he shouldn’t have said it. He’d had no right to go there, didn’t matter that it had been on his mind now for years, and recently, on the tip of his tongue—the fact that, for his father, seeing Lizzie Hall, whether it be for a quick chat over the fence line or her bringing over a plate of cookies or brownies she’d just baked, never failed to bring about a smile on his face. And that was no easy task.

But on the heels of Sam’s humiliation and disappointment, it just came out. You didn’t have to be a fighter to deliver a low blow. Lizzie was crying out there, which wasn’t uncommon. And it appeared she had a bleeding cut over her left eye, along with a visible bruise. Unfortunately, those weren’t uncommon either. Her husband, Jake, was probably inside their home right now, pacing, slowly coming down from whatever burst of rage he’d been in to have Lizzie outside looking like she did.

The sight of all of it pissed Sam off so much, he couldn’t stop the next words flowing from his mouth. “At least I’m not all talk, Dad.”

CHAPTER3

TREVOR HARPER STOOD frozen at the sink until he heard Sam’s car start up outside.

The front of the car scraped the curb at the end of the driveway, which told Trevor that Sam was backing out too fast. It wasn’t the way he’d taught him as a sixteen-year-old, when Trevor had been on pins and needles every time Sam got behind the wheel. That anxiety hadn’t waned with time. He’d also told Sam to never drive angry, but here they were, both fuming, him still clenching his fist and Sam speeding away with angry tires.

They didn’t argue often, and things rarely, if ever, got heated, but when they did, silence prevailed after, sometimes for days, because neither of them knew how to break it, the result of their innate inability to simply speak their minds.

Except Sam had certainly spoken his just now, and the truth of it had hit home so hard it hurt more than just his heart, but rattled his bones and sent sparks of unease flashing across his vision as he watched Lizzie Hall out the window, her eyes following Sam’s car as it backed out of the driveway and sped down the street. Her eyes then briefly captured Trevor’s in the window, as if she’d known he’d been watching her all along. She waved, but it was quick and hard to read, and only then did he unclench his fist and wave back, but of course by then she’d already stood from the porch and retreated toward the door of her own house. He couldn’t take his eyes away from the curves beneath her cut-off jeans shorts, not because he was a pervert or a voyeur but, because, goddammit, Sam was right. Lizzie was at least ten years younger than him, but he had feelings for her, and they were strong, and he wasn’t man enough to do anything about it. Plus, he had no right. As madly dysfunctional and violent as their relationship seemed to be, Lizzie and Jake Hall were married.

So, what good would it do?

And what would Annie think? Even sixteen years gone, what would Annie Harper think of his eyes finally roaming again, of his heart finally warming again?

Trevor turned away from the sink and the window because both were too chock full of bad memories. But what had him reaching for the wine bottle and refilling his cup with merlot had less to do with Lizzie Hall than Sam would ever know.

At least, he hoped Sam would never know.

Because there was so much Sam didn’t know.

He should have been happy for his son, the potential career break of a lifetime, but all Trevor felt was fear.

No, the word fear was too simplistic; he was terrified.

Oh, Sam, if you only knew what you were about to do.

Trevor drank a large gulp of wine and closed his eyes as it warmed his chest. He considered turning Tommy back on and listening to The Who as he did the dishes, but he knew that would only be stalling. What Sam didn’t know was that Trevor’s mind had been completely preoccupied even before the phone call, and that had everything to do with what Sam had mentioned during dinner and Trevor had, he hoped, cleverly evaded—the stack of Mallard Malone novels beside his recliner.

Trevor had meant to hide them before Sam arrived, but Sam’s I’ll be right over rarely meant he’d be right over, and he’d thought he’d have more time.

Of course he’d hurried over, Trevor thought after another gulp of wine, he couldn’t wait to tell his stubborn father the news—that his documentary on Sal Batise was indeed a tree that could bear fruit. He couldn’t wait to see me proud, Trevor thought, hating himself more with every passing minute for not giving his son that. You squashed the opportunity with perfect clarity, Professor.

He finished the wine, poured more, and took the glass with him into the living room, where his recliner awaited. Where the seven Mallard Malone novels waited. What Sam hadn’t seen, apparently, was the box they’d arrived in, resting empty now at the foot of his recliner.

A box with no return address, the only marks on it at all being his name in black Sharpie: Professor Harper. That was enough to tell him it was possibly from a student, and by the scrawl of letters, he could tell it had probably been written by a girl, knowing, by that point, to a near certainly who it was—the clever young woman with the strawberry blond hair from his World War II Foreign Relations class, who had, near the end of spring semester, despite the fact that she’d always sat in the front row making periodic eye contact, finally approached him after a lecture to ask him what she must have been wanting to ask for much of the semester.

Do we know each other? She’d asked him the final week of school.

And his clumsy response had been, Of course we know each other, you’ve been in my class since January, Miss Daley.

Then what’s my first name? She’d asked with a smile.