Page 19 of Concrete Evidence
“This is awkward. I mean, about meeting you.”
“Yeah, I’m in the awkward zone too.”
In a small living room decorated in crucifixes and photos of Tessa from infancy to the present, Marc sat on a sofa, and she curled up in a brown threadbare chair.
“Thanks for agreeing to see me,” he said. “Where do we begin?”
She shrugged. “You look a little like Dad, especially your jaw, except not as pale or as tall. Must be your Hispanic mother. I believe her name is Donita.”
He hid his surprise that she knew more about him than he did her. “You have his eyes. My mother told me about Mrs. Litton’s illness.”
She studied him. “Dad said you were in the FBI, violent crime division. He said you received your undergraduate degree in law enforcement.”
“Yes. I’ve been at the FBI about eight years.”
“Do you like it?”
“Most of the time. Keeping people safe and bad guys off the streets suits me.”
She glanced at her hands folded in her lap. “When did you find out about me?”
“After the funeral. My mother showed me the will, and our father’sestate will help you once you’re eighteen. Social Security needs to be notified about his death so those checks can start coming to your grandmother.”
“If she lives long enough to receive them.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. Attitude’s not so good. Dad told me about you on my tenth birthday. Said he’d been a lousy father. Didn’t think you’d ever forgive him, but someday he’d get the guts to try. I guess it didn’t happen.” She swiped tears beneath her eyes.
So much between his father and him left unsaid. If he was honest, regret might have simmered on both sides.
“I hope Dad didn’t mind I couldn’t make it to the funeral,” she said. “But he’s in heaven now.”
Marc wasn’t going to debate where his father spent the afterlife. As a Christian, Marc needed a better outlook. Under different circumstances he’d have wrapped his arms around Tessa and let her cry. He’d felt more comfortable talking to an armed killer.
“You’ll be in tenth grade this fall?” When she nodded, he held up the yearbook. “I brought our father’s senior yearbook. Want to take a look?”
Tessa slowly stood and joined him on the sofa, keeping her distance. “I should offer you something to eat or drink.”
“No need. I drank a gallon of coffee on the drive here. I know it’s barely 8a.m., but I’m in the mood for pizza.”
“Must be like father, like son,” she said. “Dad always ordered pizza when he visited.”
“What kind?”
“Pepperoni, no anchovies, and extra mushroom and cheese.”
“My favorite.” And he meant it. He relaxed a little. “Thick crust?”
“The only kind, filled with cheese.”
“I’ll order it for ten o’clock, then I need to head back to Houston. Is that too long of a visit?”
“Perfect.”
He set the yearbook on her lap. He’d never seen photos of their father as a teen. Would Marc even recognize him?
An hour later, the two had settled into conversation mode. That’s what Marc called an interview when he successfully made the interviewee feel comfortable. They laughed at their father’s tall, skinny frame in a track pose. Tessa said he encouraged her in sports. Marc learned he’d paid for gymnastics when she was younger and dance lessons later on. Dear old Dad even attended recitals. She’d progressed to a level of contemporary dance, which afforded her a spot on the high school drill team. Tessa chatted on, and Marc listened, experiencing a world he’d never entered before. He could do this big-brother thing.
A middle-aged woman in loose slacks and a flowered blouse entered the living area. “Mrs. Litton would like to meet you, sir.”
He introduced himself to the hospice nurse and followed her and Tessa down a narrow hallway to a dimly lit bedroom. Mrs. Litton’s room smelled of death, the lingering telltale odors of a failing body. The white-haired woman leaned against pillows at an incline. She peered at him like a life-size spider had crawled into the room.
