Page 58 of Thicker Than Water
“Okay, but you don’t have to solve this right now. I’m worried about what this is doing to you. The stress of your brother’s accident, the Gavin case, now this split with Julia—”
“It’s not asplit.”
“My point is: you can take a break from it all. You’re allowed to regroup, you know. Jason wouldn’t want you running yourself ragged. And this report is only going to work you up even more.”
He looks at the car keys he’s still holding. He closes his fist around them, the Hillstead PD key chain poking between his fingers, labeled with a number that identifies its cruiser.
“I have to go.” Reluctance strains Wyatt’s voice. “But why don’t you come over tonight? I’ll make you dinner, or we can order in, whatever you want. We can even watchWeekend at Bernie’s IIandyou can replay your favorite parts a hundred times, no arguments from me.”
For a moment, I allow myself to picture it—enjoying the movie, my feet in Wyatt’s lap; reprising our old game, One-star Bartender, mixing drinks so disgusting we spit them into the sink, cracking up at each other’s concoctions. But then I see my smile souring, feel the alcohol burning the back of my throat, reminded of the way he betrayed me. The shots at that bachelor party, the tequila and vodka and rum, the dizzy mix that spun him right into someone’s bed.
I shake my head, clearing the images like cobwebs. “I’ve been over your house two nights in a row.”
“Oh, shit, you’re right,” he says. Then he lowers his voice to a whisper, as if letting a secret slip. “I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”
His lips lift toward the hint of a smile, but his attempt at levity can’t sway me. It only reminds me how serious the situation is: we’re standing in a police station, where Wyatt works, where people in his same uniform are waiting to arrest my brother. Jason doesn’t have time for me to relax, to regroup, to go to my ex’s and goof around; he needs me to stay in this room and review the arrest report, then follow wherever it leads.
“No,” I say, more forcefully this time. “I can’t.”
“Okay.” Wyatt backs away, hands up in a gesture of surrender, one still closed around his keys. “I’ll just say one more thing: I know it’s important to you to take care of Jason. But it’s important to me that you take care of yourself. Go home. Get some rest.”
He opens the door, casts me one last look—a blend of empathy and affection—before disappearing into the hall.
As the door clicks closed, I pull in a steadying breath. His leaving loosens some things in me, while tightening others. My chest pulses with a dull ache.
I turn to the report.
The words swim before me, as if I’m viewing them underwater. My eyes prickle with a sting like chlorine. I blink until my vision clears.
Still, it takes me a minute to focus. First, I have to filter out the facts that don’t matter to me: Henry Hendrix’s date of birth, height, weight. I flip to the section where the arresting officer described the scene upon arriving—Henry had been steered away from Gavin by then, drunkenly hunched against the hostess’s podium at the restaurant, but he was still shouting accusations, snatches of which the police recorded:you should have kept your mouth shut, I trusted you and you ruined everything, we could have done it together if you’d just kept quiet, now my wife up and left, you did this, you did it too.
My heart drums.
There’s a lot to unpack in such a small snippet.You did it toocould mean that Henry’s not only holding Gavin responsible for destroying his business, but his marriage, as well.
Or it could mean Henry knows Gavin committed the same offense for which he reported him to the IRS.We could have done it together if you’d just kept quiet.
I take a picture of those lines, then continue reading. I slow at a statement from the restaurant server who called the police. According to the server, Henry had been at the bar for an hour before the commotion began. While the server was taking an order on the other side of the room, he heard Henry shouting, saw him hovering over Gavin’s table. When Henry grabbed a drink from Gavin’s table and smashed the glass at Gavin’s feet, the server rushed over. He asked Henry to leave, but Henry didn’t budge. Instead, he hurled more words at Gavin:You expected loyalty from customers you stole? Smith told me everything.
I snap a picture of that, too, my pulse percussing at a frantic pace. I don’t know who Smith is—with a name so common, they could beanyone—but I’m willing to bet they’re connected to one of the businesses from Gavin’s notebook.
On the next page of the report, another diner described Henry to the police as “shouting at the man, calling him a fraud and hypocrite, practically foaming at the mouth,” despite Gavin’s attempts to ignore him.I could fucking kill you for this, Henry screamed, just before smashing Gavin’s glass to the floor.
I shouldn’t be smiling. A death threat shouldn’t make me feel this fizzy and buoyant. But it’s right there, in black and white, recorded by an officer of the law.
You did it too.
Smith told me everything.
I could fucking kill you for this.
I’m sure of it now: Henry knew about Gavin’s secret deals. And just as I suspected, he was enraged, he was violent, and he could fucking kill him for this.
I flip through the photos I’ve taken of the report, drawing circles around the most pertinent lines so I can send them to Julia. But when I return to the first photo, my finger freezes beside one sentence in particular.
I didn’t think much of it the first time I read it. It’s a common enough expression.
You should have kept your mouth shut.
