Page 70 of Thicker Than Water
He trails off, and I don’t push him to continue. Over the past several days, I’ve searched for answers in our laundry, in our credit card statements, in Jason’s emails. Aiden, bearing his own agony, was searching through closets and drawers.
“I’m so sorry you’ve been carrying this alone,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
His answer is quick and sharp: “Because we don’t talk about shit like this.”
The swear hardly fazes me. I’m more confused by the vitriol behind it, the way it stings me like a slap. “Shit like what?”
“Likeanything. You never say what you’re really feeling. Even now, when I asked how you were, you saidfine. While Dad’s in acoma, about to be arrested for murder, you’re fine. And not just that. It’s little things, too. If Dad decides to, like, bring home takeout when you already made lasagna or whatever, you don’t say, like, ‘Oh, I wish you talked to me first, I went to a lot of trouble making dinner.’ You just put the lasagna in the fridge and don’t even mention it. But I’ve seen your face, Mom—even if you only show it for a split second, it bothers you.”
I’m stunned by this example. It’s one I never would have thought of when considering the ways I’ve silenced myself. But itdoesbother me when Jason makes the unilateral decision to bring home takeout, especially since he should know that I usually have a plan for dinner. I’ve never mentioned it to him because I know he means it as a kindness. And I didn’t want to risk upsetting him, seeing his face spring back in hurt.
“So why would I show you this?” Aiden continues. “I thought you’d brush it off. Or pretend it isn’t obvious that this isblood.” He zooms in closer on the splotches, until they fill the screen with a rusty hue. “Because that’s what you do. You brush things off. You act like everything’s fine. I even asked you straight-up the other night what you and Dad fought about in December, and you acted like it was no big deal. You told me”—his fingers hook into air quotes—“?‘It was nothing. I overreacted about something.’?”
Again, I’m thrown off-kilter. I didn’t know how carefully he was listening to me, enough to parrot my lie. I didn’t know that, all this time, he’s been recording my facial expressions, the lengths of my silences. Didn’t realize the kind of example I’d set. That, in not speaking the truth, I’d left no space for words at all, not even from my son.
“I knew that was a lie,” he says, “the second you said it. Because you don’t overreact to things. Most times, you don’t react at all.”
My mouth snaps open, my eyes widen—and I can only imagine what he sees in me now: surprise, distress, embarrassment. I don’tbother to hide it or distract him with a denial. Because Aiden’s right. How many times have I rearranged my face to not give anything away? How many times have I forced a smile, a nod, even as something gnawed me inside?
“I know you and Auntsy have been trying to clear Dad’s name all week.” Aiden pulls the phone from my hands. I stop myself from latching onto his fingers—not to keep him from taking it, but to hold on to him a moment.
“The problem is,” he adds, “I don’t think Dadcanbe cleared.”
The phone has gone dark, but he wakes it again, and there it is: blue fabric and blood.
Blood on this blazer. Blood on Jason’s knife. Blood welling from Gavin’s stomach.
“He killed him,” Aiden says, and my heart splits open.
“Oh, honey,” I whisper. I envelop him in an embrace—and he allows it. Even though his shoulders are stiff, he rests in my arms, so much bigger than he’s ever been, so much older than I ever imagined him when he was a child. My entire body hurts, the way it did fourteen years ago, right after I’d given birth. It amazed me then, how even my tongue ached from my labor, the soles of my feet, my neck and elbows. I had given all of myself in order to bring our son into the world, and now I squeeze Aiden to me, devastated by the ways Jason and I have failed him.
Something like a whimper escapes me. I try to hold Aiden tighter, rock him like he’s still a child, but he draws back until my arms loosen around his shoulders.
“You think so too,” Aiden says. “Don’t you?”
I look at the photo one last time—a piece of evidence the police never had. And though my chest throbs, my lungs cramp, my eyes burn, I answer my son. I tell him the truth.
“I do,” I say. “I think your father killed him.”
Chapter TwentySIENNA
I head to Home Depot as soon as it opens, no Julia in my passenger seat, no texts from her on my phone. There was a moment this morning when I almost called her. My thumb, moving by instinct, reached for her under Favorites. Then I stared at her name, stunned by the emotions it conjured—sadness, resentment, shame—and I couldn’t bring myself to press it.
Instead, I looked up Home Depot locations—two in a twelve-mile radius—and after comparing them to Henry Hendrix’s address, I picked the one closest to him.
The one in Hillstead. The one only a couple miles from Wyatt. And I winced at that thought, the nearness of him like a reopened wound.
As I pull into a parking space, I have to remind myself that nothing’s changed. Wyatt and I didn’t break up last night, because we never got back together. We were over when I arrived at his house, and over when I left it. It doesn’t matter that, afterward, in myrestless, shredded sleep, I pictured myself returning to him, telling him I want him again, want him always on my side.
I’m on your side, Si, always.
That was what snapped me back to my senses, that sentence he said. He meant it as a balm, but it felt like a bruise. Because no matter how much he believes it, he’s proven it isn’t true. If he were on my side, he wouldn’t have insisted Henry’s alibi was solid when it seems anything but, wouldn’t have implied I give up like Julia and wait for Jason to be arrested.
As the doors to Home Depot part, I’m smacked by the smell of lumber and must. It reminds me of Integrity Plus’s warehouse, the gutter machine, the cash and notebook, the customer names that led me to Henry in the first place. This whole time, it’s been a trail of breadcrumbs right to him, and no one can keep me from following it—not Julia (How would Henry have planted traces of blood onto Jason’s knife?), and certainly not Wyatt (You understand, right, why Jason is a better suspect?).
I check down each aisle, alert to anyone who resembles Henry Hendrix’s picture: round face, gray hair. The only men who fit the bill are clearly customers, not employees, studying the options for caulk in one aisle, doorknobs in another.
And that’s good—preferable, actually. My plan will work better if he isn’t here.
