Zoë. Shit. I miss my scrawny, goofy little sister. Not that she was that way toward the end. In the half year leading up to her suicide she’d grown so quiet and secretive. Dark. The few times I tried to reach her I couldn’t. I wonder if I hadn’t given up she’d be here today.
I shake my head. To think of that is like drowning. I can’t dwell in that place. On the waste of it. The loss of her. I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t save Kimberly. Now there’s Isabelle who needs saving. Will I fail her too? My track record would suggest so.
I push my hand into my hair and step away from Zeke. “Why were you out there?”
“It’s where I always go when I come home.”
“The chapel?”
He shakes his head. “The graveyard.”
He’s a better man than me. I’ve never made visiting Zoë or Kimberly my priority. I realize how shitty that makes me. “Leaving flowers at their graves.”
He nods.
“Dad’s too?” I ask, needing to deflect my own lack.
He slaps his hand to my chest and shoves me. “Fuck you, brother.”
I grab his wrist. “What were you doing with my wife?”
He tugs free. “Your wife was already there. In the chapel. I saw the candles were lit and went inside to investigate only to find Isabelle there.”
He’s not lying. I can see that. He’s never lied to me. That goes both ways. But we do keep secrets and secrets are as bad as lies.
“She went to the chapel on her own?”
He nods. “Catching up on her reading.”
I feel my breathing tighten.
“She’s all right?” he asks.
I study him understanding his meaning. He knew what I would do tonight. He’s read Draca’s diary. We all have. “I said I wouldn’t go that far. I didn’t lie.”
“But you wanted to scare her.”
I don’t answer because what kind of devil would admitting that make me? I already know the monster I am. No need to admit it to my brother.
“You know, Draca St. James wasn’t one to idolize either, brother,” he says. “But you have a bad track record when it comes to choosing your gods, don’t you?”
Dad. He means dad. And I remember our last conversation in my study. I remember how that conversation moved from dad to Zoë. To her death. To him finding her hanging in the cellar. And again, that nagging feeling returns. It should have been me. I was the older brother. I should have found her and spared him that.
“What did he do to her?” I ask and I swear he knows exactly what I’m talking about. I see it on the lines that etch his face, in the darkness that casts shadows from inside him. It’s when I see the similarities between him and Zoë. The only time. For a moment, I just watch as my brother breaks. Just for a split second I see it. I see the fissure that’s been there for years. Deep. Deepening. The one he’s so good at hiding beneath a casual, cool exterior.
“Leave it,” he says in an almost unrecognizable voice. He clears his throat. Stands up straighter. “We have a more urgent problem.” He reaches into his pocket for something. He opens his palm and I see a cigarette butt.
Confused, I look up at him.
“I don’t think your wife smokes. I haven’t picked up the habit and I know how you feel about it,” Zeke says.
I hate the smell of cigarette smoke. Always have. Dad smoked. It was one of the things I couldn’t stand about him. He stank when he smoked. And he chain smoked when he was in one of his moods. It was usually a sign of bad things to come.
The staff sign a contract agreeing not to smoke on or around the property. If they do, it’s immediate termination.
“Where did you find that?”
“Graveyard. There’s more of them.”
“Do we have a new gardener or something?”
He shakes his head. “Unless you hired someone. Where were you tonight by the way?”
“Let’s have a drink,” I say. He nods and I move to the couch while he pours a tumbler of whiskey for each of us. “Bring the bottle,” I tell him. He does and joins me.
“I’m not your enemy. You know that, right?” Zeke asks me.
I study him, nod. “You should tell me, though. The thing with dad. It’s history. Long past.”
“You don’t want to know this, Jericho. I’ll carry this one.”
“Share the weight.”
“No.” He sips. “Tell me about tonight.”
I take a deep breath in, then out. “Did you know Danny Gibson has a brother.”
“Why would I care?” he asks. He recognizes the name.
“I took Isabelle to a concert that teacher of hers invited her to and she disappeared for a while. When I found her, she lied about who she was with.”
“Who was she with?”
“Julia Bishop.”
His eyebrows knit together.