V is for Vengeance (Kinsey Millhone 22)

“Are you hearing yourself? You’re saying if he’d been loyal, you’d have gone on protecting him. So what if he killed a few people, you’d have shielded him as long as there was some benefit to you.”

“I carried him because Pop would’ve died if anything happened to him. I thought if I looked after him, my old man would eventually bring me in out of the cold.”

“Oh, you’re out in the cold, all right.”

“Fine. I’m out. I won’t fight you on this. As long as we’re putting our cards on the table, there’s something else. You do whatever you have to do, but fold this into the equation while you’re at it. Phillip was a good kid, but he was off track. He told me he gambled all through college. He bragged he made money at it, but that was bullshit. All poker players say that. It’s a distortion . . . filtering out the losses and exaggerating the wins. Did you ever stop and calculate how much you and Channing paid out to cover his debts? You’d be paying to this day because he would never have given it up. He couldn’t. That was his fix . . . how he took care of whatever pain and anxiety he felt.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, I do. I see guys like him all day long. I lend them money so they can try to bail themselves out of whatever hole they’ve dug. You and Channing were always going to be picking up after him. He was weak.”

“How dare you criticize my son! He was a child! Twenty-three years old.”

“Nora, he had big problems. He was up and down, immature, grandiose. Which was fine as long as he lived in the bubble he created for himself, but in the real world, he was floundering.”

“How do you know he wouldn’t have straightened out? He lost any chance he had. He lost his life and for what?”

“Maybe he would have straightened up. I don’t know that and neither do you. He didn’t deserve to die. What happened to him was my fault and I don’t deny the part I played. I know you can’t forgive me. I’m not asking you to. I just don’t want you to pretty up who Phillip was and what he did. I’m sorry he died. I mean that. I know how much he meant to you and I’m sorry.”

“Anything else?” she asked, her tone flat.

Dante took a deep breath. “As long as I’m being honest, I might as well give you the rest. I set him up. I meant to teach him a lesson, something Tripp might have done if he’d lived.”

“A lesson? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I put a woman at his table, one of my employees. Georgia’s a world-class poker player. I knew he’d go down in flames if he came up against her. I wanted him to hit rock bottom so he’d see the error of his ways. He was never going to figure it out if he had people coming to his rescue. That was truly my intent, to put him back on the straight and narrow.”

She started to close the door.

He put a hand out, stopping her. “Listen to me. My brother killed your son. Phillip didn’t kill himself. His death had nothing to do with you. Blame me, if it helps. You’ve been through a loss no parent should have to bear and nothing will make up for it. But Phillip’s dead either way. At least you know now he didn’t die through any will of his own.”

“Enough. You’ve had your say. Now get away from me. I’m tired.”

“Hell, Nora. We’re all tired.”

She closed the door. He stood on her doorstep for one minute more and then he turned and went back to his car.

He thought their conversation was the low point of his day, but there was worse in store. When he reached home, the upstairs rooms were dark. Lights in the kitchen, dining room, and living room were ablaze, but there was nothing cheery waiting for him. Lola was long gone. He left his car in the driveway for Tomasso to put in the garage and entered the house through the front door. He was relieved to see there was no sign of his father. He went into the library and fixed himself a drink. He left the house by way of the back door, greeting Sophie briefly in passing. She gave him a long look, apparently aware that Lola had packed up and departed. While she knew better than to commiserate, she was in the process of preparing all of his favorites: beef Wellington and haricots verts. Chunks of potato were simmering on a low burner and he knew she’d mash them with butter and sour cream. The tureen was set out for the fresh tomato soup she’d made. She’d also made a green salad she’d be dressing just before she served him. This was the only form of mothering he knew—someone cooking his supper, fixing everything he loved. He paid her handsomely, but so be it. Nurturing was nurturing.