Angela frowned. “Yeah, but we knew that was a lie. You checked and he had plenty of hours left.”
“But that’s all I could do . . . see what he had left. I made a small assumption—he had plenty of hours because no one had been to see him. That assumption led to a mistake: I didn’t bother asking for the log. If I had, I would have found out someone came to see him last month. Someone who hasn’t seen him in quite some time.”
“His lawyer?”
“Which one?
“He’s fired two of ’em by my count—”
“Your count sucks. He’s fired three.”
“He’s his own lawyer, remember? How can he visit himself?”
“Your mother,” Jason said, raising his voice. “Emma Drake.”
Abrupt silence, like a switch had been thrown. Angela felt like she was witnessing a miracle. Or witchcraft. Something about Jason made people want to stop and listen. Maybe it wasn’t “people” (a general term), maybe it was just the Horde.
Jason started a little. “Oh. Sorry. I was waiting for another chorus of interruptions. You wanted me to continue?”
Silent nods. Definitely witchcraft.
“Last month, he wrote your mother and asked for a visit. A week after that, she came.”
Dumbfounded silence. “Why—why did we not know that? She’s always maintained zero contact, hasn’t spoken to him since he took the plea and went to prison.” Archer was shaking his head. “Why didn’t we notice he wrote to her?”
Angela felt dull pain in her palm and realized she’d clenched her fist so hard her knuckles had whitened. “Because Mom checks the mail. It’s the one thing she’s consistently done for the last ten years. And we let her because, hey, at least she was engaged in some part of family life, right? That’s what we told ourselves.” She turned toward the fridge, where her mother had been standing a minute ago. “Isn’t that right, M— Dammit!”
Emma Drake had left the building.
FORTY-SEVEN
“It’s settled: Mom should be helping with the grocery shopping from now on.”
“How did we not notice any of this?” Jordan cried. “She left and drove off right under our noses. Multiple times! She somehow got out of here without drawing attention to herself or asking anyone for a ride or for their keys?”
“Because of that.” Angela pointed to the keyboard beside the fridge. Almost every hook had keys; the only one that didn’t held the flyswatter. “There are so many of us and we’ve all got different schedules and we all need vehicles at different times. You remember—it’s why we put the board up in the first place. If any of us get blocked in, we can come in here, grab keys, and move cars. Easy.”
“Even so . . .”
“Are you new? This place is locked onto a 24/7 chaos cycle. Half the time we’ve got no idea what the other half is up to.”
Archer was rubbing his forehead. “So she leaves now and again and nobody noticed. And my dad could have been writing your mom every month and we’d never have known. It’s not like Dennis would mention it during one of the few visits he didn’t refuse. Or in one of his rare letters. ‘Dear son, how’s it hanging? Also I write to your aunt every few weeks, which totally isn’t a secret.’”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t get it.” They all looked at Jack. “So she went to see him. So what? I mean, it’s shocking in terms of nobody knew what she was up to, but it doesn’t really mean anything.”
“That,” Jason said, “would depend on her motive for visiting.”
“Maybe . . . to warn him off?”
“Nooooo. Auntie Em didn’t warn him off. That would have involved caring. And dressing before noon. And driving.” But even as he said it, Archer looked puzzled. Because if it wasn’t to warn Dennis off, what possible reason would she have to go see him? Especially after spending years of energy making it clear that no one should see Dennis Drake under any circumstance?
“I think I get it.” Jack was nodding, eyes bright as he reasoned it out. “I think she played the Widow Drake card and drove out there to tell Uncle Dennis to be a bastard to Angela and make her go away and never want to see him again so we could get on with our lives.”
Archer and Angela traded glances. When Jack put it like that, it wasn’t quite as mysterious and sneaky and terrible. Under those circumstances, Angela could almost understand. It was misguided and controlling, but in a weird way, it was also an act of love.
“That’s not why she visited him,” Jason said. He looked at Angela. “It’s been sixty-three seconds. May I continue?”
Most of the group: “Yes!”
“I’m gonna vote no,” Mitchell put in. “Just so there’s one voice of dissent, but honestly, I think you should keep going.”
“Very well. Once I realized Emma and Dennis had been in communication, I started to see things through a different lens. Things you told me, Angela. ‘She’s been after me to let Dad lie.’ And his explanation for avoiding the trial, do you remember? ‘I told the cops what I did because I essentially killed my brother and hurt your mother.’ That was odd phrasing. ‘I didn’t take a plea to leave wiggle room if I got buyer’s remorse.’ How in the world could he get buyer’s remorse? What did he buy? And ‘this was always my mess. I bought it; it’s mine.’
“And aside from all of that—what has your mother been hiding all this time?”
“Guilty knowledge.” There. It was out. She’d finally put it into words.
“Yes.”
She was shaking her head numbly. She could almost see what he was getting at. But it was insane. Literal insanity: It was madness, an act of extreme foolishness or irrationality.
“The wrong one’s in jail. You always maintained that; you built your lives around the concept. And you were always right.”
Jacky was shaking his head so hard, he reached out to steady himself on the back of the chair. “No. You’re wrong. Angela, tell him he’s—” He clenched a small fist and looked up into Jason’s face. “Are you saying our mother murdered our daddy? Which is why he’s been protecting her and keeping away from us?”
“No.” Angela couldn’t remember feeling so calm in her life. Once again, it was like watching someone else put the puzzle together in front of you, the one you couldn’t solve on your own. “He’s saying our dad’s still alive. Donald Drake is alive, Dennis is dead. And somehow, Mom got Dad to take his place.”
FORTY-EIGHT
Pandemonium. (Understandable.) Most of the boys were yelling and Leah had gone to Jacky, who was crying, and put an arm around him, and walked him around the turtle table and made him sit down before he fell down.
But Angela wasn’t touched by any of it. Instead she stood like a statue—like Eternal Silence, who showed you your death if you matched its gaze—and did what Jason had done: looked at “reality” through a different lens.
“This was always my mess. I bought it; it’s mine.”
You can’t save him.
“He’s dead. Let him stay dead.”
And, particularly damning: “It should have been him.” She thought about sitting across from “Uncle Dennis” and vowing to avenge the wrong brother’s murder. How could he have just—just sat there and let her ramble on and on about all the time she was wasting?
He tried to make you stop. He and Mom both tried to make you stop.
Yeah? You know what a great way to make me stop would have been? Mentioning that HE WAS MY FATHER AND CLEARLY NOT DEAD. Christ, this was her life as Augusta Harrison all over again!
“He did tell us,” she said. Her mouth felt like she’d gotten a shot of Novocain; it was hard to make her lips move. “He told us over and over. And he was right. I heard, but didn’t listen.”
She and Archer stared at each other and then said, almost in unison, “The wrong brother’s in jail.”
Paul, meanwhile, was holding his head in his hands. “This. Is. So. Fucked.”