The Truth About the Devlins E-Book

Lisa Scottoline

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 475

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Lisa Scottoline, the #1 bestselling author of What Happened to the Bennetts, presents another pulse-pounding domestic thriller about family, justice, and the lies that tear us apart. TJ Devlin is the charming disappointment in the prominent Devlin family, all of whom are lawyers at their highly successful firm—except him. After a stint in prison and rehab for alcoholism, TJ can't get hired anywhere except at the firm, in a make-work job with the title of investigator. But one night, TJ's world turns upside down after his older brother John confesses that he just murdered one of the clients, an accountant he'd confronted with proof of embezzlement. It seems impossible coming from John, the firstborn son and Most Valuable Devlin. TJ plunges into the investigation, seizing the chance to prove his worth and save his brother. But in no time, TJ and John find themselves entangled in a lethal web of deception and murder. TJ will fight to save his family, but what he learns might break them first.

Leseprobe

Praise for Lisa Scottoline

‘Scottoline is a powerhouse’ David Baldacci, author of Mercy

‘Scottoline is one of the very best writers today’ Michael Connelly, author of The Dark Hours

‘Scottoline knows how to keep readers in her grip’New York Times Book Review

‘Scottoline writes riveting thrillers that keep me up all night, with plots that twist and turn’ Harlan Coben, author of The Match

Praise for What Happened to the Bennetts

‘A must-read book’ USA Today

‘Scottoline just keeps ratcheting up the pressure in what may be her most emotionally intense nail-biter to date’ People

‘Scottoline’s gift for crafting human connections is displayed here… setting this thriller apart from other suburban-hero stories. A good choice for Gregg Hurwitz and Harlan Coben fans’ Booklist

‘An emotion-packed thriller that stabs at the core of family, betrayal, and justice. Scottoline drives the plot at breakneck speed and keeps readers turning the pages. A must read’ Robert Dugoni, author of the Tracy Crosswhite series

‘What Happened to the Bennetts is a well-written and fast-paced crime thriller, with lots of clever twists. Crime aficionados will enjoy this novel’ Washington Times

‘Scottoline tosses in explosive new complications in the most relentless of all her mysteries… A high-octane thriller whose hero is tossed into one impossible situation after another. Best started early in the morning’ Kirkus Reviews (The Best Books of 2022)

‘Just might be the best book Scottoline has ever written, a masterpiece of misdirection, where nothing is as it seems, and a scorching character study of a man at the end of his rope who’s not about to go down without a fight’ Providence Journal

‘This heart-wrenching novel… morphs into a high-speed, action-packed thriller… Scottoline’s fans will get their money’s worth’ Publishers Weekly

‘In What Happened to the Bennetts, Scottoline thrusts the reader into one family’s living nightmare – and their long, nail-biting battle to return to some sense of normalcy’ Riley Sager, author of Survive the Night

‘Scottoline is at the top of her already masterful game in this gripping thriller about parental love. From its opening, heart-grabbing pages, What Happened to the Bennetts is compulsively readable, seamlessly delivering one blazing twist after another with relentless pacing. You won’t be able to put this one down’ Alafair Burke, author of Find Me

‘[Scottoline’s] best thriller… Fast-paced with so many twists and turns, and I felt like something happened on every page’ Bookreporter

‘Twisty, propulsive and exhilarating. From this novel’s first pages, Scottoline caroms us into a heart-throttling journey as the Bennett family must navigate both urgent dangers and their own complicated pasts – all while the clock ticks. What Happened to the Bennetts left me dazzled and breathless’ Megan Abbott, author of The Turnout

‘Lisa Scottoline’s thrillers are always tight, taut page-turners, packed with action and risk and suspense. In What Happened to the Bennetts, she crafts fresh intensity because of the powerful emotions at stake, reassembling like kaleidoscope pieces with every fresh scene… Clear the calendar before you start reading; What Happened to the Bennetts is so good you may not want to put it down until the hard-won and well-earned finale’ New York Journal of Books

With love for Francesca, my wonder of a daughter

THE MAIN THING IS

TO BE MOVED,

TO LOVE,

TO HOPE,

TO TREMBLE,

TO LIVE.

– AUGUSTE RODIN

1

At first I thought I heard him wrong. It was impossible coming from John, my older brother, the firstborn son, the Most Valuable Devlin. Me, I’m the black sheep, the baby of the family, the charming disappointment. John was Class President, and I was Class Clown. He was Most Likely to Succeed, I was Most Likely to Get a Speeding Ticket. That’s why I never expected him to confess to murder.

‘What?’ My mouth dropped open. ‘Did you just say you killed somebody?’

‘Yes.’ My brother nodded, jittery. His blue eyes looked unfocused, which never happened. Lasers have nothing on John Devlin.

‘That can’t be. Not you. You’re, like, the best—’

‘I did it,’ John said, panicky. ‘I killed a man. TJ, what should I do?’

‘How do I know? You’re the lawyer.’ I didn’t get it. John and everyone else in my family were lawyers in our family firm, Devlin & Devlin. I’m a convicted criminal. On second thought, maybe I would’ve asked me, too.

‘God, no, I can’t believe this.’ Tears filmed John’s eyes, which surprised me. I didn’t know he had any emotions except disapproval. We stood on the large flagstone patio overlooking the pool and pool house. When he’d taken me outside tonight, I thought he wanted the two grand I owed him.

‘John, who did you… kill?’

‘A client.’

Yikes. I’m an investigator at the law firm. My family keeps me behind the scenes, but I don’t need applause, just a paycheck. Being an ex-con doesn’t pay as well as it should. ‘Tell me what happened.’

‘I don’t know where to start. Oh God, this is awful.’ John grimaced, stricken. He ran his tongue over his lips. ‘Okay, well, we were at the corporate center, Knickerbocker Quarry. I hit him with a rock—’

‘A rock?’ What is this, summer camp? ‘Why? When?’

‘Less than an hour ago. I came directly here.’

Meanwhile there was no blood on him. Only my brother could kill somebody with a rock and not get dirty. His silk tie was spotless and his Brioni suit fit him like Batman. ‘How did you beat him with a rock and—’

‘I didn’t beat him. I threw the rock and it hit him in the head. I heard a crack…’ John’s upper lip curled with disgust. ‘Then he dropped.’

I figured it was his fastball. John pitched for Villanova, where every Devlin but me went to college. ‘Then what happened?’

‘I came here. I knew Nancy and everybody would be waiting. I panicked.’ John raked a hand through thinning brown hair. He was forty years old but looked fifty and usually acted eighty, but not tonight.

‘Okay, let’s go. We have to do something with the body.’

John recoiled. ‘Like what?’

‘Bury it?’ Isn’t that why you’re telling me?

‘TJ, no, we can’t. I don’t know what to do.’ John rubbed his face. ‘We can’t leave now. You know how Dad is about his birthday.’

I glanced through the window to the dining room, where dinner was just getting underway. My mother was setting an antipasto platter on the table, and my father stood talking with my sister, Gabby, and her husband, Martin. John’s wife, Nancy, sat with my little nephew, Connor, who was playing with a Matchbox Jaguar I’d brought him. My father’s birthday was a national holiday in our house. Christmas never had it so good.

John straightened, blinking. ‘TJ, I can’t live with this. I’m coming clean. I’m going to tell—’

‘No, stop.’ I grabbed him by his hand-stitched lapel. ‘You’ll go to prison.’

‘I deserve to.’

‘You can’t handle it.’

‘You did.’

‘That’s how I know you can’t.’

‘I can if you can.’

My brother is crazy competitive. If he’d been in the Donner party, he would’ve pigged out. ‘John, let’s go—’

‘Here’s Mom now.’ John turned, and my mother opened the French doors to the patio, making a chic silhouette in a dark Chanel pantsuit, backlit by the chandelier. Marie Spano Devlin had the only brown eyes and strong nose in our family, and her olive skin was spared our regulation-Irish freckles. Silvery strands gleamed in her onyx-black chignon and lines bracketed her mouth, but to me, she’d only gotten lovelier with age. I adore my mother, and she always has my back. She calls me her little devil, which fits.

‘Boys, time for dinner.’

‘Mom, sorry, we have to go.’ I detected Lambrusco on her breath, sipped out of sight because of my sobriety. The scent wasn’t strong, but I’m McGruff for booze.

‘Go where?’ My mother blinked, puzzled. ‘We’re about to eat.’

‘I know, sorry.’ I tugged John into the dining room, and my mother stepped aside, her lips parting in dismay.

‘TJ, what’s going on? You can’t miss dinner.’

‘Please, eat without us.’ I hustled past the table as everyone looked at us in surprise, especially my father. Paul Francis Devlin had graying light brown hair, and we looked a lot alike. We had the same blue eyes, round and set far apart with thick eyebrows, a longish nose, and a mouth that was on the big side. Every time I looked at my father, I saw a successful version of myself. I can only guess what he saw when he looked at me.

‘TJ, where do you think you’re going? You’ll miss dinner.’

‘I know, I’m really sorry but it can’t be helped.’ I kept moving but my father was already out of his chair. He’d taken off his tie, and his white oxford shirt was wrinkled from the workday. He was a big guy, six three and in decent shape. He’d played basketball at Villanova before they were Final Four good, a former power forward who still exuded power.

John added, ‘I’m sorry, too. We’ll be back as soon as we can.’

‘John, what did TJ do now?’ my father snapped, assuming that I was in trouble and John was helping me, which even I had to admit made sense. I was the Bad Son and John was the Good Son. Our roles in our family are like our seats at the kitchen table. Forever.

I dragged John out of the house and down the flagstone steps to the circular driveway. My parents lived in a McMansion that reeked of curb appeal, on six acres of perfect landscaping in Philly’s exclusive Main Line. Automatic sprinklers whirred in the garden, and the air smelled like ChemLawn. I never felt at home here because we grew up in the Devlin starter house, and our problems started after we got rich. Not that I have anything against money. Money has something against me.

We walked to my car, which was parked behind John’s and my sister’s black Range Rovers. My father and mother both have black Range Rovers, too. Sometimes I’m surprised they didn’t name the firm Devlin & Devlin & Devlin & Devlin.

‘I’ll drive, let’s go.’ I opened the door and jumped in my car, and John followed suit, frowning.

‘New car? You’ve owed me two grand since forever.’

‘You’ll get it back, I needed new calipers.’ I’m a car guy. I buy cars at seized-asset auctions, fix them up, and flip them. This one was a 2020 Maserati Quattroporte, formerly owned by a drug kingpin. Basically, I put the car in cartel.

‘Don’t drive crazy.’

‘Have we met?’ I pressed a button, igniting one of the most distinctive engines on the planet.

We took off.

2

We whizzed past big stone houses, townhome developments, and strip malls. John let his anxiety show now that we were alone, raking his hand through his hair again. I gave him time to calm down, but I had questions.

‘So, John, tell me what happened.’

‘It’s horrible, it all happened so fast, I just reacted.’

‘What happened? Break it down.’

‘I don’t know where to start.’ John rubbed his face. ‘There was so much blood. I didn’t mean to kill him. I wasn’t aiming for his head. I was aiming for the gun.’

‘Who’s the client? Do I know him?’

‘No. His name’s Neil Lemaire. He’s the accountant at Runstan Electronics.’

‘Why were you meeting with him?’

‘Okay, well.’ John tried to rally. ‘The company’s being acquired, and I was doing due diligence. I found irregularities in the accounting.’

‘Like money missing?’ My brother has an accounting degree and a law degree, but I can juggle.

‘Yes.’

‘How much?’

‘About a hundred grand.’

Wow. ‘So he was embezzling?’

‘Ya think? It had to be him because he’s the only accountant at the company. I told him we needed to talk and he asked me to meet him, so I agreed.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes.’

I realized my brother was a dumb smart person. I myself am a smart dumb person. If I were accusing somebody of embezzling a hundred grand, I’d bring an army. ‘So then what happened?’

‘I confronted him, and he denied it. Then he offered to pay me to cover it up.’

I brightened. ‘How much?’

John shot me a disapproving look. ‘I didn’t ask, TJ. I’m in a fiduciary relationship to Runstan. I can’t countenance criminal acts by its employees.’

‘Weren’t you curious?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Me, neither,’ I said, but I wasn’t kidding anybody. ‘Then what happened?’

‘I said no, and Lemaire started pacing back and forth. Then all of a sudden, he pulled a gun on me and told me to get on my knees.’

Holy shit. ‘So that’s self-defense. He threatened your life.’

‘Right, I know, but still… I killed him.’

‘It’s not murder, though.’

‘Technically, self-defense is a defense to murder. Don’t play lawyer, TJ.’

‘Don’t play criminal, John.’

‘Anyway, I knelt down and saw a rock on the ground, so I grabbed it and winged it at him. I hit him in the forehead. He dropped and fell on his back. He didn’t move. It was awful. There was blood all over his face, and his legs were bent under him. He was dead.’

‘Then what did you do?’

‘Like I said, I got scared, I panicked, I ran.’ John shook his head, and I could see he was getting nervous again, a sight I would have otherwise enjoyed.

‘Okay, don’t worry, just calm down.’

‘How can I?’ John threw up his hands. ‘I killed the guy!’

‘Deep breath. Relax.’

‘Oh, shut up.’ John fell silent, looking out the window.

I gripped the wheel, driving fast. We’d be there in no time, and my emotions were catching up with me. I’ve done terrible things, but I’d never kill anybody. My destruction is aimed at myself, where it belongs.

I realized that once we got there, we’d have to decide what to do. I knew what I’d do, but I didn’t know what John would do.

I focused on the road, and we hurtled ahead.

3

It was dusk by the time we reached a deserted stretch near an underpass to the Pennsylvania Turnpike. There was nothing around, no lights or security cameras, only a rusted cyclone fence collapsed in sections around a grassy area, accessed by a service road of gravel, dirt, and stones that were bad for my undercarriage. I drove the Maserati only on dry asphalt and never to a murder scene.

‘John, this is the place? You said it was a corporate center.’

‘This is Phase Two of Knickerbocker Quarry Center. They start construction next month. Phase One is on the other side of the quarry.’

‘So how’d you end up here?’

‘We met at the corporate center, and Lemaire told me to follow him, so I did. I didn’t know it was like this until I got here. Park ahead, near the opening in the fence.’

I drove up, cut the ignition, and we got out of the car. John bolted ahead through the fence opening, and I hurried after him on a deer path of weeds and overgrown grass. I was almost through when I heard John’s shocked voice.

‘TJ!’

I reached him, standing in a clearing. There was no dead body, only dirt, grass, and brush. ‘Where is he?’

‘I don’t know,’ John answered, astonished. ‘He was right here. He was on his back. He was dead, I know it. Blood poured onto the ground.’

We both looked down. Blackness glimmered underneath the grass, rubble, and stones. I crouched and swiped the spot with my fingers, which came away gritty with blood. ‘Okay, so he was here. I don’t see the gun or the rock, do you?’

‘No. He must’ve taken them.’

‘Hmm. Odd. That would be thinking straight, for somebody who had his clock cleaned.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know, he’d be woozy, like you feel after a brawl.’

John snorted. ‘I’ve never been in one.’

‘You’re Irish, bro. You should be ashamed.’

‘That’s a stereotype.’

‘It’s a virtue.’

‘Whatever, clearly he’s alive.’ John threw up his arms. ‘Which means I didn’t kill him! Thank God!’

‘Wait.’ I realized something. ‘Where’s his car? There was no car out front.’

‘My God, yes!’ John shot back, elated. ‘His car’s gone! He really is alive!’

‘It’s the likeliest explanation.’

‘It’s the only explanation.’ John broke into a grin. ‘He’s alive, he drove away. What else could have happened?’

‘I’m thinking.’

‘Of what?’

‘What else could have happened. I’m trying to analyze—’

‘You? Analyze?’

That stung, but I stuffed it. I’m good at stuffing my feelings, though apparently it’s a bad thing to be good at. ‘How do you know he was alone?’

‘There were no other cars.’

‘He could have had somebody already in place, hiding.’

John’s smile faded. ‘Why would he?’

‘In case something went sideways, which it did. Someone could be watching us, even now.’ I scanned the scene but saw nothing suspicious. The corporate center and apartment complex were on the far side of the quarry. Beyond that was the Pennsylvania Turnpike, and the whooshing of traffic was background noise.

John grimaced. ‘You really think someone’s watching?’

‘It’s possible. What kind of car did he drive?’

‘I don’t know, a Volvo?’

‘A sedan?’

‘Yes.’

‘What color?’

‘Maroon. TJ, is everything about cars?’

I let it go. ‘Let’s look around, just in case. You go right and I’ll go left.’ I took off, searching for a body. There was none, only more weeds, underbrush, and thornbushes. The wind picked up, and brownish reeds rustled with a dry sound. Shards of beer bottles glinted in the grass, and I expected to find a used condom, but didn’t. Kids today disappoint me. Always on TikTok.

I walked through a section of cyclone fence that had been torn down, then stepped on a metal sign. danger – cliff edge, it read in big red letters. no trespassing beyond this point. Below that was a stick figure in cartoon waves. deep cold water. do not swim. I got the gist.

I reached the quarry, a massive chasm of about eighty acres excavated into the earth. Its drop was steep and lethal, and its stone walls striated with gray, black, and dark brown veins and ledges of vegetation. There was water at the bottom, its greenish chop glimmering in the waning light. I squinted for a floating body but didn’t see one.

My gaze stayed on the water, and the notion that John could have been killed was sinking in. I grew up idolizing my brother and following him everywhere, even worming my way into the dugout of his Little League All-Star team. A snippet of memory took me back to playing catch with him in the backyard after dinner, when dusk would shade to darkness so gradually I didn’t realize day had become night. Fireflies would fill the air like fallen constellations.

John would call out, TJ, time to go in!

Not yet! I never wanted to go in. It was the only time I had my big brother to myself. He was my own personal All-Star.

We have to go in, the fireflies are here! You’ll catch fire!

What? I looked around, panicky. You catch fire from fireflies?

Yes! You burn to death if one touches you. Like hell!

‘TJ!’ John called out, jolting me into the present.

‘John, what do you know about Lemaire? Is he married or what?’

‘He’s gay, single, that’s all I know. Why?’

‘I’m wondering if somebody else knew he was embezzling. Or if he was working with anybody else.’

‘You mean a co-conspirator.’

Okay, Perry Mason. ‘Yes.’

‘He’s the only accountant in the department. The bookkeeper’s an old lady.’

‘Maybe it wasn’t someone who worked with him, maybe it was a friend of his. My point is, someone else could know what he was up to.’

‘I don’t know anything else about him.’

‘We’re assuming he’s not dead because his car’s gone, but what if he was part of a conspiracy? His co-conspirators could have come here and taken his body and the gun. That could be true whether he was dead or alive. They wouldn’t want this to come to light any more than we do.’

‘So he could be dead, after all?’ John groaned. ‘I could have killed him?’

‘I don’t know what happened. We can’t know on these facts.’

‘Should I call him?’ John raised his phone. ‘See if he picks up?’

‘No. I don’t want it in your phone records. When did you arrange this meeting?’

‘Today. On the phone around three.’

‘Did you call him or did he call you?’

‘I called him.’

‘Did you confirm in an email or text?’

‘No.’ John started shaking his head, upset again. ‘Oh man, oh man—’

‘Did anybody know you were meeting him? Like Sabrina?’ Sabrina was our receptionist, who was also my brother’s work wife, but it was a bad marriage.

‘No, I didn’t tell her, I just said I was leaving for the day.’

‘Did she make a note on the calendar, like she usually does?’

‘I don’t know. How the hell would I know?’

‘Were there any messages for you when you got back?’

‘I didn’t go back. I went straight to Mom and Dad’s. Sabrina knew it was Dad’s birthday. We had the cake at the office, remember? She probably assumed I was going out for a gift or a card.’

I thought it made sense. The thing about a family business is that there’s no line between work and home, or between your business and your business. Employees at Devlin & Devlin had watched me grow from childhood to incarceration, and if I could monetize my entertainment value, I’d be rich.

‘John, so nobody knows you were meeting Lemaire here today?’

‘Correct. You think somebody took his body, the gun, and the car?’

‘It’s a possibility. Or he bounced. I’m thinking the Caymans.’

‘So what do I tell Stan?’

‘Who’s Stan?’

‘Stan Malinowski. He owns Runstan. Remember, we met him when we were little. Dad took us to see him.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Whatever, I owe Stan an opinion letter on the acquisition next week.’

‘John, if this gets out, there’s not gonna be an acquisition. When a company’s accountant goes missing, that’s not a company I’d acquire. And I buy drug-dealer cars.’

‘No, don’t say that. The acquisition has to go through. It’s a massive deal.’

‘Look, right now we have bigger problems, and if we’re gone longer, it’ll look suspicious. I say we go home and have cake.’ Since I quit drinking, I’m addicted to sugar like everybody else.

‘What about Lemaire?’

‘We’ll figure it out. I got this.’

‘You? What’re you gonna do?’

‘Investigate. It’s my job, remember?’

‘You’re not a real investigator. Your job’s a sinecure.’

‘A what?’ I didn’t even know the definition of the insult.

‘TJ, be real. Mom makes work for you. It’s a do-nothing job.’

I felt my temper flare. ‘Bro, try not insulting me while I’m helping you. You came to me, so listen to me. We’re going home, and you’re not going to say anything.’

‘What about Nancy?’

‘What about her?’ My brother’s wife, Nancy, was like my brother, only with ovaries. I never liked her, and she never liked me, especially after my nephew, Connor, was born. Moms worry when alcoholic ex-cons are around their babies. Go figure.

‘She’ll ask.’

‘Make something up.’

‘She’s not stupid, TJ. She’ll grill me as soon as we get in the car.’

‘So think of something. Didn’t you ever keep a secret?’

John grimaced. ‘Not one this big.’

‘Follow my lead.’

4

We entered my parents’ magnificent dining room, which was dominated by a glistening walnut table and high-back carved chairs. Oil landscapes hung on forest-green walls that matched a malachite surround on the fireplace. A glowing crystal chandelier shed expensive light on my parents, Nancy, and Connor at the table, where fancy dessert plates with gold rims were filled with cake remains. I could hear Gabby and her husband, Martin, in the kitchen, talking and laughing. We’d missed the blowing-out-the-candles, but plenty of cake was left, so things were looking up.

I composed myself. ‘Honey, we’re home!’

My father frowned. ‘TJ, where were you?’

‘Dad, I’m sorry. It couldn’t be helped—’

‘On my birthday? Explain yourself.’

‘John, is everything okay?’ Nancy cocked her head, and her sleek blond hair fell to one side. She was head-cheerleader pretty in a flowery dress, but her blue eyes glinted and her lips formed a sour pout.

‘Sorry, Nance.’ John kissed her on the cheek, sat down, and ruffled up Connor’s hair. ‘How’s my buddy?’

‘Daddy, I ate Brussels sprouts.’

‘Good for you!’

‘Big mistake, Connor.’ I sat down. ‘You’re gonna fart up a storm.’

Connor burst into giggles, and I cut myself a piece of vanilla cake with buttercream icing. It was my father’s and my favorite, the only thing we have in common except DNA.

Meanwhile he kept frowning. ‘TJ, where the hell did you go?’

My mother placed a hand on his arm. ‘Paul, not now. Boys, look what I got your father. It’s vintage, an Oyster Cosmograph Daytona, the same watch that Paul Newman had.’ She gestured to a stainless-steel Rolex with a white face, gleaming in an open green box. My father collected watches, a hobby I never understood. At least cars are fun. Watches only tell you how late you are.

‘Wow, nice, Mom,’ I told her.

‘Paul Newman wishes he were Paul Devlin,’ John added.

My father remained undeterred. ‘Marie, I have a right to know where the boys were.’

‘Humor me, dear. Put on your watch. Show it off.’

My father slipped on the watch, its heavy bracelet glinting in the light. ‘I love it, honey. Thank you.’

My gaze fell on the Rolex and I got a bad feeling, flashing on my senior year at Penn State. I wasn’t graduating because I had to take a statistics final and owed a Spanish paper, but the school let me walk in the graduation ceremony. My family arrived that day with my gift, a stainless-steel Rolex Submariner.

My mother beamed. We’re very proud of you, son.

My father forced a smile. Take care of that watch. It should last a lifetime.

Thanks, you guys. I slipped on the watch, but I didn’t feel Rolex-worthy. I had doubts I’d get my degree after a college career of terrible grades and excellent partying. I ended up wearing the watch to graduation, feeling like a fraud. I didn’t earn a diploma, so I never wore the Rolex again.

My father eyed me hard. ‘TJ, have you been drinking?’

‘No, I’m sober.’

‘You swear?’

‘Yes, I swear I’m sober.’ I met his eye evenly. I felt solid in my sobriety, 708 days and counting, almost two years now, but I was only five months out of prison and court-mandated rehab. My father loathed that I was an alcoholic because his own father had been. I had to train him to trust me again, a problem reserved for excellent liars.

‘You’re not back with bad actors, are you?’

‘No, Dad.’ I’d cut off my old drinking buddies, a tenet of AA, and I’d never see those friends again. One of them, nobody would ever see again. I felt an anguished twinge but stuffed it down.

‘I won’t pay for another rehab, son.’

‘You won’t have to, and I’m paying you back for the first one.’

‘Are you using? Because if you—’

‘No, I’m not,’ I interrupted, since I can’t stand to hear him say using like he’s in-the-know. I was a beer guy, not a drug addict. A heroin user I met in rehab joked that beer was a pussy addiction, but listen, beer was everywhere, with beer goggles, beer bellies, and Hold my beer. Every sport ran beer commercials. When was the last time you saw a heroin ad?

My mother interjected, ‘TJ, it was about Carrie, wasn’t it? Are you trying to get her back?’

‘Mom, no.’ I missed Carrie every minute, but she’d never have me back. I forked some cake into my mouth, eating my feelings. Luckily, they were delicious.

Gabby called from the kitchen, ‘Dad, lay off TJ! He was working on something for me!’

My father lifted a skeptical eyebrow. ‘Why didn’t you say so before, Gab?’

‘Because it’s on that pro bono case you hate!’

‘Which one?’

‘What’s the difference? You hate them all!’

I smiled inwardly. I love my sister, the family peacemaker, our own Swiss Miss.

My father turned to me. ‘TJ, if you were working on Gabby’s case, why did John go with you?’

I stalled to think of an answer, finishing my cake. ‘I needed to borrow money, okay? I didn’t want to ask in front of everybody, then we ran into traffic.’

‘What did you need the money for?’

‘New brake calipers.’

‘Ta-da!’ Gabby grinned, entering the dining room with a gift wrapped in tartan paper. My sister was cute, with amused green eyes set close together, a turned-up nose, and a smile like on an Amazon box. She wore her hair in a practical short cut and was dressed in a simple cotton sweater and jeans. She was followed by her husband, Dr Martin Ngobe, a Nigerian-born surgeon who’d been repairing cleft palates in Kenya when he met Gabby, who was also volunteering there. Martin was a warm and bulky six foot two, also dressed casually in a sweater and jeans. Gabby and Martin wanted to save the world, but I told them to get busy in the bedroom. It’s always the wrong people who reproduce.

My mother clapped at the gift. ‘How exciting! Happy birthday, dear! Tick tock…’

My father chuckled. ‘That’s dark, Marie.’

‘You know what I mean.’ My mother shoved him playfully, since it was a running joke that she wanted him to retire next year. Unfortunately, the king was in no hurry to give up the throne.

‘Happy birthday, Dad.’ Gabby set the gift down and my father smiled, shaking off his bad mood. He loves presents, which is something I love about him. And I do love him, even though he’s a hard man to love. He’s an even harder man to disappoint.

My father turned to Connor. ‘Which should I open first, the card or the present? I think the card, don’t you?’

‘No, Pop! The present!’

‘Don’t you want to see the card?’

‘The present! The present!’ Connor giggled. He was an adorable four-year-old with a scattering of freckles and a mop of blond hair. He loves my father, who’s great with kids. I still don’t know why he wasn’t great with me.

‘Let’s see.’ My father took off the wrapping paper and handed it to my mother, who folded it by force of habit. When we were growing up, she used to save wrapping paper and give us blank birthday cards so they could be reused. The first time she signed my birthday card, I knew we were rich.

‘My God, will you look at these!’ My father ran a hand over the gift, a set of Winston Churchill’s A History of the English-Speaking Peoples with old-fashioned red leather covers and gold-embossed spines. ‘These are beautiful, just beautiful.’

Gabby smiled. ‘They’re first editions, printed in England.’

‘Where did you find them?’

‘John did, at a rare-book dealer.’

‘Wonderful.’ My father opened the front cover, marveling. ‘They’re not books, they’re artifacts. Really splendid artifacts. Churchill was an excellent writer, you know.’

‘We know, Dad,’ Gabby said, since, thanks to my father, we knew more about Winston Churchill than most Americans. Or Brits. Or historians.

‘Great gift, kids. Thank you all.’ My father beamed at us, even me, and a childish sort of happiness came over me. I flashed randomly on one of our best times as a family, maybe when we were little, on vacation down the Jersey Shore. We’d go on the rides at night at the boardwalk, and our favorite was the bumper cars, with their weird odor of burning rubber.

Come on, TJ! My father would dare me to crash into him, and I would hit the gas and plow into him, giving us both whiplash and sending us into gales of laughter.

Gabby, watch out! My brother would bump into my sister, and my mother would chase us across the dark floor of mysterious metal. We’d all bomb around and bang into each other, with electrical sparks showering us.

When the ride stopped, my father would wipe tears of laughter from his eyes and we’d climb out of the cars, shaky and wobbly, then chatter all the way home, reliving every collision. We were such a young family back then, when joy could be bought for a booklet of tickets that my mother used to say were expensive, but were, in fact, invaluable.

I remembered it now, swallowing hard and watching my father hug Gabby and shake Martin’s hand, all of us beaming – even John, his smile masking his secret.

I felt a sudden rush of love for him and my family, imperfect though we were. My brother had gotten himself into trouble, and I’d help him, for his sake and for all of us. My family had rallied for me not long ago, and it was time to do the same for them.

I would start tonight.

5

We said our goodbyes in the driveway, with my mother giving me a warm hug and whispering in my ear that I deserved a better woman than Carrie, when I knew the opposite was true. My father waved goodbye from the doorway, his large figure filling its frame. His remoteness told me he suspected I was using.

I went to my car, opened the door, and waved. ‘Happy birthday, Dad!’ I called, but he didn’t reply.

I told myself he hadn’t heard me.

That’s quality stuffing, right there.

I pulled into the parking lot of the emergency department at the hospital nearest the corporate center. If John had injured Neil Lemaire, the accountant might have driven himself here. I’d found a photo of Lemaire on the Runstan website and he looked about my age, thirty-five, with clipped red hair and a face like the Keebler Elf, if the Keebler Elf embezzled cookies.

I jumped out of the car and headed toward the hospital’s entrance. Its glass doors slid aside, and I made a beeline for a reception desk. There was a large waiting room to the right, and I scanned the occupants for Lemaire, but he wasn’t there. It was mostly families and a young girl in a lacrosse uniform with a bloody knee. Oddly, the sight of the girl made me wonder if I’d ever have a daughter.

You’d be a great father, Carrie used to say, in the beginning.

I put on a worried expression for the receptionist behind a plastic divider. ‘Excuse me, I’m hoping you can help me. I think my brother might have come in with a head injury. He called me earlier tonight and said he was hit in the forehead with a rock.’ I didn’t supply any name because I didn’t know if Lemaire would have used his real one. ‘He looks like this.’ I held my phone up to the glass, showing Lemaire’s photo.

The nurse shook her head. ‘No adult’s been in with an injury like that.’

‘Have you been here all evening?’

‘Yes, since four o’clock.’

‘Thank you.’ I turned away, glancing at the lacrosse girl.

I could still hear Carrie, at the end.

I’ll never have a child with you! Ever!

I checked two other hospitals in the area, but Lemaire hadn’t gone to either. A real investigator would have a police scanner, but I was a nepotism hire with common sense. I surveilled housewives on nooners at the Courtyard Marriott. Adultery was still worth money at settlement.

Your job’s a sinecure.

I shook it off and drove away. I wasn’t sure of my next move and felt my energy ebbing, so I pulled into a Dunkin’ drive-thru, got a coffee, and scrolled back to Runstan’s website and checked Lemaire’s bio: ‘A Pennsylvania native, Neil Lemaire graduated from La Salle with a degree in accounting and worked as a financial advisor at PNC, bringing a wealth of business experience to Runstan. He lives in Phoenixville and volunteers at a local cat rescue.’

I sipped my coffee, scrolled to Facebook, and plugged in Lemaire’s name. A slew of entries popped up, but one of the thumbnails was a ginger cat. I clicked it on a hunch; Lemaire had red hair, so maybe he rescued a ginger cat. Sure enough, it was Lemaire’s Facebook page. You don’t have to be a detective to connect the dots.

I scanned his Facebook timeline. There was no personal information, only photos of skinny tabbies, Persians with clumpy fur, calicos missing parts of their ears, and a blind cat. I skimmed the captions: ‘Walter is a purrbaby AND a furbaby!!’ ‘Mr Fluff is going to his furever home!’ ‘Bring double the love home! Benny and the Jet must be adopted together!’

I scrolled to Instagram, and Lemaire had an account there, too. He posted the same cats and kittens, but no personal information. I scrolled to the white pages, scanned the addresses that popped up, and picked the only one in Phoenixville, where his bio said he lived.

I’m basically a detective.

It’s not rocket science.

*

I parked down the street from Lemaire’s house, though a Maserati was too conspicuous for a stakeout vehicle. I had a black Toyota RAV4 and a blue Subaru Forester for that purpose, but I didn’t know I’d be doing this today. At least the Maserati was dark. Actually its exterior color was blu nobile, a metallic blue that twinkled like a starry night over Florence.

The street was quiet, and the houses dark. I eyed Lemaire’s modest brick house, which had a plain front door, a bay window, and two bedrooms on the second floor. There were no lights on inside, and no car in the driveway.

On impulse, I got out of my car, crossed the street, and hurried to the house. I sprinted up the driveway, steering clear of the front door in case he had a Ring camera or the like. Home technology made my job harder. Thanks for nothing, progress.

I went up to a window on the side of the house. Suddenly a motion detector clicked on, blasting the area with light.

I froze, flattening against the window. I stayed still, waiting for the light to flick off. I hoped the neighbors wouldn’t think it was suspicious, since there were deer and other wildlife in Chester County.

The motion detector clicked off. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, and I couldn’t see anything inside the house. I spotted something sitting in the driveway. It was the ginger cat, and I figured Lemaire had a pet door because his cat was outside, seemingly waiting for him to come home.

Aw.

I couldn’t learn much else without breaking in, so I bolted from the house. The motion detector light went on again, but I cut into the shadows on the lawn. I reached my car and slipped inside.

Then I realized something. If Lemaire had co-conspirators, then they would know that John had discovered there was money missing. That meant my brother was in danger.

I hit the ignition, grabbed my phone, and pressed John’s number in Favorites. He was Number Five, dead last. ‘John?’ I said when he picked up. ‘Are you alone?’

‘No, what’s up?’ he asked, his tone guarded.

‘So Nancy’s there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Listen.’ I lowered my voice. ‘I’m worried these guys’ll come after you. Can you go to her parents’ in Jersey for a few days?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I have to work.’

‘Can you send her and Connor there?’

‘Probably.’

‘Do you have a gun?’

‘No. Do you?’

‘No, I can’t, on parole. How about a baseball bat? Your old one?’

‘I think so.’

‘Keep it under the bed. Put on the burglar alarm, too. Maybe don’t go to meetings for a few days. Stay at the office.’

‘Okay. Thanks.’

Thanks? I felt touched, since John wasn’t big on please-and-thank-you. ‘You’re never getting that two grand now, bro. You made me an accessory-after-the-fact.’

‘Oh yeah? I’ll sue you for it.’

Ouch.

‘See you tomorrow, TJ.’

‘Okay, bye.’ I hung up.

I exhaled, blowing off steam. I loved my brother and wished it weren’t so hard with us. I knew he was angry at me because I’d done so many stupid things when we were growing up, mostly when I was drinking. I’d started in middle school, sneaking Miller Lite from my father’s supply in the basement, delivered by the distributor as a standing order. We had the biggest house on the street, and my parents loved to entertain, so everybody knew the Devlins’ was the party house. Nobody kept track of the basement beer supply.

Except me.

I remembered being down there before John’s high school graduation, drinking in the dark while they all ran around upstairs getting ready. I was drunk by the time we left for the ceremony, held outside on the school’s football field.

You did what, TJ?

It was my mother, furious because I’d called Bravo Pizza on my flip phone and ordered five pies to be delivered to the stands – during the ceremony. The other families had burst into laughter at the remarkable sight of a pizza deliveryman climbing the metal bleachers with a stack of aromatic boxes. The bleachers erupted in an impromptu pizza party just as the valedictorian began to speak.

John was the valedictorian.

Thinking back, I felt a wave of guilt. I owed my brother whatever I could do for him now.

I headed for the next stop.

6

I pulled into the Brandywine Corporate Center, a complex of octagon-shaped buildings, one of which contained Devlin & Devlin, a medical supply company, an insurance company, and a reinsurance company. I didn’t know what reinsurance was, but I guessed it was another layer of people who deny payment on valid claims.

I got out of the car and hurried past a mulched bed of corporate flowers to the entrance. I card-swiped at the door and went inside. The building had smoked glass windows, and the only lights on were in the hallway, which meant the cleaning crew was here somewhere. The walls were white and the carpet gray, a generic entrance that neither appealed nor offended, like décor for capitalists.

I made a beeline for our office, with its plaque in fake-Gothic font. Devlin & Devlin referred to my father and mother, and my mother claimed that first Devlin was her. They started the firm together, my father practicing business law and my mother family law, though she mostly represented husbands, a reverse-psychology switcheroo that proved surprisingly lucrative.

I unlocked the office door and entered the Merrie Olde England of my father’s dreams, since no one could constrain his Anglophilia. The walls were painted a Farrow & Ball color called Incarnadine, which I’m pretty sure meant Blood. The couches and side chairs were covered with shiny red tartan, and the reception desk was polished mahogany, matching the end tables. Gilt frames encased fox-hunting scenes next to laminated articles about every Devlin but me. Nobody was framing a mug shot.

I went to the reception desk and checked Sabrina’s calendar, where she made all her notations. She hadn’t made one for John today. I went down the hall to see if she had left him any phone messages.

I turned on the light and went into my brother’s office. The opposite wall had a window and shelves that held two TV monitors wedged between casebooks and business journals. There was a brown leather couch, its seat cushions occupied with neat stacks of papers, and a Thomas Moser cherrywood desk, on which were more stacks, a Mac desktop, and a Phillies mug. John was a sports fanatic, forever taking clients to games. At least a sports addiction was tax-deductible.

John practiced business law, and my father had transitioned his clients to him as retirement neared. My mother sent him clients, too, since many were self-employed. There were more family businesses than most people realized, and plenty of us born into a job description, like me.

I crossed to the desk and looked around for phone messages, but there were none. I was about to leave, but my gaze fell on a baseball in a plastic cube with a plaque that read ‘Connor’s first game ball’.

I picked it up on impulse, and it jarred loose a memory. My brother and I grew up playing baseball, my father coached, and Devlin & Devlin sponsored the team, predictably named the Devils. I was a better player than my brother, but I never got a game ball.

Dad, I deserve it, I have the best batting average on the team.

I’m the coach. I have to avoid the appearance of impropriety.

The what?

I can’t look like I’m playing favorites. Your shirt says Devlin & Devlin. That’s my business.

But it’s my team.

No, it’s my team, and you’re not getting a game ball.

I set down the ball with a sudden ache. Everyone says women have biological clocks, but I was starting to feel like I had one, too. I wanted kids, I loved kids. I’d set myself behind in my life, a fact that I was realizing in recovery. I didn’t want to be an old-man father, but I was aging into the category.

I shook it off, left the office, and turned out the light.

I’d done all the investigating I could for one night, but I couldn’t stop thinking about John and Lemaire. My heart eased as I drove up to the Episcopalian church with its fieldstone façade, arched windows, and graceful white spire that soared into the night sky. The church hosted twelve AA meetings a week, with names like Good Talk & Bad Coffee, Sobriety & Serenity, and ODAAT, for One Day at a Time. Tonight’s meeting was Hang In There, which was my home group. I pulled into the lot and parked with the other cars.

I crossed to the back door and descended stone stairs to the basement. Fluorescent lighting illuminated a hallway of painted white cinder block with a gray tile floor. I passed meeting rooms and bulletin boards with construction-paper letters that read kids can be peacemakers and a hand-painted mural, you are fearfully and wonderfully made, psalm 139:14. I didn’t feel that way, but that’s what the meeting was for.

The hall ended in propped-open doors, and I went inside to a small room with a cheerful flowery rug that cozied up a cheap gray carpet. Against the wall was a polished wooden pew next to an old upright piano with a book of sheet music on its stand. Multicolored lights wound around a pillar, and next to it, a red-and-green sign that read joy.

‘Hey, everybody.’ I grabbed a folding chair while everyone said their hellos, getting cups of lukewarm coffee and flimsy plates of store-brand sugar cookies.

‘Hi, TJ.’ Jake looked up from his seat, his legs crossed. He chaired this meeting and was also my sponsor, and I loved the guy. He was fiftysomething with salt-and-pepper hair and grayish eyes matching his grayish beard. Designer glasses perched on his thin nose, and a half-smile was etched into his lined face. He always dressed classy for our cargo-pants crowd, tonight in a navy-blue V-neck sweater, khakis, and loafers.

I sat down, taking in the familiar faces. I used to try to suss out everyone’s occupations, but in time I realized none of that mattered here. It was Facebook-inspo obvious but I had to experience it a few times to get it through my head. That’s why I’m a smart dumb person.

It was an open meeting, and the usual talkers were Cheryl, a middle-aged white woman in a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel T-shirt, Melissa, a young Asian woman whose sense of humor I adored, and Phyllis, a Black woman who loved purple, down to her painted fingernails. Antonio was a construction worker who reeked of cigar smoke, Samuel, a poetry fan who regaled us with old-timey snippets, and Brian, a big Iraq vet who brought new members like Chris, the small, wiry man next to him in a camo T-shirt and jeans.

We were about to start when Greg entered the room, an octogenarian who used a cane because of a bad hip. He’d been sober for forty-two years, but he came to meetings off and on, proof that lifetime sobriety was possible. He went to his chair, which Samuel opened for him.

Jake crossed his legs. ‘Hello, folks. I’m Jake and I’m an alcoholic and a drug addict.’

‘Hi, Jake,’ we all said in unison.

‘Let’s start with the Serenity Prayer, shall we? “God grant me the serenity to…”’ he began, and everybody recited together, then we read the AA Preamble and the Promises. When we were finished, Jake looked around the circle. ‘Cheryl, glad to see you healthy again.’

‘Thanks.’ Cheryl grinned. ‘No more scooter. My knee’s better. Yay!’

‘Good.’ Jake smiled back. ‘Tonight, let’s talk about compassion, not only for others but for yourself. All of us who struggle with the disease of addiction and alcoholism know that we were selfish when we were drinking and using drugs. I’ve shared my own experiences, and it’s cringeworthy to look back and realize that was me. One way to come to terms with our past is to live in the present. Another way is to view our past through a more compassionate lens. Who would like to get us started? Anyone have an experience they’d like to share?’

Melissa raised her hand. ‘My name is Melissa and I’m an alcoholic.’

‘Hi, Melissa,’ I said, with everyone else.

‘It’s hard to see it that way because I’m so sick of this pattern I have, like I keep sabotaging myself over and over and I don’t know how to stop it. I’m sober a year next week and I’m not picking up, but I’m still sabotaging.’

‘How so?’ Jake asked gently.

‘Okay, so I see this therapist I can barely afford. I like going, but at the same time, I don’t. You know what I mean?’

Antonio nodded. ‘I go to a marriage counselor, and I love and hate it.’

Brian muttered, ‘Same with Planet Fitness.’

Everybody laughed, and Jake motioned to Melissa. ‘You were saying. Folks, let’s keep the cross talk to a minimum.’

‘So I’m always late for our session, and it makes him mad, and the last session we ended up talking about why I’m late. So now I’m spending money on therapy about therapy.’ Melissa broke into a hapless smile. ‘And it’s on me, it’s a me problem. I don’t have compassion for myself.’

Greg interjected, ‘Keep coming back, Melissa. We all have bad habits. I have bad habits older than you.’

Everybody chuckled again, and Phyllis looked at her with sympathy. ‘Don’t beat yourself up, honey. We’re trying to break our worst habit right now. You can only break so many habits at once.’

I thought of Carrie. ‘Right, I self-sabotage in a million ways. I have a suitcase of self-sabotage, like Felix’s bag of tricks.’

Phyllis grinned. ‘Felix the Cat? I remember that cartoon. I loved it.’

‘Me, too.’ I felt a happy surge. ‘Remember the song? “Felix the Cat, the wonderful, wonderful cat—”’

‘—whenever he gets in a fix—’

‘—he reaches into his bag of tricks!’

Everybody laughed, and Jake waved his hands, trying to restore order. An AA meeting had a structure and he’d get us back on track, but our fellowship created a cheery bond. This meeting had already accomplished a purpose, for me. It made me realize I wasn’t alone.

It was my home group.

And I was home.

But that didn’t mean I wasn’t missing something.

An hour later, I was sitting in the car across the street from Carrie’s house. I knew a heart could ache because mine did from time to time, and all of those times were about her. I’d been in love before her, but she got through, and I was still in love with her now.

Her townhouse was in a cluster, each house with its own driveway. All of the townhouses were dark, and the only car in her driveway was her white Camry, thank God. I checked her social media all the time to see if she was dating anyone, and it was still just old photos of her with fellow teachers. She didn’t like social media and wanted to set a good example for Emily.

My gaze strayed to her bedroom, then to her daughter Emily’s, who’d be four now. We’d met in Wegmans, where I’d been buying beer, when a little girl came giggling around the corner, then a mother chasing after her, also laughing. I caught the little girl before she ran into me, and that got me talking to her grateful mother, then something told me I wanted to be in their lives. Carrie and I started seeing each other, and my feelings for her were bound up in a tangle of mother-daughter curls, the two of them the best package deal ever, like a car loaded with every feature you wanted and some you didn’t know you needed.

We used to pile into Carrie’s bed at night and read to Emily before bedtime. Carrie loved me too much to see that I was a functioning alcoholic. She believed me when I told her my hangovers were migraines. She didn’t deceive herself; I deceived her. She believed my lies, until one night.

June 7.

I was about to start the ignition when I spotted a plush purple rabbit on the driveway behind Carrie’s car. Tomorrow morning, she would be rushing to school and run it over.

I’m not good at reversing, she always said.

I got out of the car, hurried across the street, and plucked the rabbit from the driveway. Then I went to the front step, set it down, and went back to the car.

I loved Carrie and Emily.

So I drove away.

7

The next morning I took the Subaru for my stakeout at Runstan’s, where Lemaire worked. I wanted to see if he showed up, so I parked in the lot, sipped coffee, and fake-scrolled my phone. I had on a ball cap and sunglasses, the closest I come to Detective Wear. There’d been no news of him online, dead or alive, and I’d driven by his house again this morning. No maroon Volvo.

Runstan’s brick façade spanned three storefronts at the end of a generic strip mall that held a Chinese restaurant, a pizza place, and a dry cleaner’s. The Runstan entrance was a glass door flanked by squarish windows, and it didn’t look like a multimillion-dollar business, but you don’t have to be an alcoholic to know that appearances are deceiving.

It was 7:27 a.m. when cars started appearing, turning into the strip mall and parking lot. I kept an eye out for Lemaire in his maroon Volvo. So far, no luck. There were designated spaces for the president, vice president, and sales manager, but not accounting.

The designated spaces filled up, and I got a look at Stan Malinowski, the owner, when he got out of an old Explorer. I remembered him from years ago. He’d grown bald and round, but still had a port-wine stain on his forehead. John nicknamed him Stain, which was the one time I remember my father yelling at my brother.

I prayed Lemaire would show up. Car after car came in until the lot was full and the Runstan employees had gone inside.

No maroon Volvo and no Lemaire.

I drove to the office and parked in the farthest corner of the lot, next to a gray Porsche Carrera and a white Mercedes S-Class that belonged to the owners of the insurance and reinsurance agencies. Whoever said crime doesn’t pay never worked in insurance. Or reinsurance.