Anna flipped on his night-light and turned off the lamp, then got his favorite stuffed animal, a one-eyed, tentacled thing worn and spotted with drool. He reached as soon as he saw it, little hands opening and closing. She touched his cheek, felt the smoothness of it. Every day he seemed more perfect than the one before. Softly she began to sing, going with the last thing she’d been listening to, Kevin Tihista, sweet and sad, “Do-o-n’t worry baby, I’ll keep an eye on you, till you know what to do.” Julian stared, eyes sparkling and then, slowly, closing.
She sat by the crib and listened to him, and to the sounds of a South Carolina night drifting in the open window. After a while she heard the screen door creak and bang, and she tiptoed out of the bedroom. She found Tom in the kitchen, one cabinet open, shaking Advil into his palm. “Headache?”
“It’s nothing.”
She pressed herself to his back, arms around his chest, rising and falling with his breath. He leaned into her, put a hand up to cover hers. For a moment they stood silent, just the buzz of the fridge and their thoughts.
“Are you okay?”
She shook her head against his shoulders.
“What is it?” He turned to face her.
“I was giving Julian his bath. He was slapping the water with both hands, and he started smiling, this huge thing that stretched to about his knees. It…” She trailed off, glanced away.
“What?”
“He looked just like – it was the way she used to smile.”
Tom stared for a moment, then pulled her into his arms. He stroked her hair and pressed her to him, and she took the comfort he offered. It was a thing they passed back and forth, that stock of comfort, each sharing it when the other needed it, nurturing and tending it and helping it slowly grow. She let the warmth flow through her, let it ease the pressure of memory.
Then he said, “I finished.”
“YOU DID?” Anna let go, stepped back. Her T-shirt was damp from the bath. The crow’s-feet he’d first spotted last year had deepened to lines. Tom gave a half smile, put a hand to her face. “Yeah,” he said.
“Can I see?”
He nodded, led her through the house to his office. The lamp on the desk spilled golden light. He opened a drawer and took out a thick sheaf of paper, maybe three hundred pages, then gestured to a chair and sat in the one opposite. “It’s rough.”
“Did you tell the truth?”
“I tried.”
She held out her hand. He passed her the manuscript, leaned back to watch her read the first page, the letter. Her face ran a gamut, first a smile, then a tightening of the lips, then a wetness to the eyes. Finally she finished, set the page down on top of the others.
“It’s perfect,” she said.
“Are you going to read the rest?”
“Not yet.”
He nodded. There was so much between them now, they hardly needed to speak sometimes. He could see her wrestling the same things he fought, trying to find her way to a happiness that didn’t forget the cost. A joy that was built on sadness.
“We’re going to be all right, aren’t we? Someday?”
Tom rubbed at his cheek. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, about this being like an old fairy tale?”
She nodded.
“The thing is, stories end, but life keeps going. All we can do is try to take what we learned and do better.” He hesitated. “We just have to find our way through the part that comes after the story.”
Anna looked at him with an expression no one had named. She said, “I love you.”
“Come here.” He leaned back in the chair.
She set down the thick bundle of pages, the book he’d always said he’d write, then crawled into his lap. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. Took one last look at the manuscript, and then closed his eyes and concentrated on the moment.
It was what they had. It was enough.
Dear Julian,
As I write this, you’re a baby; when you read it, you’ll be a young man. I don’t know how to prepare you for what you’ll find here. When you’re done, you won’t think of us the same way. You might even hate us.
That scares us more than anything in the world. Your mother and I considered keeping this a secret, and some part of me wants to. I want to tell myself that so long as we raise you to be better than us, it will make amends for what we’ve done. But that’s a lie. We won’t have paid in full until you know the truth.
That’s what these pages are, the truth, as best as we can tell it. It’s the story of how we became who we are now, and of how you became our son. There were parts I had to guess at, things we couldn’t know. But I tried to tell you everything – even the things that might drive you away.
As you read, remember that we were greedy, yes, but only when it came to love.
Your mother and I had a conversation once about what the point was. About what there was to believe in if the world can change so quickly, if there aren’t any absolute guidelines, or anything you can trust completely. And she said that maybe it was just this: Live a good life. Be nice to people.
Have a family, and love them well.
We love you, son. Always.
Chapter One
The smile was famous. Jack Witkowski wasn’t particularly a fan, but he’d seen those teeth plenty of times…
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book wouldn’t exist without a whole passel of other people. My sincerest thanks to:
My friend and exceptional agent Scott Miller, who always gets it done; his assistant, the ever-cheerful Stephanie Sun; and Sarah Self, who rocks Hollywood. When people ask if I have any advice regarding agents, it comes down to this – get mine.
My editor Ben Sevier, a man on his way to living-legend status. It’s amazing how much improved a book is once he’s done with it.
All the other folks at Dutton, especially Brian Tart, Trena Keating, Lisa Johnson, Rachel Ekstrom, Rich Hasselberger, Carrie Swetonic, Aline Akelis, Erika Imranyi, and Susan Schwartz.
Over coffee and beer, during panic breakfasts and late-night brainstorms, Sean Chercover, Joe Konrath, and Michael Cook repeatedly saved my butt.
Thanks to my early readers: Brad Boivin, Peter Boivin, Jenny Carney, Darwyn Jones, and Dana Litoff. A special thanks to Blake Crouch for a particularly thorough and accomplished read.
The crime fiction community in general, especially Jon and Ruth Jordan, Judy Bobalik, Ken Bruen, Lee Child, Ali Karim, Dennis Lehane, Laura Lippman, David Morrell, T. Jefferson Parker, Patricia Pinianski, Sarah Weinman, and all the folks in Killer Year and The Outfit Collective. Thanks also to Brett and Kiri Carlson, artists extraordinaire.
The booksellers and librarians – without you, we got nothing.
All the friends who keep me sane, and the ones who undo their work.
My brother Matt and my parents, Sally and Anthony Sakey, whose support never blinks, much less wavers.
And finally, my wife g.g., who has all the good parts of Anna and none of the bad. I love you, babe.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marcus Sakey is the acclaimed author of The Blade Itself and At the City’s Edge. His books have been translated into numerous languages, and the film rights have been sold to major studios. Born in Flint, Michigan, he now lives in Chicago with his wife.
