“But it was a terrible betrayal.”
I don’t say anything because I don’t think I can speak.
“And because of that”—there is a hitch in her voice now—“because of what I did to you, our son…”
Then Cheryl bursts into tears.
I have, of course, known my ex-wife a long time. I have seen her go through pretty much every emotion. I have seen her cry. But never like this. Not even when Matthew died. Cheryl was never one to let go. Not fully. Even when she made love or held our son, there was a part of her that maintained control. You felt a coolness, a detachment, which sounds like a criticism, but it is not. She just never lost complete control.
Until this very moment.
I want to do something. I want to hold her or at least offer her a shoulder. But I also feel a sudden chill blowing through my heart.
“What is it, Cheryl?”
She continues to sob.
“Cheryl?”
“I went through with it.”
Just like that. I freeze. I know what she means, but I ask it anyway: “Went through with what?”
She doesn’t answer. “You knew.”
I shake my head.
“You knew,” she said again. “The anger, the resentment, the stress.”
I still shake my head.
“You started sleepwalking again.”
“No.”
“You did, David. Because of what I did. You got angry. You started to unravel. I should have seen it. It was my fault. And then one day, I don’t know, you had too much to drink maybe. Or the strain got too much.”
I keep shaking my head. “No.”
“David, listen to me.”
“You think I killed our son?”
“No,” she says. “I think I killed him. Because of what I did to you.”
I can barely breathe.
“I was sure the procedure didn’t take, that Matthew was yours, but that didn’t matter. Going through with it. My betrayal. It changed you.”
I fight through it, try again to stay on message, swim through the emotional battering. “You tried to get pregnant with donor sperm.”
“Yes.”
“You told me you didn’t.”
“I know. I lied.”
I don’t know what to say here. “And you thought…？”
I see it now—how she thinks it all played: I found out she’d used donor sperm, and I lost my mind. I thought Matthew wasn’t mine. “The anger, the resentment, the stress.”
Plus the sleepwalking. In her mind, I didn’t do it intentionally, but somehow my hidden rage manifested itself and I had too much to drink or a bad mix of antidepressants and alcohol, or whatever past trauma rushed back into my damaged psyche, and unconsciously I rose from my sleep and grabbed a baseball bat and walked into Matthew’s room and…
So much of what happened makes sense now. Cheryl blames herself. All this time. She hasn’t only lost her son. She believes I did it—and worse, she believes that she is responsible.
“Cheryl, listen to me.”
She bursts into tears again. Her knees give way. I can’t let that happen. Whatever, I can’t let her fall like that. I hurry over, and she grabs onto my shirt and sobs. “I’m so sorry, David.”
I don’t need to hear this. I don’t want to hear this. Focus on the goal, I tell myself. “None of that matters anymore.”
“David…”
“Please,” I say. “Please look at the picture.”
“I can’t,” she says.
“Cheryl.”
“I can’t give myself that kind of hope. If I do, I’ll break.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“I want so badly to believe, David, but if I let myself go there…” She stops, shakes her head. “I’m pregnant again.”
“I know,” I say.
And that is when I hear a key jangle the lock on the door. A second later, it swings open.
It’s Ronald.
It takes him a few seconds to recognize me. When he does, his eyes go wide.
“What the hell is going on here?”
I don’t have time for this. I look back toward Cheryl.
“Go,” Cheryl says to me, wiping her eyes. “He won’t say anything.”
I hurry toward the door. For a moment I think Ronald is going to block my path. He doesn’t. He steps aside. I want to say something like “You better be good to her” or even “I’m happy for you guys” but I’m not that selfless and I’ve had enough melodrama for one afternoon.
I give him the slightest nod and am on my way.
Chapter
33
Max saw the call was from Lauren Ford’s office. He glanced around the room to make sure he was alone before he answered it. Sarah wouldn’t like it. As Lauren had pointed out, their job was to apprehend David Burroughs, not help clear him. Sarah would not approve.
“Hello?”
“I got something,” Lauren said.
“Is Burroughs the father?”
“That one I don’t know yet. Believe it or not, it took a while to get into the prisoner databank. But I did run the victim’s DNA through the missing kid database.”
“And?”
“And he doesn’t pop up.”
“It was a long shot, I guess.”
“No, Max—may I call you Max?”
“Sure.”
“No, Max, it’s not a long shot. The missing child databases are pretty complete. When a kid goes missing, the DNA is collected in some way the large majority of time. Not always. But most of the time. And that’s not all.”
“What’s not all?”
“I ran a description through every missing kid database. Not just DNA sites. All the missing kid sites. Put in the age, size, whatever. And to make sure I didn’t miss anything, I made the search federal. The entire United States. Got my best people on it. Because, well, if the victim isn’t Matthew Burroughs—Christ, it sounds crazy just to say that—but if Matthew isn’t the victim, then some other little boy was brutally murdered that night.”
“Agreed,” Max said. “And?”
“And nothing. No matches. Zero. No one even close.”
Max started twitching.
“You hear what I’m saying, Max?”
“I do.”
“There’s no one else. It has to be Matthew Burroughs who was in that bed.”
He gnawed on a fingernail. “You got anything else?”
“What do you mean, do I have anything else? Are you listening to me?”
“Yes.”
“Shit,” Lauren said. “You still want me to run the paternity test.”
“I do.”
“I don’t have to,” Lauren said.
“I know.”
“Shit. Fine. And then we put this to bed. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“I should have the result soon.”
Lauren hung up.
From behind him, Sarah asked, “Who was that, Max?”
“Another case,” he mumbled. “What’s up?”
“What other case?”
Max knew that she wouldn’t let this go. “It was a guy, okay?”
“A guy?”
“I met him on a dating app. It’s new. I didn’t want to say anything.”