He was hitting a wall again and going to a dark, dark place. A place he didn’t ever want to go back to. Grim thoughts swirled in his head. His gaze tracked to his gun on the dresser. The cold steel. But he didn’t pick it up.
He reached for his cell phone instead and called Belinda Katz.
McNeal’s throat tightened. Tears streamed down his face. “I’d like to talk.”
“Jack McNeal?”
“That’s right. I need someone to talk to. I want to talk about my son.”
“Give me a moment. I’m so glad you called. Talk to me. Tell me about your son.”
“I’m involved in a situation. A lot of memories are getting stirred up. I’m starting to think about him again. So much it hurts.”
“What are you feeling?”
“I don’t know. I feel . . . nothing. That’s the problem. I feel numb. It’s like it was five years ago. But this feels . . . I don’t . . .”
“I’m listening, Jack.”
Anxiety and rage coursed through his veins. “I feel like I’m going down a road that I don’t want to go down. But I have no option. Caroline is dead. And I don’t believe it was a suicide. That’s the official version. And I’m starting to think about my son, goddammit.”
“Let’s talk about that, then. Tell me about your son.”
“Is it possible to live after your son dies?”
“Yes. Most certainly yes. But it’s hard. Very, very hard. The grieving process. You haven’t processed that in any way. You’ve buried it.”
McNeal closed his eyes tight. The memories burned again in his mind. The pain.
“Talk to me. Why did you bury all your thoughts about that night?”
“I had to. I didn’t want to talk about it. I still don’t, really.”
“It happened five years ago. I read the file. Talk to me about Patrick.”
McNeal cleared his throat. “Patrick was our son. He was six years old. He was our pride and joy.”
“I’m listening.”
“Seems like yesterday when we brought him back home. I can see him now. I can still smell his milky breath. I want him back.”
“What happened, Jack? Take me back to that night.”
McNeal scrunched up his face at the painful memory. “I don’t know if it was fate that he was supposed to be there. Maybe.”
“The price you paid is taking its toll. I’m worried for you.”
“It never goes away. My wife was never the same after that. We were never the same. Our son’s death drove a wedge between us.”
“How did that manifest itself?”
“I buried myself in my work. She did the same. We stopped talking like a couple. All I could think about was Patrick. He wasn’t around me anymore. My flesh and blood.”
“This is a difficult thing. Painful. But can you tell me a little about the circumstances of his death?”
McNeal recalled the painful, awful scene from five years ago on Staten Island.
“It was my idea to go to the barbecue. It was my fault. Caroline didn’t want to go. She said my partner, Juan, was fucked up in the head. She was right. And I didn’t listen.”
“Jack, that night . . . we need to address these issues from that night. The grief you feel for your son has gone unresolved. I believe you have suffered traumatic grief. And this has festered for years. You have terrible feelings of guilt. But you are not to blame. We need to talk about that. Talk about Patrick. And talk about your late wife.”
McNeal threw up a wall of silence.
“You loved them both, didn’t you, Jack?”
“With all my heart, I loved them both. But now . . . I don’t know. I feel adrift.”
“What you’re experiencing can be resolved. With time, space, and help.”
McNeal sighed. “I can’t turn back the clock.”
“No, you can’t. We have only a finite time on this earth. We must cherish the time that we have together. I think it’s important to explore the great points in your life with Patrick and Caroline.”
“All I feel is an emptiness. I want Patrick back. But I know I can never see him when I come home from work. See him coming home from school. He didn’t want to go to the barbecue. He wanted to play with his friends.”
“Here’s something that you might find useful to hold on to at this time.”
“What’s that?”
“The love you had—still have—you will have forever. He loved you. You loved him. Do you ever dream of him? Being back with him?”