***
Ray didn't actually make me sleep alone that night. Instead, after sending Noah to bed, we made out on the couch before moving into her bedroom, where she locked the door and rode my body with her head thrown back and her nails piercing my chest. And when we were both sated and exhausted, she tucked herself beneath my arm and curled up against my body and asked if I'd stay.
I had never stayed over with Noah in the house.
“Are you sure? What about—”
She yawned, nuzzling her cheek against my chest. “He knows we sleep together, Soldier. He's not oblivious.”
“No, I know. But—”
“If you're uncomfortable, that's okay. But don't leave to protect Noah from something he's already aware of. And honestly, we both feel better when you're here anyway.”
I furrowed my brow, staring into the darkness as my arm tightened around her small body. “He said that?”
Her head softly bobbed against my chest. “We talked about it the other day. You make us feel safe.”
She didn't need to clarify who they felt safe from. Seth. Their personal bogeyman. And if I made them feel better about him forever lurking in the shadows, unknowing when he'd come back—if he ever came back—then I’d be hard-pressed to ever let her sleep alone again.
The house was still as Ray's breathing softened. She drifted off toward slumber, and I closed my eyes to follow her into our dreams. But Seth lingered in my head—threatening me with nightmares and silent sinister promises to be back one day—and then there was Officer Kinney's voice …
“Your past and family history …”
What the hell was he referring to?
I knew my personal history. I was the only one in my family with a record. Gramma and Grampa had worked so diligently to keep my mother clean in the eyes of the law even if her body wasn't clean of the drugs and booze. They had hidden her wrongdoings, they had protected her, and while some might’ve judged them for what they'd done, I knew it had all come out of a place of love—for their daughter and also for me.
But then what the hell had Patrick meant by that? Surely, I would know if my mom had been arrested or incarcerated at some point—right?
The easiest thing would be to ask Officer Kinney—I knew that. But I also didn't want the discussion to be opened to other things I didn't care to talk about, things that didn’t matter—or so I thought.
And why bother when I already had the World Wide Web at my fingertips?
Thanks again, Harry.
Carefully, I lifted my arm from Ray's body and reached for the nightstand to grab my phone. After opening the web browser, I typed in my mother's name: Diane Mason.
Millions upon millions of results popped up. Too many to weed through.
I refined my search: Diane Mason, Connecticut.
The first several listings were for obituaries. Another was a lawyer’s office, and another was a real estate agency. But then there was the eighth listing down, and that one snagged my attention.
An article titled, “Man Dies of Fentanyl Overdose, Friend Arrested for Murder.”
Murder. I swallowed as my brows drew together. This was what people found when searching my family name. Sure, the article was dated back to the day after Billy’s death, and nobody knew then that I’d only be convicted of manslaughter. But still, the word triggered a nauseous reaction in my gut, and Billy’s mom suddenly came to mind.
Does she still believe I’m a murderer? Even all these years later?
Of course she does. I took her only child away from her.
Ray slept soundly beside me as I pinched the bridge of my nose, fighting the urge to cry.
We had all made our choices. We had all made stupid, life-altering mistakes. I understood this now, but that didn’t quell the constant ache in my heart. I’d gotten used to it after all this time; it had become a part of who I was. But every now and then, it made itself known, rising above the noise in my head and the good I’d found in life.
I never stopped hating that relentless, nagging pain. I never stopped feeling I deserved it.
Enough. Keep reading.
Air filled my lungs, and I pushed past thoughts of Billy and his heartbroken mother. I skimmed the brief account of Billy’s untimely demise and my arrest on the side of the road that February night over a decade ago, looking for my mother’s name. I read past the comments from Billy’s dad, a firsthand account from a witness, and then there it was.
I sat up in bed as I read, Soldier’s mother, Diane Mason—no stranger to being in trouble with the law—had no comment to make at this time.
“What the hell?” I muttered to myself, staring at the words as if I could will them with my mind to offer more info.
My fingers thrust into my hair as my earlier questions were multiplied. What trouble? What had she done? I mean, shit … my mother had been taking her share of drugs for at least as long as I’d been alive and had lost more jobs than I could count. But I had never known her to break the law, and, yeah, okay, thinking about it now, I could see the absurdity in that mindset. Her habitual drug use was in itself against the fucking law. But Patrick Kinney and this reporter from nearly a decade ago wouldn’t have known about that or anything else unless she had a record. A record I knew nothing about.
I could just ask him, I thought. But … God, I don’t want to talk to him about this shit. He just told me how much he liked having me around. I don’t want to make him regret that by divulging more info than I need to.
I tossed my phone to the bed and dragged the palm of my hand over my face as I considered whatever options I had that didn’t involve going to the police.
Then, Ray stirred against my side. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
I laid my hand against her hip. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“It doesn’t seem like nothing.”
Grinding the heel of my palm against my eye, I replied, “I’m just thinking about something Patrick said.”
“What did he say?” She snuggled closer, turning her head to kiss my chest.
As I ran my fingers through her hair, I brought light to the questionable comment about my family history and told her about the article I’d found, insinuating my mother had a dirtier record than I was aware of. Ray was sleepy, but she listened, nodding her head softly every now and then to let me know she was still awake.
And then, when I was finished, she suggested in a raspy voice, “The library.”
“Oh, shit.” I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of checking the library before. “There might be something in the archives.”
“If there was any kind of incident—” She yawned, which only reminded me of how tired I also was, and I yawned myself as she continued, “There might be an article somewhere.”
“Huh …” I slowly nodded. “Yeah, I think I’ll spend some time in there tomorrow after work.”
Ray hummed contentedly. “Good thing I’m the brains and you’re the brawn.”
“Hey”—I laughed, jostling her as I lay back down—“are you calling me stupid?”
“Not at all, Brawny,” she teased, tucking herself back inside my embrace. “Now”—she laid a finger over my lips—“shush and go to sleep with me.”