Chapter 7: The Sister She Buried Twice
We drove back to the hotel in silence.
Carol was still there.
I had half-expected her to be gone — to have taken a cab home the moment Michael left, to have put as much distance between herself and that room as she could manage.
But she was sitting at the far end of the bar with a glass of water in front of her, untouched, her coat already on.
She saw Michael's face when he walked in.
She stood up.
"Sit down, Mom."
She sat.
Michael pulled a chair around and sat directly in front of her, close enough that no one else could hear.
I stood a few feet back.
Mr.
Harrison stood beside me.
"Tell me about Ruth," Michael said.
Carol's face went the color of old paper.
"I told you.
She d*ed—"
"Before I was born.
I know.
That's what you told me." Michael leaned forward.
"Tell me what actually happened."
Carol looked at her water glass.
"I don't know what he told you—"
"Nobody told me anything.
I'm asking you."
A long silence.
The bar noise continued around them — glasses, low voices, the clink of ice.
None of it touched their corner.
"Ruth was difficult," Carol said finally.
"Difficult."
"She made bad choices.
Got involved with the wrong people.
Your father tried to help her, more than once.
She didn't want help.
She wanted—" Carol stopped.
"She wanted to cause trouble.
That's what she did.
She caused trouble and then she disappeared and I was the one left to deal with the consequences."
"She didn't disappear," Mr.
Harrison said from behind Michael.
"She married me.
Her name became Eleanor Harrison.
And then she disappeared a second time — from a house your husband owned, on a road he made sure no one could find."
Carol's eyes moved to him.
Something in them broke open, just for a moment, before she pulled it closed again.
"I didn't know what he did," she said.
"Not until after."
"After what?"
She didn't answer.
"After she was already gone?" Michael asked.
"After it was too late to do anything?
Or after you decided it was easier not to?"
"You don't understand what he was like."
"I understand exactly what he was like." Michael's voice was very quiet.
"I grew up with him.
I know what he was like when no one was watching.
What I don't understand is how you looked at me for thirty years and never said a word."
Carol's hands moved to the edge of the table.
"I was protecting you."
"From what?"
"From knowing your father was—" She stopped.
Her jaw tightened.
"From knowing what he was."
"You weren't protecting me," Michael said.
"You were protecting yourself."
She flinched.
It was small — just a tightening around the eyes — but it was the first honest thing her face had done all evening.
"The police are at the house on Dunmore Road right now," Michael said.
"They're going to find things.
And when they do, they're going to want to talk to you." He stood up.
"I'd suggest you call a lawyer tonight."
Carol looked up at him.
For just a moment she looked very old, and very small, and something in her eyes asked him for something she didn't have words for.
Michael picked up his jacket.
"I'm sorry," Carol said.
It came out barely above a whisper.
He looked at her for a long moment.
"I know," he said.
"But it's not me you need to say that to."
He walked away from the bar.
I followed.
Mr.
Harrison paused beside Carol's chair.
"Her favorite color was green," he said quietly.
May you like
"In case you'd forgotten."
He walked away without waiting for an answer.
