He rubbed his fingers together and ran the water in the sink before he sat on the edge of the tub and cried for over an hour.
* * *
When he finally came out of the bathroom, Misty was asleep. She had turned off all the lights. He didn’t go into his closet and pull out the old shoebox of photos, birthday cards from Gwen, concert ticket stubs and anniversary dinner receipts, his personal box of scars that held trinkets and snapshots of a life that might’ve been. He gently closed the closet door instead. He couldn’t do it—not tonight. He slowly made his way over to his side of the bed and lay down. He stared at the curve of Misty’s neck and shoulder in the moonlight. He studied the bones in her back—spending time examining each one as if they were the stations of the cross. He thought about saying something, but knew he would fumble his words and make it worse. He felt the urge—the guilt—to apologize, but he decided to leave it be, to let her sleep. There was no point in trying to turn it around. She had already put up the wall and Dane was too tired to try and climb it again tonight. Besides, somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d known this was going to happen. From the moment he heard Ned’s name that morning, he knew. And all day, despite the positive outlook he tried to keep when he got home, he knew this would be the inevitable outcome. Everything always came back to Gwen. Truthfully, he’d been dreading telling Misty about the events of the day, and this was why. They were from a small town where everyone knew everyone. Misty used to see Dane and Gwen together. She also saw Dane crawl into a hole for years after the accident. She saw him finally emerge from that hole a changed man, a cautious man. Uninterested in ever starting over. It took her nearly ten years, but Misty finally got through to him. She also knew when she got involved with him that she was agreeing to spend her life with this damaged version of Dane, a broken version of the real thing. She knew he was a good man—a faithful, honorable man—but she also knew going in that she would always feel second fiddle to a ghost. Dane did his best to keep her shielded from that feeling, but no matter what he did—what he said—it would never be enough. The damage was a part of him. It lived inside him waiting for opportunities to show itself, and tonight was just another example of that. He could’ve comforted Misty instead of sitting in the bathroom alone, crying, waiting for her to fall asleep, but he didn’t. It was an unwinnable battle. He’d thought about not telling her anything, but he was keeping enough from her already, and he’d said it before—she deserved better than that.
If honesty is the best policy, then somebody needs to start thinking about revising the rule book.
He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. He was scared to death of closing his eyes. He knew where he’d be in his dreams. He knew who’d be waiting on him there. So he turned to stare at Misty’s shoulder again in the moonlight. She was beautiful, and he knew he loved her, at least to the best of his ability. Maybe it was just his selfish loneliness, but he reached out to touch her anyway. He stopped just shy of her skin. Instead of stroking her hair, or running a finger down the curve of her neck, he hovered that finger over her shoulder and outlined a daisy, right where Gwen’s tattoo used to be.
* * *
He was almost asleep when his phone rang. Misty faked being asleep as Dane reached down to grab at his pants on the floor. He searched the tangle of canvas until he found the right pocket and tapped the phone. “Kirby.”
“Dane, this is August O’Barr.”
“What’s up, August?”
“I am—and it’s late, and I don’t like it. I pay people to make these calls so I don’t have to, so I don’t like the fact that I’m the one making this one.”
“Well then, how about we just get to something you do like, August.” Dane clicked on the lamp and slid himself up the headboard.
“Okay, well, for one, you and Rosey need to learn how to play nice because I don’t plan on being the go-between for you two past tonight.”
“She doesn’t like to be called Rosey.”
There was a silence on the line and Dane thought about how he felt when Misty told him Jackson didn’t like to be called buddy. He wished he hadn’t said it. “I’ve got no problems working with Agent Velasquez, sir. You have my word.”
“Good, because you and that tamale have got to get together on this faster than I imagined.”
Dane wanted to tell him that if Agent Velasquez didn’t like being called Rosey, being called a tamale would most definitely earn him a smack in the mouth, but he didn’t mention it. “Did we learn more about the case, sir?”
“We did. We’ve got intel on the next of kin for Blackwell.”
“That’s good news.”
“No, it ain’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Both of his parents were killed in a car accident a year ago. The only family he had left is a younger sibling—an eleven-year-old brother named William.”
“A kid?”
Misty turned around in the bed to face Dane. She’d been crying. He hadn’t noticed. He put a hand on her shoulder.
“Yeah, when the Blackwells bought it, our boy Arnold was named his brother’s legal guardian.”
“You’re right. That’s terrible. How did he take it?”
“Who?”
“The kid.”
“He didn’t take anything. The kid is MIA, and no one has been able to find him. Velasquez is over there turning out the shithole apartment they were living in over in Cobb County and there’s no sign of him, and I’m still waiting to hear back from the airline. It’s possible that the other ticket Blackwell purchased was for the boy, but as of right now no one knows where he could be.”
Dane switched the phone from one ear to the other. Misty was sitting up now, too.
“Well, an eleven-year-old kid shouldn’t be that hard to find.”
“No, he shouldn’t, so let me know when you do.”
“Wait a minute. I thought—”
“Stop thinking, Kirby, and listen. I need you to drop everything else I told you to do and put this William Blackwell kid on the top of your priority list.”
“August, listen—”
“No, Dane, you listen. I’m not done. There’s more. This kid, William, he also has a condition.”
“What kind of condition?”
“According to the social worker who set up the guardianship, he’s been diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome. I don’t pretend to know anything about it except it’s a form of autism that apparently no one seems to know jack shit about.”
“The boy is autistic?”
Misty tugged on Dane’s arm. “What’s going on?”
Dane switched ears again and reached over to hold her hand. She let him.
“Pay attention, Kirby. I said it’s a form of autism. But regardless, his condition, or whatever you want to call it, puts this kid in harm’s way just by being out there alone. The social worker I spoke to said, and I quote, ‘William isn’t able to function properly in an open-world environment,’ and without some kind of guidance, he could end up being hurt or hurting someone else, so finding this boy is now our top priority.”