the chill. Groups of people spilled from pubs as others walked their dogs, chatted on their phones, sat on city benches, smoked cigarettes, and hailed taxis. Couples held hands. Friends walked toward restaurants with purpose and ease. Maybe they never felt the weight of the world on their shoulders. Maybe they did and had managed to come out the other side, to balance. Like my mother, who’d laid to rest her anger toward my father and happily started a new life—one that suited her much, much better.
The thought of my empty, quiet hotel room sent a twinge through my chest I hated to admit was loneliness. I might have passed on invitations to brewery tours and movie nights with my team, but I hadn’t realized until now how much their daily presence shaped my sense of real connection. Every morning when I stepped into the office, I was surrounded by people who cared about justice, cared about the world. Cared about me, even.
They were more than my colleagues, and more than friends. I wasn’t sure what that made them, exactly. The issue being that the longer I felt this way, the more I was going to end up needing them. The more I’d have to let them in, past fortress-high walls I’d been happy to build.
And that wasn’t the future I’d seen for myself. That future felt messy, prone to emotion and vulnerability. A cocktail of things I avoided the most. I endured the first year after my mother’s accident—the time at hospitals, the grueling doctor’s appointments, the sleepless nights—by calling my father every single day to beg him to return. My mother’s spirit was resilient, but nothing could prepare a sixteen-year old boy for what it would be like to care for a woman who had temporarily lost her ability to express herself, to stand on her own, to balance, to access her memories.
The morning of the accident we’d had a long and entirely pointless conversation about my history teacher, who my mother secretly believed was a spy for the CIA. She’d made me laugh as she spun a completely untrue story about my shy, mild-mannered teacher. And then she kissed the top of my head and rushed out the door to the grocery store.
By dinner time that night, my mother had survived a horrifying car accident and lay in a coma, which ultimately lasted for three days. And it would be three months before I would be able to hold her hand and help her walk again.
My father wasn’t entirely gone. I was young, and my own memories of this time were hazy, but he must have legally taken care of things for my mother, signed documents and papers, handled insurance. A lot of household bills still fell on my shoulders, but our giant mortgage was paid. His financial presence lingered, made it possible for his selfish act to still keep us clothed and sheltered. But that wasn’t what I was seeking when I desperately dialed him every night.
I was seeking an explanation. I would have believed even the wildest story if it meant my own father cared about me.
Every call went unanswered. Every day was harder than the one before. Messy, emotional, vulnerable, I felt as exposed as a raw nerve and hated every second. Brick by brick by brick, it was that easy to wall off my vulnerable heart. My mother, and then Jeanette, would always have access to it. But by the time I was eighteen and earning a criminal justice degree at one of the most prestigious Ivy League institutions in the country, I had a new plan and a new purpose.
My phone rang, and I answered it without checking the number, hoping it was a member of my team calling from Philadelphia. The voice that rang out, instead, was Humphrey Hatcher.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick!” Humphrey yelled through the phone.
I looked around me, sure he must be here in person. “Humphrey?” I asked.
“Eudora gave me your phone number,” Humphrey said. “So apologies for invading your privacy and the like. My husband and I are having the nicest drink at Mycroft’s Pub, and we’d love for you to stop by and enjoy yourself.”
Jesus. Even the best friends of criminal masterminds were trying to get me to loosen up. “Uh… you know, I’m coming from the symphony and already on my way back to the hotel.”
“Nonsense! Take a cab. We’ll see you in a few minutes. I will not accept no for an answer and will hunt you