the day you die. I swear to God. For Kevin. Come on. Just leave him standing here and let’s go.”
Nothing she could have said would have hurt him more. What more powerful proof of her love for me could she give than to offer to martyr herself by living with Paul for the rest of her life? I open my mouth to try to mitigate her words, but the scream that bursts from his throat knocks me back a foot.
Then he fires.
Jet’s shriek barely registers against my eardrums. I stagger back, a delayed response to the eruption of flame from the pistol. No bullet hit me—none I’ve felt yet, anyway. At the last instant Paul pulled his aim left, putting a slug through a kitchen cabinet instead of my heart.
In the ringing aftermath of his shot, he screams once more, then sobs, but he doesn’t lower his weapon. “You liars! If Kevin was his, why didn’t you just leave? Why stay with me and live this goddamn lie? I thought you had more guts than that . . . both of you. Jesus, it’s sick.”
Jet and I stare at each other in stunned horror. Four words have burned themselves into our brains: If Kevin was his . . .
Max did this. If Paul just came from UMC, then it was Max who put this poisonous idea into his head. What agony must Paul have endured during his ride here? To believe, even for an hour, that I’m the father of the son he loves above all things?
“Paul, what did you say?” Jet asks. “About Kevin?”
“You gonna make me say it? All right. Kevin’s Marshall’s son! I know it now. And I know Mama knew it, too. Goddamn, you’ve been lying for twelve years. I just . . . I thought y’all were better than that. You’ve fucked us all up—Kevin most of all.”
Jet stands shaking in disbelief. She clearly has no idea how to respond to this. But I do. There’s only one path open to us now—one road to life.
“Paul, listen,” I say firmly. “As God is my witness, I am not Kevin’s father.”
His eyes narrow, but Jet’s widen in fear.
“Why keep lying?” he asks me.
“I’m not lying. I am not Kevin’s father. But you’re not either. Not his biological father.”
Paul goes utterly still. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Try to ease back, man. Calm down. I’m not your enemy. The person who screwed up your family is your father. It’s Max, bro. He’s the cause of all this misery.”
Paul is shaking his head now, almost violently. “What are you talking about?”
Jet silently begs me not to go on. But I have no choice now. “Paul . . . Max is Kevin’s father.”
“Oh, God,” Jet gasps, backing away from the table.
“He raped her,” I say quickly. “Max raped her in 2005. And she never told you about it.”
Paul’s initial response is one slow blink of the eyes, then another. But after a few seconds, I sense a tectonic shift within him. My words are leaching through years of accreted anger, pain, bewilderment, suspicion. When at last they sink into his mind, something vast and heavy slides into place.
“Thirteen years ago,” I say as Paul’s face undergoes a terrifying change. “You were passed out in the den. Max drugged her with Xanax and raped her.”
I cut my eyes at Jet, who’s paralyzed with fear. I can almost read her mind. After so many years of lying, how can our salvation depend on another lie? But it does.
“Is that true?” Paul asks, looking her square in the face.
She nods once, her chin quivering.
Paul closes his eyes, then wobbles on his feet. The Glock hangs loose in his hand, but death is in the room with us, hovering. While Paul is blind, I glance at Jet, who sucks in her lips and nods quickly. Tears are streaming down her face. She gets it. Rape must be the story now. It’s the only narrative that might allow her a life after this—a life with her son—and she knows it. For an insane moment I consider going for my gun, because there’s no telling what Paul might do next. He could kill himself, or us—or us first, then himself. But I don’t think he will. Somehow, he understands that what I just told him—at least Max’s part in it—is the truth. And even if he means to kill himself at some point, Paul won’t leave the son he loves under the power of the