But she couldn’t deny that for months after Kyle’s death, Buddy would go to the pantry and sit in front of the cabinet where they kept the leash. Barb would take him out, but he’d pull her back to the house and plop down in front of the cabinet again. The dog seemed to think that sitting there would bring Kyle back. Some nights, Barb folded her hands and prayed that Buddy was right.
She let her eyes fill with tears. She knew not to hold them back, though they didn’t bring her to her knees like they used to. The pain was still fresh, and the grief. She never got over it, though she’d gone back to work and resumed her life. Sometimes she felt like she was sleepwalking, but she couldn’t end it all, like Kyle had. Sharon made sure of that, anyway. They met every other week for dinner or a movie, and Barb watched Sharon’s son and daughter grow up and clapped at their high school and college graduations, weddings, then their children’s christenings, thinking every time, This could’ve been Kyle, too. Should’ve been Kyle, too.
Barb still felt so surprised that he’d committed suicide. It just didn’t seem like something he would do, no matter how unhappy he was. It was Buddy that made her question it, too. She couldn’t imagine him taking the dog with him if he was going to kill himself. It didn’t square. But the autopsy report and blood tests showed the police had been right. Kyle had had alcohol in his blood, and that was why he hadn’t thought about Buddy. The case was closed. She had to face the facts.
Still, all the what-ifs kept her up at night, to this day. What if she’d made a stink about his drinking on the sly? What if she’d found him a therapist sooner? What if she’d known how down he was? Since then, she’d gone to therapy, where they told her she was beating herself up, but she knew it was her fault. She blamed herself for not seeing the signs. She’d let Kyle down. She should have known. She should have stopped him. A mother is supposed to protect her child, and she had failed to.
Barb wiped her tears away. Every time she came, she apologized to him. She begged him to forgive her. But Kyle was silent. It wasn’t he who blamed her; she blamed herself. She was her judge and jury, and she deserved the punishment she’d given herself. She was behind bars, too. She was serving a life sentence.
It wouldn’t end until the day she died, too.
CHAPTER 50
Larry Rucci
Are you sure Allie’s not there?” Larry asked, confused, the phone to his ear. He was trying to reach his wife to tell her he’d been called out of town. She was supposed to be meeting with a special ed lawyer, Jeff Sherrod, in King of Prussia. Larry knew Jeff, so he’d called Jeff’s office, but evidently Allie wasn’t there.
“Totally sure,” answered Jeff’s secretary, Gloria. “Jeff’s on vacation in Hawaii. I don’t have Allie or anybody else scheduled for today.”
“I swear she said she had a meeting with him this morning.”
“You must’ve misheard.”
“Right,” Larry said, relieved to arrive at a conclusion that saved face. “Okay, thanks, Gloria.”
“Have a good day.”
“You, too, goodbye.” Larry ended the call. He’d called Allie three times, but no answer. He hadn’t bothered leaving a message because she never listened to them. He’d texted her, too, but no text back. It was odd, but not that odd. Allie could be so remote, and Larry was coming to the reluctant conclusion that his marriage sucked.
Larry’s gaze wandered restlessly around his office, in a corner with a prestige location on the twenty-third floor, with a great view, indirect light, diplomas, plaques, and awards, and photos of him glad-handing every CEO, VP, CFO, COO, or GC in a variety of target-rich environments like shareholder conferences, CLE seminars, and meetings. Larry loved connecting with people. It brought in business, and felt natural and good. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t connect with Allie, and he was her husband.
He eyed the Philly skyline, with its mirrored spikes and shiny ziggurats piercing a cloudy gray sky. He was supposed to grab a flight to Detroit because a client needed hand-holding, and nobody held hands like Larry. Everyone at Dichter & O’Reilly said so, and he was on his way to becoming department head. He was well-liked, but more than that,