he had grown numb to the fact of his fatherhood, as though it were something he had learned at school that no longer had any bearing on his life. Memories of Sally were on the right side of the pain threshold for him to bear, but his failure toward Tom had been absolute, and Pete had done his best never to think about that. It was better to have nothing to do with his son’s life, and whenever he had found himself imagining what kind of man Tom might have become, he had quickly shoved those thoughts away. They were too hot to touch.
But now he knew.
He had no right to think of himself as a father, but it was impossible not to evaluate the man he had met that afternoon. A writer. That made sense, of course. Tom had always been creative as a little boy—always making up stories Pete couldn’t follow, or playing out elaborate scenarios with his toys. Jake appeared to be a lot like Tom had been at that age: a sensitive and clever child. From the little Pete had learned, it was obvious Tom had suffered hardship and tragedy throughout his life, and yet he was capably raising Jake alone. There could be little doubt that his son had grown into a good man.
Not worthless. Not useless or a failure.
Which was good.
Pete ran his fingertip around the edge of the glass. It was good that Tom had succeeded in overcoming the miserable childhood he had offered him. Good that he had absented himself from Tom’s life before he could poison it any more than he already had. Because it was clear that he had. Even after all this time, he was remembered. His impact had been terrible enough to leave a lasting impression.
I remember the last time I saw you.
Pete could still picture the look of hatred on his son’s face when he’d said that. He picked up the glass. Put it down again. That wasn’t quite right, though, was it? He deserved hatred—he was more than aware of that—but hatred had to be earned. Pete had been drinking almost constantly by the time Sally and Tom left him, and his days and nights had been a blur, but he remembered that particular evening with absolute clarity. Tom’s description of what had happened was impossible.
Did it matter?
Perhaps not. If his son’s memory was not literally true, then, like Pete’s own feelings of failure, it presumably still felt true enough, and that was the kind of truth that mattered most in the end.
He looked at the familiar photograph of him and Sally. It had been taken before Tom was conceived, but Pete thought you could see the knowledge of impending fatherhood in his expression if you wanted to. The squint against the sun. The half smile that looked like it would soon disappear. It was as though the man in the photo already knew he was about to fail badly and lose everything.
Sally still looked so happy.
He had lost her a long time ago, but had maintained the fantasy that she was alive somewhere, leading a contented, loving life. Keeping up the miserable belief that his own loss had been her and Tom’s gain. But now he knew the truth. There had been no gain. Sally was dead.
It felt like everything was.
Again, he picked up the glass, but this time he kept hold of it, watching the silky liquid fold over on itself. It looked so innocent until it did that—so much like water until you moved it and saw the mist hiding there.
He’d been here before. He could survive this.
But why bother?
He looked around the room, weighing again the emptiness of his existence. There was nothing to him. He was a man made of air. A life with no heft. There was nothing good in his past that could be saved, and nothing in his future that was worth trying to.
Except that wasn’t true, was it? Neil Spencer’s killer might still be out there. If the boy’s murder stemmed from some past failing of his, then it was his responsibility to put it right, whatever the personal repercussions might be. Whether he liked it or not, he was back in the nightmare now, and he thought that he needed to see it through to the end, even if it broke him. There was a conflict of interest, yes, but if he was careful, then perhaps nobody would ever know. He doubted Tom would ever want