“Some of it.”
“Police?”
“Maybe.”
He nodded slowly.
For a while we just ate in silence while the wind pressed dry leaves along the motel lot like paper ghosts.
At 2:17, my phone lit up with Michael’s name.
I answered on the second ring.
“Dad.”
His voice was tight, controlled in the exact way mine got when I was trying not to let anger choose my words for me.
“Hi, son.”
“What is going on?”
“That depends on what version you’ve heard.”
He exhaled sharply. “Mom says you left in the middle of the night after some kind of argument and emptied accounts.”
“Your mother told me she slept with Craig Hendricks.”
Silence.
Not stunned silence. Impact silence.
Then: “What?”
“At 11:04 last night.”
I heard him shift somewhere, maybe into a closed office, maybe out of one.
“She said you were confused.”
“I’m sure that’s useful to her.”
“Dad, are you serious?”
“Yes.”
Another silence.
“Did… did this just happen?”
“No.”
He did not speak for several seconds.
When he finally did, his voice sounded older.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
Because children never stop being children where their parents are concerned. Because no son deserves front-row tickets to his mother’s moral collapse. Because I kept hoping I was wrong. Because once you say something aloud, it becomes the shape of the family forever.
Instead I said, “Because I needed facts before I gave my children a reason to hate one of their parents.”
His breath caught in a way that told me he understood more than I wished he had to.
“Are you safe?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m not giving that to anyone yet.”
“I’m not anyone.”
“No,” I said softly. “You’re my son. Which is why I’m asking you not to relay anything back to your mother until I’m ready.”
He did not answer right away.
Then: “Is there more you’re not telling me?”
“Yes.”
“Will there be court?”
“Yes.”
He swore under his breath. Something he only did when genuinely rattled.
Finally he said, “Okay. I’m with you. I just… I need a minute.”
“So do I.”
After we hung up, Dave said nothing for almost a full minute. Then he reached for the second half of his sandwich and muttered, “Well. Thanksgiving ought to be lively.”
The reporter called at 3:47 that afternoon.
Chicago area code. Unfamiliar number.
I almost let it go to voicemail. Something made me answer.
“Mr. McCarthy? My name is Tom Greer. I’m with the Chicago Tribune business desk.”
The word Tribune sharpened everything.
“I’ve been looking into some irregularities at Hendricks Logistics,” he continued, “specifically involving a vendor payment structure tied to a company called Apex Property Consulting. I understand you may have some familiarity with that name.”
I looked out the hotel window.
The maintenance man had abandoned the leaf blower and was smoking beside a dumpster, leaves still doing exactly as they pleased.
“I’m listening,” I said.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Before I answered, I needed to understand something fundamental.
“Who gave you my name?”
“I protect my sources.”
“I’m not asking for a name. I’m asking for a category. Internal? External? Current employee? Former employee?”
A pause.
Then carefully: “Someone with direct knowledge of the payment structure.”
That was enough.
The list of people who knew about Apex was very short. Me. Christine. Eddie. Dave, as of lunch. And Craig Hendricks, who by necessity knew far more than anyone else. Which meant Craig had likely decided to save himself by leaking just enough truth to let Paula absorb the blast first.
There is justice in the world. It just rarely arrives wearing the costume you expected.
“I think we should meet,” I said.
We met the next morning at a coffee shop on Washington Street, two blocks from Christine’s office. Tom Greer was younger than his voice suggested—late thirties, sharp eyes, corduroy jacket, recorder on the table before I sat down. The kind of man who made a living by noticing when other people blinked at the wrong time.
I brought copies.
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