Chapters (42)
- Cover Page
- EARLY BIRD BOOKS
- Praise for the Writing of Richard North Patterson
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- About the Author
I walked to my office and sat alone with the door closed and no lights on. Through the window a late afternoon sun died slowly among the high-rises of the city, its cast in the room thinning to light and shadow. I didn’t move.
The rap on the door was so soft and tentative that I had to listen before saying, “Yes?”
The door opened. The man from the funeral peered in. He was round and owlish in his glasses, one hand jammed awkwardly in a pocket. “Mr. Shaw?” he asked.
I stared at him. “Who are you?”
His smile was more nervous tic, shy and self-hating. Then he closed the door behind him and said simply, “I’m Henry Cantwell’s lover.”
Thirty-one
THIRTY-ONE
I watched him across the room. Finally I asked, “Why are you here?”
His mouth twitched again. “Henry spoke of you often.”
“But why now?”
“I had to trust someone.” He looked down. “You see, we were together that night. The only person Henry killed was himself.”
“Oh, my God.”
“You see how it is, then.” He said it almost tenderly.
“Yes,” I murmured. “I see.”
He walked to a chair in front of my desk and grasped it. “I could have come forward. But he knew how afraid I was. I’m a banker in Anniston, with a wife and three teenagers who know nothing of this. I couldn’t face becoming a different sort of man.”
For a long time I just looked at him. “How did it happen, you and Henry?”
“We found each other, that’s all. For two years I thought I loved him. But not enough.” He shook his head. “Perhaps I was too hurt.”
“Hurt?”
His eyes were small and tortured. “Before the night she was killed I hadn’t seen Henry for over two months. When he called I scrambled for any excuse to get away. We were together all night. At six o’clock I got ready to sneak out. Henry took my hand and began talking very fast. He couldn’t see me anymore, he said. He loved me, I should never doubt that, and this was for my own good. I was shocked. Why, I asked him. He kept shaking his head and saying he was sorry, that he’d wanted us to have one last night and could I understand that. But I didn’t, I couldn’t, there was no reason and he looked so miserable. I wanted to stay and make him tell me why. But,” he smiled bitterly, “it was nearly morning and getting light outside. I drove away.”
I ran a hand across my face. “What’s your name?”
He hesitated. “Calvin Bayles.”
“Did you ever see him again?”