“It’s not a bit different. And you know the tragedy of it all, the inside joke?” Another slug of whiskey. “Gibby was the toughest of us all, back in the day. Thirteen years old, and he could keep up with us both: hiking and dirt bikes, hunting, fighting. The kid was unflinching. And what is he now?” Jason pointed with the cigarette. “It’s pitiful, what you’ve done to him.”

“That is patently unfair.”

Jason sighed as if suddenly bored. “What do you want, Dad? You want me to fuck off or leave town or stay away from my only brother? If that’s it, then say it and leave. Nothing good will come of it, but at least we’ll understand each other.”

French struggled for a response, but was out of simple answers. He loved the boy, but didn’t know him. “Tomorrow, then? Brotherly things?”

“Gibby was supposed to tell you.”

French nodded. He had nothing else. “Bring him home safe, all right? Nothing stupid or dangerous or criminal.”

“Roger that, Detective.”

Jason drank again, and French wanted so much, just then. He wanted to slap the anger from his son, to pull him up and squeeze him so hard there’d be no question of favorites or history or love. He wanted to say, You’re my son, goddamn it, and I don’t care what you’ve done or what you are or even that you hate me. He wanted to hold his boy until his heart was flooded and the sun rose and his arms hurt. Instead, he nodded again and walked away.

4

I was awake when my father came home, and knew from long experience how clumsily he’d try to be quiet. With all the late nights and long cases, I’d expect him to know every loose floorboard in the house. He didn’t. I heard a creak in the hall, and a rattle of ice as he stood for long seconds outside my door. When I was younger, he’d wake me up to talk, usually on the bad days when a case went sideways or someone particularly innocent was hurt or killed. He never talked about the details, but even at twelve or thirteen, I understood that he wanted to speak of normal things, to see his own children tucked away and safe. Nights like that came more often when Robert went to war, and ended abruptly when his body returned. Now it was like this: my father in the hall, the rattle of ice.

When he left, my thoughts returned to Jason and the cliff.

No hesitation.

He didn’t even look.