Chapter Fifty-Four

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

I know exactly where I need to be when I read the court records on my mother. I'm just ashamed I haven't gone there in so long.

The sun is shining brightly as it drifts down toward the western horizon, but the air is chilly enough that I grab a jacket on my way out the door. I drive along Wisconsin Avenue, crossing from DC into Maryland, and stop at Trader Joe's, where there's always a small selection of plants. I choose one with orange blooms. Orange was my mother's favorite color and my father's favorite fruit. They had a little joke about that—I can almost hear the husky timbre of my father's voice and my mother's higher, crisper one responding—but the precise words of that inside family joke is forever lost to me.

I carefully place the plant on the passenger's side floor mat and continue driving. Tall buildings and packed traffic lanes yield to tracts of land and spread-out houses as the cityscape recedes in my rearview mirror. A few miles deeper into the suburbs, ornate metal gates that remind me of the ones sealing off the Barclay estate signal I've arrived at my destination.

The acres that compose the cemetery are filled with neat rows of headstones. Curving stone pathways wind through the grass, and beneath oak and maple trees are small benches. All the attempts to make the grounds look serene and welcoming can't disguise what this is: a place steeped in sorrow.

I park and reach for the plant, then step out. There doesn't seem to be anyone else around other than a white-haired man in the distance walking along one of the paths, his head bent low.

My mother didn't have a funeral—I'm not sure who would have wanted to come, except me—but my aunt did one good thing: She ensured my mother was buried next to my father. I wonder if my aunt did this because at some point, she actually cared about her sister—maybe when they were both little girls, before my aunt's jealousy and bitterness poisoned her from the inside out.

It's a short walk to my parents' headstones. I find my way easily, even though I haven't been here in years, passing trees that are weeping yellow and red leaves.

I stand in front of the small twin pillars, staring at the words etched on them.

Daniel Stewart Hudson, loving husband and father.

Mary Grace Hudson, loving wife and mother.

My legs feel so weak they're threatening to collapse under me. I sink down onto the grass.

Memories drift through my mind like a series of frames from old videos: My father using a knotted piece of rope to play tug-of-war with Bingo. My mother putting her feet on my dad's lap while she stroked my hair, the three of us cozily snuggled together on the couch. My dad tossing me over his shoulder as he carried me to bed.

Tears stream down my cheeks as I wrap my arms around myself.

Somehow I both fear and crave this solitude. Isolation is a sunken pit always trying to lure me in, promising me the paradox of comforting familiarity and despair.

I reach into my pocket for a tissue and wipe my face and blow my nose. Then I pull the two folded sheets of paper out of my bag.

The story contained in the terse, legal terms begins to take shape as I read.

My mother was arrested late at night with a small amount of heroin in her possession—enough for a single dose. She appeared intoxicated, was verbally belligerent, and tried to flee when two officers approached her. She was arrested and used her one phone call to reach her lawyer. He negotiated her release the next morning.

The name of her lawyer is lightly underlined, like someone took a pencil and skimmed its point beneath his name.

I see the name, but it doesn't register for a second. It feels like my brain is glitching.

Then it slams into my consciousness: Charles Q. Huxley, counsel for the defendant.

My body jerks backward and I drop the pages as my mind struggles to process the familiar name.

Charles.

The world is tipping off its axis; nothing makes sense anymore. I knew Charles was a defense attorney long before he became a judge. But how is it possible that he defended my mother ?

My vision blurs. The tombstones seem to be swirling around me.

I can't comprehend this. But there's no way it's a mistake. The proof is right there, in black and white. It has been for decades, just waiting for me to discover it.

Charles must have known exactly who I was when we met. The one adult who I thought had never let me down has been lying to me for my entire life.

"No!" I scream a futile protest into the wind.

The unimaginable is now my reality.

I drop my head into my hands as nausea roils through me.

When I lift my head, the sheets of papers I dropped are starting to flutter away on a breeze. I lunge forward and grab them.

Did I imagine this? I stare down at the name again. His name is still there: Charles Q. Huxley. The Q is for Quince. It's a family name.

There can't be two defense lawyers who worked in the DC area during that time with the same unusual name. It's him. My Charles.

My whole body is trembling.

Charles has always represented stability and integrity to me. How could he do this?

I can't wrap my mind around it. Charles knew my mother. He was in her life when I was a little girl, a decade before he came into the restaurant where I worked.

My thoughts splinter in a dozen directions and rearrange themselves, like the colorful shards in a kaleidoscope.

It can't be a coincidence; Charles has a formidable memory. He would have noted the similarities of my last name and the details of my story that lined up with his encounters with my mom. If we'd met by accident, he surely would have told me.

Which means the briefcase of money that brought us together wasn't serendipitous, either. The realization lands like a sucker punch, stealing my breath.

Charles must have planted it for me to find. He wanted an excuse to meet me, to pull me into his life.

It's another huge deception from the man I trusted most.

A sharp caw causes my head to jerk up. A flock of birds is flying overhead, their wings beating, as if they're frantic to get away from something.

My body is in fight-or-flight mode, too; but I force myself to stay. To think.

Because there's something else swirling in the kaleidoscope, a particular shard I need to examine.

The person who came to the door on the night my mother died was a man. He had a very deep voice—like Charles.

Could it have been Charles, the man I consider a second father?

What has he done to my life?

I don't know how long I sit there. My hands and toes grow numb, matching my insides, as the sun sinks deeper into the sky. At some point a woman walks by and says something to me—maybe "Are you okay?"—but I don't answer, and after a brief hesitation she moves on.

A ringing sound finally pulls me into the present moment. My cell phone is jangling. I almost ignore it; then I fumble through my bag and close my fingers around the hard case.

Even before I see his name on the screen, I sense it's Charles.

"I was just checking in to see how you're doing."

"I'm fine."

"I can hear in your voice that you're not. I know this process is painful, Stella."

His gentle tone almost rips away the armor I'm erecting over myself. But I recover quickly.

I'm not going to have this conversation on the phone with Charles.

I want to see his face when I confront him with the information Detective Garcia gave me.

I've met a lot of liars in my life. I thought I was good at sussing them out. But Charles is in a league of his own.

Now I need to do whatever I can to fool him. The element of surprise is the only weapon I have.

"You're right." I exhale. "It's harder than I thought. I could use a drink. Are you free?"

"Absolutely. Would you like to come over or meet somewhere?"

"I'll come to you." I stand up and start walking toward my car. "See you soon."