Page 57 of No More Words

He’d make a great quarterback, Lucas thinks, reaching for the broom Charlotte left leaning against the wall. But he stops short of comparing Josh’s potential to the skills he let waste away.

Light from the chandelier overhead ricochets off the glass while he sweeps, making the scraps shimmer. They remind him of the broken window at the convenience store after the bullet he accidentally shot off shattered the glass. The shards refracted the market’s fluorescent lights like sunlight on the ocean’s surface when he was forced to his knees and handcuffed.

His jaw hardens and hands tighten on the broomstick. He hates how something as mundane as sweeping glass easily sends his mind there, to that night. How the handgun he wrangled from Tanner went off, blowing out the window and the front windshield of his car. Howhis football teammates ditched the place, and him, leaving him to take the fall.

Lucas sweeps the pieces into a dustpan and drops the shards into the pail Charlotte put by the door after Olivia and Josh left. He still hasn’t heard the full story from her. Only that Josh came unglued when he saw the picture of Dwight. What has his old man gotten himself into now?

Propping the broom against the wall, he reaches for the measuring tape he brought with him. He quickly measures the window frame, committing the numbers to memory, and leaves the house. He calls Dan at the local glass shop and puts in a rush order for a replacement. He then grabs a piece of scrap plywood leaning against the side of the garage from another project and saws a piece to cover the window. When he’s nailed the board in place, he finds Charlotte in the kitchen, scrolling through her iPad. Old photos rest on the table beside her elbow, their broken frames in the trash.

“You’re all set,” he announces, opening the fridge. “I put in an order for a replacement. Dan will bring it by in several days and install it.” He grabs one of Dwight’s Coors Light. Piss water. But he still pops the top and guzzles a third. “What happened?”

“Josh saw your father in a photo. He broke everything on his way out.”

“That’s what Livy said. Do you think Dad found Lily?” He knows Dwight hadn’t thought about Lily for years until that reporter came sniffing around a few months ago about her high school swim record.

“He must have.”

“I didn’t think he’d actually go looking for her.” The man put on a good show after Lily ran. He could barely speak his youngest’s name without tearing up. But Lucas knew it was an act.

“Neither did I.” She sorts the photos she salvaged from the broken frames, measures their sizes with a plastic ruler that has her real estate agency’s logo.

He crosses his arms and leans back against the counter. “Do you know why?” He’s regretted he never lifted a finger to help Lily. She needed him, even relied on him, and he walked away.

Charlotte sets aside the ruler and photos. “I wouldn’t possibly know what he wants with her after all this time,” she says in a low voice.

“Do you remember what you told me the day after Lily ran?”

“That I worried he’d harm her?”

He shakes his head. “You said Dad knows things. What kind of things, Mom?” He’s always wondered if it had to do with the St.John case. Charlotte once told him she suspected his dad may have had more involvement than he let on. She covers her mouth and looks away. The skin on the back of his neck tingles. “That reporter a while back, Dad said he was asking after Lily. He asked about the St.John murder, too.”

A tear unspools over her cheek. The skin underneath shimmers. Lucas drops to his knees and takes her hand. The gesture feels foreign to him. It’s been years since he tried to comfort her, or sought reassurance from her, or anyone, for that matter. But his mom has put up with so much from Dwight. “Does Dad have something to do with that? Did he murder Benton? You told me once you thought he did.”

Charlotte looks troubled. She stares at his big hand, trembling. “Lily overheard your father and I arguing about what to do with her. You know he wanted her to abort. He started going off about money again. His campaigns came up and then, I don’t know how, he brought up the St.John murder. Everything he hated about our marriage came gushing out. It was the worst argument we ever had. I thought he was going to strike me, he was blinded by rage. I’m not sure he meant it—good Lord, I hope he wasn’t serious—but he told me he’d kill Lily like Benton if she didn’t get rid of the baby.”

Lucas sees red. “But did he kill St.John?” If he could hang Benton’s murder over Dwight’s head, he could get rid of his father for good. Let the authorities lock him up. He’d get a taste of the medicine Lucas was forced to swallow in his cell. Life isn’t glorious behind bars.

“I don’t know. He went out for a walk the night Benton died,” she cries, squeezing his hand. “I couldn’t take the risk he’d harm Lily. I told her to run away to a place he’d never find her, somewhere he’d never look. But Wes, that poor boy. He came over when your sister was packing and your father went nuts.”

“Dad knows she overheard you arguing?”

“He isn’t sure how much. He’s always wondered. And he’s always worried she’ll talk.”

Dwight probably thought she had talked when that small-time reporter came sniffing out of the blue, asking about Lily and her time with the Seaside Cove High swim team.

Their eyes meet. For a man whose image is everything, Dwight would want to tie up loose ends. Lucas fears Lily might be one of those ends.

He lets go of Charlotte’s hand and stands up. He guzzles the rest of his beer. “Let me see,” he asks of the photos.

She stands up from the table and gives him the pictures. She goes to the counter and pulls a tissue from the box by the house phone, dabs her eyes.

He flips through the photos. His junior year photo, the last class picture he took because he was in juvie during senior portraits. The next photo is their family portrait, the one that must have flipped his nephew. Dwight stands proudly on the right, Olivia on the left and his mom seated in front. The last picture is of Lily playing on the beach looking cute in her green one-piece with the ruffle skirt. She couldn’t be older than six. He thinks how vibrant she was at that age; then he thinks how lonely and frightened she must have been when she left them. His throat burns with remorse like it’s been scalded with coffee.

He quickly flips back to the family portrait. “Do you remember what I promised you the day after Lily ran?”

Charlotte wipes her nose and looks at him curiously.

“I said I’d get him to leave for good. Look at us. Look what we’ve become. Our family is a mess. His campaigns have drained your finances. You’ve mortgaged the house several times over. At this rate, you’ll be making payments long past retirement. His drive to save his reputation, to bury whatever he’s done, will only hurt you. Let me bring him around to leaving us. If you want to divorce him, and I think you should, I’ll convince him to sign the paperwork. You’ll finally be rid of him. Lily can come home.”

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