Page 57 of Silent Bones
Noah leaned in slightly. “No one thinks that.”
Mark’s gaze flicked to the family photos. “Bullshit. I hear what people say.”
Noah let the silence sit for a second, let the man stew in it. “You and Jesse. How were things lately?”
Mark barked a humorless laugh. “Lately? How are things with any eighteen-year-old who thinks he’s smarter than his old man? He didn’t come near me much. Said I was stuck in the past. Maybe I was. Doesn’t mean I didn’t love him.”
“Did you two argue?”
Mark’s shoulders stiffened. “Of course we did. Over stupid shit mostly. His friends. His job. His mouth. But I didn’t lay a hand on him if that’s what you’re fishing for.”
Noah stayed calm. “Nobody said you did.”
“You’re thinking it. Everyone is. Like I must’ve whipped the kid bloody just because I wasn’t some hug-it-out kind of dad.”
McKenzie walked over to the mantel, picked up one of the photos. Jesse in football pads, arm thrown around a taller boy, Stephen Strudwell.
“He was close with Stephen, huh?” McKenzie asked.
Mark stiffened. “They all were.”
“Some say they were closer than that.”
The bottle hit the side table with a thud. Mark glared, fists clenched at his sides. “You trying to say my son was, what? Gay? Is that what this is?”
“Calm down. We’re just asking,” Noah said carefully, “if there was tension about it. Between you and Jesse.”
Mark’s voice became low and dangerous. “You know what happens when people die? Every jackass in town becomes ahistorian. A psychic. A gossip. Jesse was figuring himself out. Like all kids do. And yeah, maybe he and Stephen were close. Doesn’t mean he was gay or that I beat it out of him.”
McKenzie didn’t back down. “Some say he was seen with bruises. Cuts?”
Mark’s eyes flared. “He played football. Worked rebar in the summers. You ever haul steel in 90-degree heat? Of course he had bruises.”
“You ever argue with him about Stephen specifically?”
Mark looked away. His voice dropped. “One time. I caught them drunk. Jesse was acting like a fool, laughing too loud, saying stupid shit. I told him to grow up. Told him Stephen was a bad influence. That’s it.”
“And after that?”
“He told me he was going to move out. Get his own place. Said he wanted space.” Mark turned back to face them. “You want a villain, pick someone else. I was hard on him, yeah. But I’d cut my own arm off before I hurt that boy.”
The room hung on those words. Noah studied him, really studied him.
There was rage there. Shame. Pride. But underneath it, something twisted. Something coiled tight.
“You mind if we look around?” Noah asked.
Mark gave a sharp, tired nod. “Knock yourselves out. Won’t find anything. Except more people telling me how to grieve.”
McKenzie disappeared down the short hallway. Noah stayed seated. Watching.
Mark dropped back into his chair like a man falling into a hole. “I didn’t kill my son,” he said quietly. “But I wasn’t the dad he needed either. I sure as hell wasn’t there to protect him. Maybe that’s enough for people to accuse me.”
Noah didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure what the truth was yet.
But he knew a man drowning when he saw one.
Noah stood slowly, his knees stiff, his patience thinner.
