drinking wine and eating hors d’oeuvres, served by a young Hispanic man dressed in a tux. The woman had bleached blond hair and was wearing too much jewelry. Matt guessed that her looks had faded ten years ago, and no amount of plastic surgery could bring them back or even soften the severity he saw in her face. The two sons were dressed like boys, with matching blue blazers and tapered tan slacks to go along with their soft faces, their long hair and bangs.
Matt turned away, thinking about his mother. He had been so young when she died. He had felt so blue and so lonely—scared to death that he might end up in a state-run home or on the street. His eyes found their way across the water to his father’s yacht. From here it looked more like a ship, and Matt thought it probably required a crew to operate. But what really caught his eye was the name of the yacht printed across its stern.
Greedy Bastard, Greenwich, Connecticut.
Matt shook it off and turned back to the house. They were laughing about something. And then, after a few moments and as if on cue, it finally happened.
All three of them turned as a man exited the house and strode across the terrace with a glass of wine in his hand. Matt wouldn’t have needed an introduction, because he saw that same face every day in the mirror when he shaved. That same face, less twenty-five years.
It was his father, his deadbeat dad, slumming it on the sound.
M. Trevor Jones.
Matt couldn’t take his eyes off him. Every line on his face, every gray hair on his head, but even more, the sound of his father’s voice—Matt drank it in, like swilling a gallon or two of gasoline that had been sweetened with honey.
The sound of his father’s voice.
It was almost as if he’d fallen into the river of what used to be. He could remember hugging his father when he came home from work at night. He could remember the smell of his skin. The memory seemed so clear and vivid.
But after fifteen or twenty minutes passed, after studying the man and trying to measure him, something happened that Matt didn’t understand at first. He was gazing at these four people sipping wine on their terrace and snacking on whatever their butler was serving on his silver tray. He was gazing at what amounted to his own family, but the spell had faded and all the honey was gone.
He couldn’t help thinking how ridiculous they seemed.
Maybe it was the way his father looked at his wife, the phony smiles and the forced laughs that they shared. Maybe it was all the gold jewelry the woman was wearing, or the way the two boy-men were dressed up to look like twins. Freaks.
It felt perverted and corrupt. It felt dirty.
No matter what it was, Matt realized that he no longer needed to meet his father. That he no longer needed his father to tell him why he had abandoned him. Matt had just answered the question for himself. He could see it before his eyes. He could see it in who they were.
No matter what the hardship, his father walking out on him and his mom had been a gift. A blessing in disguise. A lucky break in the sense that he was out of their lives forever and had no influence over them.
Matt heard a phone begin ringing and panicked. It was his cell.
He scrambled to dig it out of his pocket and shut off the sound but slipped from the tree and began falling. Butterflies swarmed his stomach as he dropped through the air. When he finally landed, he found himself sprawled out on the couch with his .45 in his right hand and the phone in his left. He dropped the gun and tried to pull himself together as he checked the time. 6:00 a.m. He brought the phone to his ear without looking at the caller ID. It turned out to be Laura Hughes, and she sounded upset.
“Matt,” she said in a shaky voice. “Oh, God, Matt. Someone broke into the house last night.”
Matt reached for his .45 and got to his feet. His mind cleared.
“I’m on my way,” he said.
CHAPTER 21
The intruder had entered the house through a
Matt turned away, thinking about his mother. He had been so young when she died. He had felt so blue and so lonely—scared to death that he might end up in a state-run home or on the street. His eyes found their way across the water to his father’s yacht. From here it looked more like a ship, and Matt thought it probably required a crew to operate. But what really caught his eye was the name of the yacht printed across its stern.
Greedy Bastard, Greenwich, Connecticut.
Matt shook it off and turned back to the house. They were laughing about something. And then, after a few moments and as if on cue, it finally happened.
All three of them turned as a man exited the house and strode across the terrace with a glass of wine in his hand. Matt wouldn’t have needed an introduction, because he saw that same face every day in the mirror when he shaved. That same face, less twenty-five years.
It was his father, his deadbeat dad, slumming it on the sound.
M. Trevor Jones.
Matt couldn’t take his eyes off him. Every line on his face, every gray hair on his head, but even more, the sound of his father’s voice—Matt drank it in, like swilling a gallon or two of gasoline that had been sweetened with honey.
The sound of his father’s voice.
It was almost as if he’d fallen into the river of what used to be. He could remember hugging his father when he came home from work at night. He could remember the smell of his skin. The memory seemed so clear and vivid.
But after fifteen or twenty minutes passed, after studying the man and trying to measure him, something happened that Matt didn’t understand at first. He was gazing at these four people sipping wine on their terrace and snacking on whatever their butler was serving on his silver tray. He was gazing at what amounted to his own family, but the spell had faded and all the honey was gone.
He couldn’t help thinking how ridiculous they seemed.
Maybe it was the way his father looked at his wife, the phony smiles and the forced laughs that they shared. Maybe it was all the gold jewelry the woman was wearing, or the way the two boy-men were dressed up to look like twins. Freaks.
It felt perverted and corrupt. It felt dirty.
No matter what it was, Matt realized that he no longer needed to meet his father. That he no longer needed his father to tell him why he had abandoned him. Matt had just answered the question for himself. He could see it before his eyes. He could see it in who they were.
No matter what the hardship, his father walking out on him and his mom had been a gift. A blessing in disguise. A lucky break in the sense that he was out of their lives forever and had no influence over them.
Matt heard a phone begin ringing and panicked. It was his cell.
He scrambled to dig it out of his pocket and shut off the sound but slipped from the tree and began falling. Butterflies swarmed his stomach as he dropped through the air. When he finally landed, he found himself sprawled out on the couch with his .45 in his right hand and the phone in his left. He dropped the gun and tried to pull himself together as he checked the time. 6:00 a.m. He brought the phone to his ear without looking at the caller ID. It turned out to be Laura Hughes, and she sounded upset.
“Matt,” she said in a shaky voice. “Oh, God, Matt. Someone broke into the house last night.”
Matt reached for his .45 and got to his feet. His mind cleared.
“I’m on my way,” he said.
CHAPTER 21
The intruder had entered the house through a
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