“My son knew.”
“Yes.”
“He knew what Richard wanted.”
“Yes.”
“And he helped him.”
Another pause.
“Leah, I’m afraid there’s more.”
I shut my eyes.
“Tell me.”
“Jared’s consulting agreement gives him a substantial payment if the resort obtains a permanent access right through Hawthorne Ridge.”
“I saw the percentage.”
“There’s also an initial payment.”
“How much?”
“Eight hundred thousand dollars.”
I could hear the ticking of the clock above my fireplace.
“Eight hundred thousand?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Upon confirmation of legally enforceable access.”
I looked toward the window.
The mountains stretched beyond the glass, beautiful and indifferent.
For thirty-five years, I had loved my son with an intensity I couldn’t explain.
I had worried over fevers.
Celebrated birthdays.
Saved school drawings.
Applauded graduations.
I had believed that somewhere inside the man he had become, the little boy who cried over injured birds was still waiting to be found.
