Page 43 of Little Last Words

“How so?” I asked.

“Penelope helped me see things in a different way. I’d like to think I did the same for her.”

I crossed my arms, my thoughts turning back to Penelope’s funeral service. “When you waved the gun around yesterday, it gave the impression that you’re a violent person. And just so you know, I’m not labeling you. I’m telling you how your actions came across to me and others in attendance.”

“I get it. I screwed up. Big time.”

“Have you ever been physically violent, with Penelope or anyone else?”

He jerked up to a sitting position, grabbed a soda off the nightstand, and guzzled it down until it was empty. He walked over to the mini refrigerator, got another soda, and stood there a moment before returning to the bed. I wasn’t sure if he was stalling or trying to come up with a clever way to lie to me, or what.

“It’s better just to tell me the truth,” I said. “No sense lying about it. If you do, I’m sure I’ll find out.”

He turned toward me, staring me down a moment before saying, “I looked you up today. I wanted to know if what you said was true, about all the cases you’ve solved.”

“If there’s one thing you should know about me, I’m a straight shooter. I may not always say the things people want to hear, but I do my best to speak the truth.”

“How’d you do it? How’d you solve all those murders?”

Once again, he was deflecting, shifting the conversation from him to me.

I decided to entertain it—for now.

“I guess you could say I see and feel things most people don’t always notice,” I said. “Call it intuition. My dad was a detective, and I was fascinated by his line of work. I used to ask him a lot of questions. Some he answered, others he didn’t. I think I always knew I’d follow in his footsteps, helping people find closure when they need it most.”

“Well, aren’t you the perfect model citizen.”

The comment was a sarcastic one, but it was accompanied with a half-hearted smile.

“I’m just about the furthest thing from perfect,” I said. “I have my faults, just like everyone else, and sometimes I screw up. The difference is, I own my screwups. There’s no lesson to be learned if you don’t.”

He blinked at me and then said, “No.”

“No?”

“The answer to your question about whether I ever laid a hand on Penelope or any other woman. I haven’t. I’m not trying to come across as a saint. Not that I ever could after yesterday. But …”

I sensed he was lying.

“But what?” I asked.

“I may not have abused Penelope in a physical way. In a verbal way? Yeah, I suppose I did sometimes.”

Here he was, taking ownership for something he could have kept to himself.

“Why do you think you abused her in that way?” I asked.

“It was all I ever knew, all I ever saw my parents do. Took me a while to see I was doing some of the same things I’d seen them do when I was young. Too long.”

“When did you realize what you were doing?”

“A couple of weeks before Penelope left. I started seeing a therapist.”

“Did Penelope know about the therapist?”

He shook his head. “Thought I’d surprise her with the news after I’d been to enough sessions, and it had started to make a difference. Before I got the chance, she was gone.”

“Are you still in therapy now?”