Page 38 of The Night We Lost Him

“This was my favorite growing up.”

“I know, that’s why I ordered it,” he said. “I’m just drinking the beer.”

It’s so kind—so kind and so surprising—that he knows that I liked it, let alone ordered it for me, that I’m not sure what to do.

“I can’t believe you remembered that.”

“How could I forget? You and Dad both liking the dumbest sandwich in the world,” he says. “You’re missing half of it. Where’s the bacon? Where’s the turkey?”

I smile at him. “Dad always said that Grandma couldn’t afford that,” I say. “So he got really good at making a sandwich without.”

“That’s a nice story,” Sam says. “You’re still missing a cheeseburger.”

I reach for a sandwich and lean in to take a bite, closing my eyes to properly savor it. The first piece of joy in this crazy day. This perfect sandwich: an ideal mix of crispy, tangy, and sweet. No other food item need apply.

Sam reaches for a handful of onion-fries that room service had included. Then he cracks open a beer and sits back.

“So I was just thinking,” he says. “You see any point in trying to talk to Joe again tomorrow?”

“I don’t think we’ll get anywhere different with him,” I say. “Whatever he knows, he’s not looking to share.”

“Yeah, I think that’s true,” he says.

I’m still trying to make sense of why that is. Is Uncle Joe trying to protect my father? Or is he trying to protect himself? It’s disorienting to be wondering that about my dad’s closest friend, his constant. There was no one else my father was as close to, certainly professionally, with maybe the exception of Grace, or perhaps my father’s general counsel. His face comes to my mind before his name does: ice-blue eyes, slicked back hair. He hadn’t been working with my father for as long as Grace and Joe, but he had been there for a long time, nevertheless. He had certainly been there long enough to have access to things we don’t.

Jonathan. That’s his name. I’m guessing that attorney-client privilege would end any conversations with him before they started, but it feels like Grace would have been a different story.

“I’ve thought about Grace a bunch since she’s passed,” I say. “And I don’t know. I wish she were here. I’m not saying she would have any insight necessarily, but I bet she would help us if she could…”

“I think you’re giving her a lot of credit there. I liked Grace, but she wasn’t exactly forthcoming, either.”

“That’s not the read I got on her.”

“Well, as much as I hate to discount the four times you met her, I doubt she would talk to us, even if she were here.”

That strikes me as off base. It might not have been often, but I certainly saw Grace several times over the years. And she’d always been open with me. But before I decide whether to argue, my phone starts to buzz. I pick it off the table, Sam’s fiancée, Morgan, coming up on the caller ID.

I hold the phone up so Sam can see the screen—can see for himself that it’s Morgan calling.

“Don’t pick up,” he says. “She’s just trying to reach me.”

“How do you know?”

“ ’Cause I’ve sent her to voicemail like eight times already.”

“I refuse to be in the middle of whatever’s going on with you two.”

“Hence why I said don’t pick up.”

I click the volume off and put my phone back on the end table, watch as Sam cracks open a second beer.

“What’s going on, Sam?”

“What do you mean?”

“Who is the other woman?”

“Morgan.”

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