Page 75 of Winter's End

I had strode a decent tread in Dad’s thick blue carpet by the time I heard the thick wooden door to the office creak behind me.

“Son?” My father’s puzzled voice filled the stagnant air as he looked at me in bewilderment.

“Dad, we need to talk.”

I wasn’t mixing messages with this conversation. I wasn’t his young son speaking to him with deference or respect. I was a man who had also suffered from his betrayal. My father had drilled morals and respect for women—respect foralllife—into me from a young age, and here he was; an embezzler, a white-collar criminal, and an unfaithful husband.

My skin crawled with disgust.

“Okay.” My father moved to one of the wingback chairs in the center of the room and sat, motioning for me to do the same. “What’s on your mind?”

After a stiff minute, I sat my ass down on the chair next to him.

“Drew and I stopped by at the cabin the last time I was out checking GPS markers for the project.” I wasn’t easing into this, not by a long shot. “I showed him Grandpa’s cabin while we were out, and I found a tackle box—my old tackle box, filled with letters. Your letters.”

I let that declaration hang in the air and observed his reaction. A tight gulp, a slight eyelid droop, a brief clench of a hand in his lap. But he said nothing.

Okay, I had to spell it out for him. Fine.

“In those letters,” I continued, “I found an interesting story of love and betrayal. Care to explain to me how the woman who destroyed Mom’s life was your lover?”

The rich pink color of shame painted Emmett Quicksilver’s face as he cast his gaze down into his now-clasped hands.

“Shane,” he began, opening his mouth to provide what was sure to be an excuse or a line of reasoning, “you have to know that?—”

“You’re right,” I interrupted, “I do have to know. Why the fuck would you risk everything like that, Dad?”

His head snapped back like I had hit him. I never swore at my father—ever. Typically, I was nothing but respectful to my greatest mentor and guide. That ended today. Between Brenda Simpson’s love trysts, WAQ and Georgio’s involvement, and learning my father wasn’t the man I had grown up believing him to be—he didn’t deserve my undying loyalty. Not anymore.

“I had ended it.” Dad’s voice was barely above a whisper, a sharp contrast to his usual booming tenor, similar to my own. “I had ended it, and she took it badly.”

His eyes filled with unshed tears; drops of sin clinging to his lashes. “Your mother and I had switched vehicles that day. She thought it was me in the car. She was angry and tried to make me pay. But Amelia was the one who paid the price.”

A teardrop fell, sliding down the weathered tan of his cheeks.

“Every time I look at your mother, I’m crushed by that guilt. Brenda got to escape her consequences, but I’ll live with regret until the day I die.”

Good.

I folded my arms across my chest and stared him down, my face a stone mask. If I raged, he would shut down. My father had a heart. I could still believe that, but he’d only take insubordination for so long.

Respecting your elders was a big part of our culture. I would only get so much leniency.

“When did this start? The Shambala Society?” I asked softly, aiming to keep him talking. I was sidestepping through any discussions about WAQ and his criminal status, but I wanted the total story here. Every deplorable detail.

Dad’s eyes widened in surprise. “How did you…” he shook his head as if to clear it. “It doesn’t matter. That was in several places. You could have found it anywhere.”

He muttered under his breath, as if I wasn’t in the room. He took a few long breaths before staring into my matching gray eyes.

“In high school, Brenda and I were together more often than not, but she didn’t enjoy sticking with one boyfriend. And then her sister died. I felt responsible for her. And that responsibility never seemed to lift, even after I met your mother.”

Responsibleforher, or responsibletoher?

We’d all suspected the ties that bound the Shambala Society into the underworld life after high school. Hillary’s discovery of Georgio’s twin brothers’ initiation, and Travis’ probing of Kellan’s initiation—to kill a competitor’s son in cold-blood—which, Kellan admitted to actually doing, meant Georgio’s initiation had to do with murdering someone. We just didn’t know who.

A fifteen-year-old girl from a middle-class family didn’t seem to fit the bill. But maybe Brenda’s sister saw something she shouldn’t have? Or maybe Dad himself saw something he shouldn’t have? Or did she actually just die from natural causes, drinking by the river and falling in?

These cyclical thoughts plagued me daily—sometimes hourly—and I was getting another headache.

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