Page 87 of Things Left Unsaid

“Because it’s home?”

“The Bar 9 hasn’t been home for nearly twelve years.”

“You left eight years ago.”

“Mom died twelve years ago.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think…”

“Not your family, not your grief.” Her tone’s light enough that I know she’s not trying to be insulting. Even if Iaminsulted. “Grand-mèrewill call me when she’d like me to visit. As for the boys…” Her shoulder hitches. “They’ll come over soon enough.”

I shift focus onto the controls of the private plane that I’m piloting home. While she doesn’t exactly appear nervous, I get the sense this is her first trip in a light aircraft.

When I was going through the preflight checks, she kept jumping every time I adjusted a dial or scrawled a notation on my clipboard.

“I guess you want to talk about the fire,” she says on a rush.

My hands tighten around the controls. I didn’t expect her to bring this up and I didn’t want to push it… “What happened that night?”

“If I say any of this, it can’t be retracted.”

“I don’t want you to retract it. I want to know. Hell, I need to know. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise. It’s all I’ve been thinking about—who killed Loki?”

“Think about the worst things that have happened to your family.”

“To make me depressed?”

“No. Think about it. Think about who’s behind most of those ‘worst things’ and then throw the blame on that one person for this too.”

Stiffening, I demand, “Pops? What the?—”

The plane jerks as my grip tightens on the control yoke.

Startled, she jolts. “Believe me or don’t.”

Suddenly, I regret her bringing this up. Because if we’re going to make it home, I need to not lose my shit.

Grinding my teeth, I bite off, “This is why you’re scared of him?”

Her lips kick up at the corner in the most pathetic excuse for a smile. Jesus, it hurts my heart to see it. “I wish that were all he’d done to make me scared of him.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“He’s Clyde Korhonen. I’m me. Who’d have believed me over him? And don’t say you. You didn’t believe me then. Only forced proximity opened you up to the possibility of doubting what you knew, to listening to that question, never mind answering it.

“I watched him set fire to a newspaper and drop it onto a bunch of hay. God, the smoke was so bad, so quickly. I can still feel the pinch in my lungs.” She shudders. “I knew I couldn’t leave the stables until he’d gone?—”

“Why not?”

“Because if he saw me, a witness to his crime, what do you think he’d have done to me?” Her gaze is knowing. “I’d have ended up amid the pile of horse bones, that’s what?—”

“No. He’s not?—”

“Not what? A killer? I saw him set fire to the stables and he didn’t open a single stall door.” Her jaw works. “Sounds like a killer to me?—”

“But—”

“No. No buts. If you want to hear this, then shut up and let me tell you what happened.”

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