Page 47 of As the Rain Falls
I place my arms over the table, leaning closer and reading what’s written on the papers again. It’s a settlement of sorts. A good one at that, but I’m my parents’ son, which means that I am avoidant until the end and prideful to a fault. I won’t be the one to praise it.
“It depends,” I admit it, sounding cheerful.
“On what?”
My parents don’t really like to have their hands forced. Thomas doesn’t seem to know that. He is really lucky that I’m here and not them. I’m much nicer than Gregory Evans.
“They’ll come around when they want to come around.”
Dad might fly back home once he gets over his most recent girlfriend and realizes what’s truly fulfilling to him—trying to make a real man out of me again—but my mother…
Lucia died on my watch, so I’m dead to her.It’s as simple as that.
“This is an urgent matter, Mr. Evans. Our investigation needs to be closed and the evidence sealed for the privacy of all those involved,” Thomas explains, spitting out what I already know.
I grew up here.He didn’t.I know how things work around here, how easily important documents get leaked. It’s how I got my hands on Lucia’s autopsy in the first place. Someone leaked it to the press. Dad had to threaten to sue them to get the printed versions taken back. I don’t remember much about the whole thing; the early days after Lucia’s death are blurry to me.
“There really are no leads?” My voice comes out quieter now, understanding dawning on me that Thomas isn’t just annoyed for no reason. “You found nothing after all this time?”
“No signs of foul play,” he says, voice low but steady. I have no other choice but to believe that he is telling the truth. “My hands are tied, man.”
“I get that. I get that you can’t push it for much longer because of the department and all that,” my words come out rushed and desperate, but my anger is getting to me, simmering just beneath the surface. “But you said her tires were fucked, man. You told me that, remember?”
It’s the only thing that made me consider something other than an accident happening to her. Lucia was drunk, but if her tires were slashed, her death would’ve been ruled as murder.
“I said Ithoughther tires were damaged,” Thomas corrects me, readjusting the tie around his neck. “But then I talked to my father and checked, and they weren’t.”
“You’re sure of it?” I ask.
“Yeah, man. We’ve done everything we can to find the reason why your sister lost control over the car that night, but it seems like she was really just very drunk, Beckett.”
“We pay our taxes, sir. Very high taxes at that,” I suggest dryly, finding this conversation entirely unserious.
It’s impossible for me to mask my irritation, not when I trusted him about this. About her. Why is he backing down now?
They should be doing more.Lucia’s death should be revolting. Someone should be seeing what I’m seeing—she wouldn’t have just died.It’s so unlike her to drink and drive, and I know my sister. Irresponsibility can’t be the only explanation. I refuse to believe it, not after spending years figuring out ways to go pick her up at parties.
Lucia knew better than that.
I taught her better than that.
“And I respect it,” Thomas explains, turning to face me again. “But hear me out. I listen to the radio. I know what’s being said about your family around town, about her.”
“Yeah, it’s not good,” I immediately agree. “But if we figure out what really happened, maybe we can—”
“It’s bad, Beckett,” he cuts me off. “You have to face it. What’s happening is against your interestsandours, too. Why don’t you let this go, man? Why don’t you let this story die?”
There was a time, back in the early years after we moved to Port des Ondes, when my father had a lot more sway in Le Port’s politics. It’s a very small island, and for a man with money, reaching out to the right people was really child’s play. These days are long gone now, but the truth of the matter is, Le Port will never change.
It’s way too fucking small, too close-knit and traditional, and people like Thomas Leblanc are way too good at bending every story to their advantage, helping only when it’s convenient to them.
This can only mean that finding out what happened to Lucia is, in fact, inconvenient. The question left unanswered is why.
I blink hard. “So, you’re just giving up?”
“Don’t say it like that. I’m only being realistic here,” Thomas sighs, looking tired. “Do you know how many cases hit my desk every single day?”
“Her case is the most broadcasted we’ve had in years,” I argue. “Even if it ends up just being related to whatever mess L’Impasse has going on.”
