Page 39 of Icy Heart, Empty Chest
“I refused to let the house fall to disarray. No matter how bad it got I wanted it to be like he never left.
“My only real contact during this time was my dad’s friend. He’d call to check in. I’d ignore the how-are-you-doing questions and launch straight into arraignment and trial. He’d sigh and tell me everything he could find out.
“When you, Damien, didn’t call or text, I thought it was your less than subtle way of backing away from me. I thought you might have been embarrassed or angry at him or me. By the end of that year, you weren’t talking to me much. You didn’t avoid my eyes but you didn’t say much to me either. Nothing comforting or caring from my oldest friend. I wasn’t very welcoming either. I shut down the world around me. Very few could get in if they tried. I thought it was the same with you. You were collateral in all this. I thought maybe it killed you too to see him like this.
“When the trial started the media attention got overwhelming. There would be reporters outside my house every other night, doing a piece. Early on they would try to knock on the door. I opened once, not knowing. Never again. I still get haunted by the flashing of the cameras.
“The trial was its own special brand of hell. Tried and over with within a year and a half was ridiculously fast in our world. I couldn’t understand who could think my father a threat. He had a perpetual cough and grey tinging his skin at all times. He was never well and often went to the doctors and healers but only when it didn’t interfere with his work.
“I remember asking the friend, let’s call him Simon for this conversation, to pick me up to go to trial dates. He sighed and told me he should say no. He should protect me from the lies. Itold him that I was a kid and I needed to see my dad. He didn’t have anything to say about that.
“The day came to cross-examine my father and the police detective that brought him in. A certain Lieutenant Daemon Whithorn. Father to my oldest friend. The biggest object of my ire.
“I remember them half dragging my father in and putting him on the stand. I knew he saw me. He didn’t dare smile but gave me a brief nod. I’d take what I could get. I was always close to tears those days and a few spilled over onto my skirt.
“Still, I paid attention.
“I saw my father’s court-appointed lawyer attempt to make his case. My father was a very private citizen who had never had a criminal conviction before. He was an expert in his field and had been authenticating pieces that were brought into the museum for decades. The museum was his home and sanctuary; he valued and cherished every piece that was brought in, restored it meticulously for exhibition. There was no motive to be found here. Any charges were erroneous and false. My father was no criminal mastermind, just the victim of wrong information.
“Those from the museum made their case. Yes, my father had a long history with the museum. He never had any disciplinary action against him. He was used in other territories to look over other pieces. His work had been invaluable to the museum. In fact, the money brought in from the benefit that night would pay his salary alone for two years over.
“Then the lies started. They painted him as desperate. A single man raising a child on a single salary. Maybe he got greedy. He was ill. He couldn’t do this forever. Maybe he needed a backup plan, so to speak.
“Then Daemon took the stand.
“It was the smile I couldn’t stand. A smarmy smirk like he was about to serve the deepest justice.
“After some initial questions about his qualifications, the defense launched into it.
“Daemon smiled all fifty of his teeth and told the court the police department had received an anonymous tip about the museum. As he handled those type of crimes, it fell on his desk. The tip alleged that my father knew in advance that the painting was a fake and that there was a plan to sell it. He was going to defraud the museum and pass off the fake as authentic.
“Simon would grit his teeth at the absurdity of it all. He was confident that most of the charges would be dropped. And most were, due to lack of evidence. All except the authenticity issue. It ended up damning him. He refused to make a deal. He said he had staked his reputation on this trial. He would walk a freed man.
“It all came down to reasonable doubt. At the sentencing, the judge told my father he had thought long and hard and had handed down the minimum sentence. Because they just couldn’t prove the reasonable doubt otherwise.
“I remember the look on his face during sentencing. I thought he’d faint, looking even more grey than normal. He was tugged away by guards to face his fate.
“‘Simon/Caesar’—Finneas, brought me outside and I remember immediately throwing up. He held my hair back, grimacing. The longest two years of my life would begin that day.”
CHAPTER 11
Damien just stared at me. Three beer caps lay before him. I took a sip of a water that Sam had dropped off.
“Cor. Why didn’t you tell me any of that before?”
I shrugged.
“You didn’t really seem to want to talk to me. Anytime we had plans, you’d reschedule. You were suddenly busy with other clubs and sports. It’s my fault too. I didn’t really talk to much of anyone during that time. If I did it was a homework assignment or some such. I heard what they said about me. You remember Lydia and Ginger? They stopped talking to me too.”
Damien put a hand to his chest and started to rub the scar with the palm of his hand.
“Dae, what’s wrong?”
I froze, not wanting a repeat of a few nights ago. He held out his other hand gently.
“No. I asked for this. I told you my father told me that I shouldn’t see you. I shouldn’t be friends with you. I don’t know why he didn’t like you so much but he made my mom drop me off and pick me up at activities. I couldn’t do what I wanted. He had me under a really tight leash. He’d monitor my phone and email so I couldn’t message you. If there was any hint ofrebellion he’d…lash out at me any way that he could.” I could see his grip tightening on his bottle. I wasn’t surprised that Daemon would have resorted to physical punishment. In fact, it seemed to sit squarely in his wheelhouse. “I wanted to text you. I wanted to call. But I was afraid of him.”
As father and son went, Daemon and Damien were nothing alike, name similarity aside. Damien took after his mother more: sweet, conscientious. Daemon was more quick to anger, snarky.
