Page 133 of Hot As Ice

I make my way to Grandad’s study and knock three times on the door, as I’ve always done. It’s not exactly a secret knock, but the cadence of it lets him know it’s me.

“Come in,” he says.

I open the door and step inside his sanctuary. It’s decorated in dark green and brown tones, a very masculine space with high ceilings and books lining the entirety of one wall. The curtains are drawn back, revealing the snow falling outside. Flames dance in the fireplace. It’s a cozy scene that’s about to get a lot less cozy when I say what I came here to say.

My grandfather rises from behind his large desk and comes toward me, enveloping me in a hug. Despite everything, it feels good to hug him back. It’s an odd feeling, simultaneously loving your family but wishing they were better people. You don’t want to turn your back on them, but sometimes there doesn’t seem to be any other choice.

“It’s good to see you,” he says. “I’ll admit I was a little bit surprised to hear you wanted to meet.” He walks toward the couch near the fireplace and takes a seat, gesturing for me to do the same. I’m glad. I prefer sitting here rather than across from him at his massive desk, where he always reminded me of Don Corleone in The Godfather.

“I know it’s only been a few days since we saw each other on my birthday, but I have –” I take a deep breath. “I have to tell you something.”

Grandad’s shrewd eyes sharpen. He can already tell it’s about something serious. He stays silent, however, knowing that’s the best way to draw anything out of a person. He hasn’t been negotiating deals all his life for nothing. And it works, even when I’m well aware of what he’s doing.

“It’s about Celeste. And Dad.”

Still no reply from him.

I look him square in the eye. “Dad’s been abusing her.”

That statement finally gets a reaction. My grandfather looks away. He clears his throat. “How do you know this?” he asks.

“Celeste told me she wants to get a divorce, but she’s afraid.” I don’t want to mention Stevie’s involvement. She doesn’t need to be brought into my family’s dirty laundry any more than she already has.

“That hardly means⁠—”

“Why would she want a divorce so quickly?” I counter, cutting him off. “Last month, she had a broken arm, and this month, she has a bruised eye.”

Grandad rubs his jaw. “Some people are clumsy.”

I stare at him, not offering a reply this time. I let the silence stretch. My grandfather gets up and walks toward the sideboard where he keeps his whiskey. He takes out the good stuff, pouring himself three fingers into a crystal glass. That’s a lot for him. Years of watching people drink, but not partaking myself, has taught me to read them pretty well from how much alcohol they drink. My grandfather is clearly rattled.

“Hunter,” he says, then stops and takes a big swallow of whiskey.

I still don’t say anything, letting his conscience battle it out.

Some people are clumsy strikes me as such a dumb thing to say. But this is how people think when they don’t want to believe the truth, when they can’t handle it. They will rationalize anything away, so they don’t have to deal with it.

Sometimes I wonder if my grandfather is embarrassed to have a son like my father. A violent alcoholic who killed his first wife. If he is embarrassed or ashamed, he could actually do something about it though.

“Grandad,” I say, finally breaking my silence. “I never took you for a coward.”

His eyebrows shoot up. He wasn’t expecting that. I’ve always been deferential to him, and his disbelief at my words is almost comical.

“I’m not⁠—”

“Why did you let Dad get away with killing Mom?” I ask, my voice so calm it almost shocks me.

My grandfather’s hand shakes, and he puts down the whiskey. He looks very old suddenly as his face crumples. “There was no proof,” he mutters.

“What about me? I was the proof. I saw it happen. But you told me not to say anything. You told the police I was imagining things. You lied. You lied to protect him. Like you’ve always done.”

My grandfather stands there with his head down, one hand curled and resting near his glass of whiskey. He looks elderly and defeated, but I know with sudden clarity that he won’t give me a response. I get up and leave without saying goodbye.

forty-four

stevie

I’M SITTING ON the couch trying to read a book to keep my mind off Hunter and to stop myself from texting him for updates.