Page 44 of The Truth You Told

Shay waved that away and pulled him into a hug. He was warm and soft and comforting in the same way Beau was. She’d gotten toknow him slightly better over the past few months, though she’d quickly realized that ride to work had been an anomaly. Still, Beau had invited him to hang by the firepit enough for her to consider Nathaniel a friend.

He was lovely but also strange sometimes. She had a theory that as a child he’d taught himself to be socially charming—because he very much could turn it on. Banter came quick to his tongue, and he always went along with a good bit. But sometimes he would say something strange and intense that made her pause. When he noticed, he would almost immediately recover, offering up some self-deprecating explanation for the gaffe or misstep.

Thus, her odd duckling–to–gorgeous swan theory had been born. It would explain the gaps she sometimes saw in the persona he presented to the world.

“How’s Beau?” Nathaniel asked.

Shay lifted one shoulder. “You know.”

“Yeah.”

There wasn’t much else to say to that. She nodded toward the window in the kitchen, toward their backyard. “If you want to, go ask him yourself.”

“Yeah,” he said again, squeezing her arm as he passed.

Callum came up behind her, pushing a wineglass into her hand. “Hey.”

Nathaniel stopped, midstride. He shifted back toward Callum and held out his hand.

“Nathaniel,” he introduced himself. “I’m a friend of Beau’s.”

“And mine,” Shay teased, and got a half smile.

“Callum. Nice to meet you.”

Shay was pretty sure Callum would immediately forget Nathaniel’s name. He had an incredible memory for the details of a case, but that seemed to take up all the room in his brain. Everything else got put in the garbage disposal.

“I’m gonna ...,” Nathaniel said, gesturing toward the door. It slammed shut on its hinges behind him.

“Nice guy?” Callum asked, leaning against the counter. His eyes were scanning the room, and the hallway beyond. She used to hate guys who did that, assuming they were looking for someone hotter to talk to. But Callum did it in every room and every situation because of his training. She knew he was still giving her at least 90 percent of his attention.

She rested against Callum, an echo of when she’d found Beau in here on the day of Billy’s death. “Hmm?”

“Nothing,” Callum murmured, his hand slipping up to cradle the nape of her neck. “Not important.”

His fingers worked at the tense muscles there, and she let herself enjoy it.

“You know what, I’ve never asked,” Kilkenny said after a few minutes of silence. The partygoers seemed to sense their need for this private moment and were leaving them be. “Why was he in the hospital in the first place?”

“Billy?” Shay asked, though of course that’s what he wanted to know. Her brain had gone a bit syrupy at his touch, and she needed a moment to come back online. “Car crash. He was plastered. They found two empty bottles of Jack in the footwell next to him.”

It had been two years now since that 3:00 a.m. call. Max hadn’t been living with them at the time, thank god for small mercies. Beau had woken Shay up, and they’d driven to the hospital in a daze. Billy was unresponsive, but alive enough.

Wasn’t that a funny thought? Alive enough to fuck up their finances for two years.

That was uncharitable, of course. Especially at his wake.

They didn’t often talk about the circumstances of Billy’s car crash, because those little facts had a way of erasing anyone’s sympathy for the man. But like Shay had thought a thousand times, people were complicated. How much should one night, one bad decision, decide the way a person was remembered?

“Did he hurt anyone?” Callum asked softly.

“No.” And thank god for that.

“Just himself.” Callum finished the thought. “Wasn’t he sober?”

“Five years,” Shay said. “He fell off the wagon, I guess.”

There was a long pause.