Reunion
“It’s not that I don’t trust my husband, Mr. Patterson.” She clasped her veined hands in the lap of her sun dress. “It’s just I’m afraid if he were to die suddenly, I’d either never know the truth, or it would show up on my doorstep.”
Most of the time I would have classified my newest case as run-of-the-mill divorce work with a twist. But while I’ve never understood how “trust” and “hire a P.I.” go together in the same sentence, my gut told me this particular lady wasn’t scratching around for court evidence.
Certainly she didn’t fit the profile of most of the women I see professionally, many who have full time jobs keeping the years at bay. Carlene Reynolds had let her hair go gray, and no one would mistake her for being on the shy side of sixty. Even if she hadn’t described herself as a retired teacher, I probably would have pegged it, because she was a dead ringer for the Miss Clancy who’d ruled my fifth grade.
I also liked her for getting down to her story immediately, instead of chatting about the Houston weather (hot), the Astros (losing), or the person who gave her my name (forgotten). “Every year about this time my husband takes a trip. I want to know where he goes, and what he does there.”
We backed up for a moment so I could get an idea about the family situation. She’d met Jonathan Reynolds over thirty years ago while running a program helping adults overcome dyslexia. Apparently he’d been a star pupil, because eventually he read well enough to obtain a masters degree in counseling. After he’d been hired by the Houston school district, they married. From her view, the union was a happy one, producing two daughters who still lived in the area with their families.
If you could believe her, Jon was a paragon. No drinking, smoking or swearing, and she didn’t think he fooled around. Because of his outstanding record working with troubled teens, the school district had twice talked him out of retiring. On weekends he volunteered as a Big Brother or played golf with other men from his school.
A simple, well-ordered life, except for one thing. “This time every year, he tells me he’s going away for the weekend. He leaves on Saturday morning, and comes back Sunday night. He’s done it every single year I’ve known him, even the time back in ‘71 when I’d just had Ellen.”
I looked up from my note pad. “And you’ve asked him where he goes?”
“Of course. Until I realized he was never going to tell me.” She flushed, embarrassed a trusted husband would clam up on a loving wife. “All he’ll ever say is that he’s going to a reunion. I know he lived in San Antonio for a few years, so maybe he drives over there.”
“Any family there?”
“He says no. He always says they’re all gone.” She sighed, peering across the top of her glasses. “For a while I thought it might be his high school. But I don’t know any that have reunions every year. Plus when mine comes up, they always invite the spouses. Why can’t he tell me where he goes?”
Unfortunately I could think of a number of reasons, from rendezvousing Same Time Next Year style with an old flame to visiting a not-so-gone relative in prison. Or maybe he had an illegitimate child tucked away. But then it could be something simple, such as his golfing buddies sneaking out for boys-only road trips.
Although I didn’t want to, I had to ask Carlene if she’d checked up on her husband in any of the obvious ways. She blushed a little, which made her look younger, then admitted she’d searched both his regular correspondence and email. So much for trust. But as far as she could tell, Jon did leave his American Express card at home on these trips, or at least never used it. Nor had she found any indication he’d made any strange calls or received inexplicable messages.
Finally I gave her my estimate, and she handed over a retainer check big enough to cover travel expenses and a couple of days of my time. While I was running the picture she gave me off on my color printer, she neatly wrote out the relevant addresses and car description.
“I’ll do my best to get this mystery cleared up,” I promised as she left. She smiled like someone who’d finally managed to throw away the hot potato burning her thoughts for years.
The next Saturday I parked on their street bright and early, my eyes on the maroon Taurus in the driveway of the neo-Tudor house. Fortunately last week a cold wave snapped the October heat, so even without air conditioning the humidity wasn’t overpowering.
As I scrunched down in the seat trying to look inconspicuous, I went over the list of negatives I’d run into the day before. None of the wives of Jon’s golfing buddies had disappearing husbands. There were no known connections between Jonathan Reynolds and any individual or place other than Houston and San Antonio. He had no criminal record, and if he weren’t charging his travel expenses, it wasn’t because he was over the limit.
A few minutes after eleven, a tall, balding man carrying a black travel bag emerged. He opened the passenger door and deposited it on the front seat. Carlene didn’t come out, and I couldn’t tell if she were monitoring his departure from inside. Without a glance at me, he got into the driver’s seat, and within seconds we were off.
The neighborhood was already gearing up for Halloween. I counted five leaf bag pumpkins, three ghosts hanging from trees, and one coffin complete with skeleton. The only other thing that caught my attention was the house still sporting Christmas lights on the eaves, because I couldn’t figure out if the folks were abysmally late or precociously early.
I almost blew the entire case within five minutes after we turned south on T.C. Jester. Considering Carlene’s remark about San Antonio, I expected Jon to go for I-10 West, and was casually following him in the right-hand lane when he shot across to the left. Fortunately I had enough time to swing over behind as he made the turn onto the eastbound lanes. Either he had a terrible sense of geography, or misdirection was the operative word when dealing with his wife.
I breathed easier when we got past I-45 and I-59 without his heading towards either of the airports. My idea of a nightmare is tailing someone onto an airplane when I have no ticket, no flight number, and no clue where they’re going. In fact, not only was this guy considerate enough to stay in his car, he didn’t even push the limit. Twice when I’ve been trying to keep up with a speeder, I’ve been pulled over by my former colleagues and lost my target completely. If that happened now, I’d lose the whole gig as well, because I doubt even Carlene would trust me again next year.
Hopefully Mr. Reynolds had a destination in mind, because I couldn’t imagine his taking this trip for the scenic view. Even after the urban sprawl gave way to the countryside, it was mile after mile of monotony. Finally I slipped in a Stan Rogers tape and allowed “Northwest Passage” to conjure up dense forests and raging waters.
We passed through Beaumont, then crossed the state line into Louisiana. When the Taurus pulled off at one of the Lake Charles’ exits, I was ready to punch out my time clock. The otherwise vice-less Mr. Reynolds must have a penchant for black jack or roulette. Even some of my friends from the force have been known to tell a lie or two to their families about their flings with Lady Luck.
However he passed by both Players and the Isle of Capri casinos, pulling into a small parking lot by a seafood restaurant. I put on my shades and followed him in, stationing myself at a booth within earshot but not line of sight. Not that I was all that worried about being made by someone who had no reason to believe he was being followed. After years of attracting instant attention, I went to invisible when I traded in my uniform. Except for a few ladies who like the lived-in look, no one gives me a second glance.
“Why Mr. Reynolds, how nice to see you again,” the red-checked and cheeked waitress greeted him. For a moment I thought I might be onto something, especially when he waived the menu away before asking her for the redfish special. But although she conscientiously refilled his iced tea, nothing suggested he meant anything more to her than a repeat customer.
I figured we were close enough to Cajun country for me to take a chance on the gumbo. After polishing it off with a basket of hush puppies, I could have become a regular myself.
Within an hour we were back on the road. I put the van on cruise control, figuring we were heading towards New Orleans. Stan and I were doing such a rousing rendition of “Barratt’s Privateers” that I almost missed it when the Taurus cut to the right and took the Lafayette exit. Maybe my guy wasn’t a speeder, but there were a few things I could have taught him about illegal lane changes.
Fortunately a red light on the access road slowed him down, or I might have lost him when he turned into a Motel 6 clone. I hung back as he retrieved a key from the office, then parked his car in front of Room 209. After positioning myself within easy range I settled back. Somehow this didn’t seem a likely spot for a romantic assignation, but I could be wrong.
About twenty minutes later he came out, sporting a hat and sunglasses that seemed out-of-season for October. Again I discounted the idea he was heading for a date, because he was still wearing the worn jeans and navy polo shirt he’d had on all day. For fun I pulled out the binoculars and checked the glasses up close. Yes, they were identical to mine, which either meant we had the same taste, or the same interest in being unrecognizable.
He drove along the access road to a strip mall and parked outside a florist shop. Inside I hovered by a display of potted pine trees, wondering if everyone but me was getting ready for Christmas. “A bouquet of mixed flowers,” he told the boy behind the counter. “The one in the display case behind you will do.”
“Where do you want them sent?” From the bored voice, I had a feeling I was much more interested in the answer than the employee.
“I don’t,” Jonathan answered crisply. “I’ll be taking them with me.”
As the boy wrote up the purchase, I slipped back to the van. Perhaps Jon was heading out for a night on the town with a welcoming gift for his lady love. Though for a once-a-year gig, I’d have sprung for roses.
I thought he might head downtown, or at least to a residential section, but instead he hopped back on the interstate. A few exits down he jogged off again, and we were on Highway 182. There wasn’t much traffic, and I had no problem seeing where he turned in through the large iron gates. The last thing I expected: a cemetery.
As I pulled in behind him, I picked up the binoculars again and reached down on the floor for my notepad. We crawled among the tombstones for a while, then he stopped suddenly. I waited for him to get out of his car, but he kept the motor running, and a minute later pulled away. Damn, I thought, he’s checking to see if he’s being followed. And if he thinks he is, this is the perfect place to lose a tail.
Although I didn’t want to, I stayed back as far as I could. I hated letting him out of my sight, knowing he could rip back to the highway, but there was always a chance he was just spooked and might calm down if I gave him a little more room. So as I drove by the spot where he’d stopped, I gave a long look at the gravestone.
According to the carving, Thomas Kenneth Miller and his wife, Kathryn Ann Miller, lay beneath the well-manicured grass. Both had died on October 23, 1957. I scribbled down the information when I realized that today was October 24th, a little too close for coincidence.
The stone also bore the name Kevin Stanley Miller, described as “Loving Son,” who had been born on April 19, 1939. The date of his death had been left blank, so I assumed Kevin was either still walking the earth or had not chosen eternal rest next to his parents.
It was a good thing I had my foot on the brakes as I rounded the next curve, because the Taurus was stopped dead in front of me. This was a newer part of the cemetery where most of the markers consisted of small gray stones flat against the ground instead of the impressive display sported by the Miller clan. My subject was out of the car traipsing among the graves, the flowers in his arms. Suddenly he stopped and gently placed the bouquet down. For a long time he stood there, shoulders heaving, then walked slowly back to his car.
I weighed the odds and decided to take the chance Jon wasn’t going to turn into a speed demon. As soon as the sedan passed the next curve, I dashed out of my car to where the bouquet lay propped against the granite. It took me only a moment to take in the inscription. Kenneth Allan Miller, born April 19, 1939, who had died on October 23, 1957.
Although I’m not much of a betting man, I’d have given you three to one at that point on Jonathan Reynolds being the missing Kevin Miller. Apparently Kevin was a survivor of a family tragedy, and felt compelled to make an annual pilgrimage to their graves. But why had he changed his name? And why was his brother not buried with his parents?
I managed to catch up with the Taurus before it turned on the highway and headed back the way we’d come. When I visit my home town, I drive all around it, seeing what’s changed and what’s survived. But apparently Jonathan felt no such urges, as he continued straight back to the motel.
It was the point in a surveillance where I feel about as inconspicuous as a cop past midnight in a saloon, so I was very careful tracking Jonathan as he walked to the sports grill next door. For a while he sat at the bar, downing three gin and tonics in less time than it took me to decide what I wanted to eat. So much for the man who never drinks, I thought. Or maybe this is the one time a year he goes in for liquid grief counseling.
I was relieved for Carlene’s sake to see her husband cushioned the effect of the gin by ordering a hamburger. When my steak salad arrived, I parked myself behind that day’s edition of the Lafayette Daily Advertiser until he finished. Then it was back to his room where I could see the television flickering under the edge of the curtain. A little after ten the room went completely dark.
Now if I’d been with a partner, we’d have ended up cramped in the van all night on the off chance we could catch our subject sneaking in a bevy of call girls. But I went private so I could dispense with both rules and partners. Instead I got a room for myself, set the alarm for five, and logged in a few hours of sleep. As expected, when I took up the post the next morning, the Taurus hadn’t budged.
He slept late, checking out right before the deadline, and without further ado headed back towards Houston. My gut told me all of the action was over, so I opted for safety by staying outside while he stopped back in Lake Charles for lunch. Then there was more highway, more Stan Rogers, and finally home. As Carlene predicted, her husband returned well in time for dinner.
That evening as planned, I called their house. She answered after one ring, and when I identified myself, reeled off “No, I’m sorry, there’s no one by that name here.”
“Your husband’s within hearing distance?”
“That’s right,” she responded. “Our number ends in four two, not two four.”
“I still have some things to find out,” I told her quickly. “So let me wait and give you a full report tomorrow.”
My cats Kriemhilde and Kyrie were miffed I’d left them overnight, but allowed themselves to be bribed by a few Pounces into letting me scratch their heads. There were no suicide notes or death threats on my answering machine, nor had any human missed me much. I answered a couple of emails, then went back to work.
With all the software I’ve picked up (and some hacking by a friend who shall remain nameless), it’s not hard for me to let my fingers rather than legs do the walking. By bedtime, I’d confirmed my hunch. In 1960, Kevin Miller legally changed his name to Jonathan Reynolds. I’d hoped I’d might figure out why by reading his family’s obituaries, but the online archives didn’t reach back forty years.
Returning to the road didn’t top my list of ways to spend the next day, but I hated loose ends even worse. I knew the answer to the mystery of Jonathan Reynolds lay in his hometown. So bright and early I was heading back East, skidding past Lake Charles before the first tour buses arrived.
The folks at the newspaper deserved a lot of credit for having a well-organized morgue. I gave them even more credit for staffing it with a petite blonde whose hair tickled the backside of her jeans. Even if I had been able to find the information on my own, I would have insisted on her help gathering up the files reaching back to that October.
After a few minutes of reading, I had my answer—and a lot more questions. Not that the story hadn’t been covered in detail. Headline after headline trumpeted details of that tragic autumn night when Ken Miller set the family home on fire, killing his father, his mother and himself.
I looked at the pictures of the gutted house. Because they had lived down a dirt lane on the outskirts of town, the fire burned for several hours before a trucker spotted it. The police chief speculated if the ground hadn’t been damp from a recent rain, it could easily have spread to the neighbor’s land. Thus Ken was labeled not just a murderer, but a threat to public safety. Somehow I doubted he cared.
From the articles I learned a good deal about Ken’s techniques as an arsonist. Two days before, he purchased a gallon of gasoline from the service station by his school, telling the owner his father needed it for the lawn mower. He refilled his mother’s sleeping pill prescription that same day, though when the pharmacist belatedly checked his records, it appeared she should have had another week’s supply at hand. Because the two bodies were found lying in bed with no indication either had tried to get out, police speculated Ken slipped pills into his father’s whiskey glass. As a final caution, he’d taken the phone off the hook.
An investigator located a small spill in back of the garage where Ken hid the gasoline. Around midnight he retrieved the can, dousing the stairs and living room rug. The scorched container concealed a book of matches with three stubs. Although the fire department believed the boy could have dropped the matches onto the deadly liquid and escaped through the front door, somehow he’d been caught in the blaze.
Fortunately six weeks before the tragedy, the twin brother started his freshman year at college. Yet, although the flames themselves couldn’t reach his dormitory in Baton Rouge, Kevin responded to the news by breaking down completely.
I tried to find some motive for Ken’s desperate act, but the paper contained only speculation that the family had been “troubled.” Friends described Ken as a quiet boy who was a little slow at school, but who had no prior problems with the community. Lawyer Dad represented many of the town’s local businesses while Homemaker Mom baked dozens of strawberry pies to raise money for the high school black top. Brother Kevin served on the student council, prompting the scholarship offer from L.S.U. All in all a happy family, if you weren’t picky about pyromania.
Normally my next stop would be the police department, but I knew how territorial my brethren became when dealing with big city cops turned private. Fortunately my drinking buddy Bob Toomey had worked his way up the force in the Big Easy, and after burning up minutes on my cellphone, I knew how to track down a guy who’d been a rookie at the time of the Miller murders.
It took me only a few minutes to find the bookstore and pick out the white-haired mound of flesh in the coffee bar. His gnarled hand dwarfed the cardboard cup labeled as a large cappuccino. As I came towards him, he put down an Ed McBain novel and stood up, making me fear for the safety of the table and chairs. “Jesse Martin,” he announced thrusting his fingers in my direction.
“Mark Patterson.” I shook hands as gingerly as I thought I could without being a wimp.
“My friend Jerry in New Orleans says you want to talk about the Miller case.” His tone was surprisingly friendly.
“If you can spare the time.”
He gestured at an empty chair. “Hell, all I’ve got now is time. Have to come here and read stories just so’s I can remember I’m still alive.”
I signaled to the waitress to also bring me a large cappuccino and settled down across from him. Despite the breadth of his face, his blue eyes pierced me, and I was glad I was going to be the one asking the questions.
But Jesse appeared to have other thoughts. “So why are you rooting around in that sad affair?”
I could have strung him a tale, but I didn’t think he was the kind to go around blabbing about my client’s problem, so I told him the whole thing. At the end he nodded. “Kevin Miller. I always wondered what happened to that boy. Glad to hear he’s made a life for himself.”
“He never came back here afterwards?”
“Naw. For a while, they kept him locked up. ‘Fraid he might try and take his own life, seein’ as he thought he was to blame.” He shook his giant head. “I offered to come up there and talk to him ’bout how things like this happen, but his doctors told me to stay away. They wouldn’t even let anyone speak with him about the arrangements, which is why Tom’s sister got her way ’bout burying Ken off the family plot.”
I drank more of my coffee. “Why did Kevin feel responsible? Because it was his twin? He thought he should have guessed what Ken had planned?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Bob said drily. “You see, Ken wrote to his brother the day he bought the gasoline. Told him exactly what he was going to do.”
“But the letter didn’t come in time,” I guessed.
“Nope, it did,” he wagged his head. “Arrived that Friday around noon. But Kevin figured it was just Ken being upset that Kevin was staying at school that weekend instead of coming home. So he let the damn letter sit on his desk all day.” Jesse polished off the last of his coffee.
“When he opened the letter afterwards and realized—well, I heard that’s when the boy fell apart.” We spent a moment in silence thinking of the horror a teenager would feel realizing he could have saved his entire family.
“So why did Ken do it?” I finally ventured.
“His girlfriend swore the father beat him.” Jesse’s eyes drifted sideways so they were no longer meeting mine. “You know, back then it wasn’t like now, with all the protective services for kids. If a father took a strap to his boys—well, my daddy used to whip me, and neither of us would have looked to anyone to stop it. The chief then told us not to look into it, and bein’ the new kid in the department, I didn’t.”
“I see.” All too clearly.
He shifted uncomfortably. “If you need to find out how things were in that house, you might ask Mattie. That was Ken’s girlfriend. She left the school district last year, but this time of day you can find her helpin’ out at the library.” I knew an exit line when I heard it, so I bought him another cup and left him staring at his novel, as if willing fictional murder and mayhem to wash away the memories.
The library smelled like the one in my town and looked like it too except for the bank of computers. A fresh-faced girl at the circulation desk directed me to the children’s area, where a lady in a bright blue dress and matching pumps moved videos from shelf to shelf.
“Mathilda Whitmer?”
As she turned around, I felt déjà vu. Mattie Whitmer looked enough like my client Carlene to have been her long-lost sister. “Yes?” she smiled.
A few sentences into my story, she took my arm. Her face did strange things, as though she couldn’t decide whether to be pleased or distraught by my appearance. “I don’t want to talk about it here,” she said finally. “But if you wait in back for a few minutes, we can go over to my house. It’s an easy walk.”
“In back” served as a graveyard for books that had been torn, stomped, or run through a blender. She cleared off one end of a musty couch for me to perch on, though I feared the fabric might disintegrate like the skin of an ancient corpse.
I spent the time thinking of a good story that wouldn’t reveal Jon’s identity, but on our trip to her cottage, Mattie zoomed in on the truth “So Kevin finally came home,” she sighed, wiping at eyes that looked as though they hadn’t seen many good times. “You don’t know how often I thought about trying to trace him. He and Ken looked so much alike, I thought it might do me good to see him again. But then I started thinking he was probably dead.”
“Because he never came back?” I asked her carefully.
“Well, that and the fact he tried to kill himself up there at school.” She laughed bitterly. “Fortunately he wasn’t as good at it as his brother, but he came close enough that he couldn’t be at the funeral. I thought maybe the next time around he’d succeeded.”
Not for the first time I wished I had more training in psychology and less in interrogation. “You’re angry with him,” I guessed. “Because he ignored the letter from Ken.”
She shook her head. “Forty years is a long time to blame a college boy for not reading his mail. My problem with Kevin is he left Ken there. In that house. With that man.”
I held my breath as she tightened her fist as though wanting to punch either the father or brother. “All Kevin would do is tell him to hold on just a little longer. Which Ken knew meant just a few more bruises. A few more times going to his job at the Dairy Queen where he couldn’t sit down on his lunch break because of what his father had done to him the night before. Finally Ken snapped.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You needn’t be,” she replied flatly. “Although there are plenty of others who should. You know, my mother and I tried to help him. We went to the school, the church—even the police. But they all said it was a family matter. One of the reasons I went into teaching was so my students could have one person to believe them. I couldn’t save Ken, but maybe over the years I’ve done some good in his name.”
Her fingers were bare of rings, and I recalled her last name was still the same as in the news reports. I wondered how many bouquets she’d taken to the cemetery.
As if reading my thoughts, she gave me a sad smile. “Everyone thought I was crazy to love him. Crazy before, because he couldn’t keep up with Kevin at school, even though it wasn’t his fault. Crazy after because everyone hated him for killing his mother. The father, yes maybe some understood it was his way of defending himself, but not her.”
“Why did he?” I asked gently.
Suddenly her voice choked with rage. “Because she didn’t stop him. Every time daddy picked up the belt, mama would pop pills so she could sleep through the yelling. I’ve never lost a moment’s peace over him, and the same’s true for her.”
Part of me didn’t want to say it. “You knew what Ken planned to do, didn’t you?”
Suddenly the anger disappeared, as though she had unplugged it. “I knew he was very upset. Who wouldn’t be? And several times he talked about killing them. But God help me, I didn’t know the details, and I never thought he’d actually go through with it.”
I was a little late getting out the handkerchief, but she seemed to appreciate it as she dabbed at her cheeks. “In a way I was right,” she finally went on, sounding a little more in control. “He changed his mind, you know.”
“Ken?”
“Yes. They found him on the stairs, facing towards the bedrooms.” She blew her nose quietly, then handed the handkerchief back to me. “Everyone says he could have saved himself by going out the front. The only reason for him to be on the steps would be if he were going upstairs to rescue them.”
She sighed deeply. “If only he could have lasted until December. Ken was finally going to graduate high school, and he’d told Kevin that even if he couldn’t get into college, he’d get a job in Baton Rouge and help make rent so they could have an apartment together. In the meantime, Kevin gave him a dormitory key so he could visit on weekends. If his father had ever let him go.
“That’s that’s what pushed him over the edge that night. Kevin wasn’t coming home like he promised, and Ken was forbidden to leave here.”
Something was starting to bother me, like flames nibbling at the edge of an old book. “You said it wasn’t Ken’s fault he wasn’t good in school?”
“No, it wasn’t,” she retorted. “Not that his father would ever believe it. He thought Ken was just lazy, and if he beat him hard enough, Ken would start getting A’s like Kevin. But even then I knew Ken was smart. He just had trouble reading and writing like the rest of us.”
Suddenly things started falling into place, but I wasn’t sure I liked the pattern they made. “Do the police still have Ken’s letter?” I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice.
“The original? I guess so,” she shrugged. “But if you want to see it, there’s an easier way. This tabloid did a story with a photo of the letter, and although I would have loved to have taken the writer out to the bayous so I could give him my personal review of the ‘crazed teen hellbent on revenge’ part, I kept a copy along with everything else.”
As she went off to her bedroom to fumble in a chest of drawers, I looked around the living room. In the middle of the embroidered pillows and gleaming lamps I half-expected to see a shrine to her lost love.
In a moment, Mattie returned and handed me a clipping showing a note written in a jerky block hand. After reading only a few words, I knew.
“I didn’t have the name for it then,” she apologized. “But I figured it out when I got my training on learning disabilities. You see, one of the reasons Kevin didn’t like getting letters from Ken was that they were so hard to read, like that one, with all the reversed letters and garbled words.”
“Dyslexia,” I filled in.
“Yes. Fortunately from then on I could recognize it in the students a lot better than anyone else. So that’s another way Ken’s still helping others out.”
I couldn’t begin to count my own ways as I thanked her for her time, getting out before she could see my excitement. Several times I considered putting in a call to Jesse Martin, but each time I dropped my cellphone back in my pocket.
Instead I studied on it all the way back to Houston, weighing lives lost long ago against those going on today. Although part of me didn’t like it, I knew what I must do.
It was past ten by the time I pulled into the garage of my condo. Upstairs I dislodged Kriem from guard duty over the telephone and put in the call. As I expected, she was waiting.
“Mrs. Reynolds,” I told her carefully. “Your husband’s entire family died in a fire when he was a teenager. Every year at this time, he brings flowers to the cemetery where they are buried. This is a very painful part of his life he has tried to put behind him, and I believe you would only hurt him more if you tell him you know, or try to go any deeper into his past.”
I held my breath, waiting for her to argue with me as some of my clients do when I tell them further surveillance of their spouses is not warranted. But instead she sounded relieved. “Thank you, Mr. Patterson. I can accept that. I just needed to know.”
I didn’t tell her how much I wished I didn’t.