Identity Crisis (7 page)

“Found out my dad had multiple sclerosis.” She hated to admit there was one more thing she hadn’t known about him, but still in shock, she had to tell someone. “Found a syringe stuck to his quilt and the medication in his fridge.”

He raised a suspicious brow. “Where’d your father die?”

“In bed. He had a heart attack and called nine-one-one. They found him there and rushed him to the hospital.”

“Do you have the syringe?”

“No. I left it there.” Her gaze narrowed. “Why?”

“Where at?” The sense of urgency in his voice frightened her.

“In the bathroom garbage. Why?” she demanded.

“Rather fishy he may have injected himself with something right before he had a heart attack.”

“You think whatever he injected may have caused the heart attack? I thought you didn’t believe he was murdered.”

“I don’t believe the
mafia
killed him. I didn’t rule out murder. I’ll have Mike run by and get that syringe. Test its contents.”

She wanted to know the truth about her dad’s death. If he was indeed murdered, she wanted the murderer brought to justice. And she didn’t want to give him another opportunity to hold her at gunpoint.

• • •

Ethan gazed around at the sprawling cemetery, which seemed to go on forever, unlike life. Tombstones were lined up in a neat and orderly fashion when death was anything but. His heart hammered in his chest, and not merely from the adrenaline high. His mother’s grave could be right in front of him, or maybe he’d raced past it when he’d driven in. He had no clue. In twenty years, this was the first time he’d stepped foot in the cemetery where his mother was buried.

Olivia bent down and straightened the white silk flowers on the grave. “At least my dad erected a nice headstone so I had a memorial to mourn my mom.”

A cross and flowers were etched on the large granite headstone. An elaborate headstone when Annette Doyle wasn’t even buried there. The grave next to hers had a flat bronze marker in the ground, which could easily become buried under the soil over the years, forgotten. His aunt and uncle hadn’t had much money when his mother was killed. Hopefully they’d been able to afford a respectable headstone, and it wasn’t merely a marker hidden within the grass.

“Even if my mom wasn’t buried here, I think her soul was here with me all those years. I feel like she was listening.”

Ethan gazed around the cemetery, trying to feel his mother’s presence, hoping she forgave him for never coming to visit her grave, and for … everything. He wanted to believe his mother’s death had finally brought her the peace she’d never found in life.

Even with the D.A. and the defense attorney sitting between them, Ethan could feel the bastard staring at him from the next table. He refused to acknowledge the man’s presence. Jaw tightening, he stared straight ahead at the three parole board members. The whitewashed concrete walls behind them almost made him forget about the scum housed in the prison outside the room.

“Mr. Ryder,” the parole board commissioner said, “please respond to the question. Why do you feel you are suitable for parole?”

Ethan gripped the chair arms to keep himself from leaping up and going berserk when his father started spewing bullshit in his own defense.

“I have great remorse for what I did,” his father said, his voice raspy, strained from a lifetime of two packs a day.

No longer cringing in fear at the sound of his father’s voice, Ethan cringed with disgust. Prison had broken him, weakening the stern tone of his voice. This gave Ethan satisfaction, even though he’d hoped to never hear him speak again.

“I was under the influence of alcohol, but that’s no excuse.”

Ethan’s top lip curled back at the memory of the pungent stench of Scotch always on the man’s breath. If he could stand to look at him, he’d probably find his six-foot frame had shrunk several inches and cirrhosis of the liver had given him a jaundiced complexion and sunken brown eyes.

“I should have gotten help before it came to … what happened. But I’ve changed. I’d give my life to get my wife back. I wouldn’t go through years of therapy unless I felt remorse. I’m better now. If I could stop the hurt for Ethan, I would.”

Feeling his father’s gaze on him, Ethan continued staring straight ahead.

“I’m sorry, son,” his father’s voice trembled slightly. “Please trust that I’ve changed.”

How dare he call him son! He’d lost that right long before Ethan had lost his mother.

A cry erupted at the back of the room from Ethan’s aunt Maggie, his mother’s only sibling. He turned to see her run out. He’d tried to convince her not to come. Her heart attack had likely been the result of this damn hearing. She’d been an emotional wreck over it for months. She’d written down her testimony for him to read, knowing she’d be unable to do it herself.

“Mr. Ryder, as advised, you are to direct your comments to the parole board members only,” the commissioner said.

“I’m sorry. I just want him to know I wanna make amends. I ask the state, and my son, to give me a second chance. Hell, I may not seem deserving, but I’m rehabilitated and wanna chance to prove that.”

What a crock! He sounded so sincere, like he always had the day after he’d gone on a drinking binge and beaten Ethan’s mother and him. He’d been full of empty promises.

Ethan tried to focus on his own testimony as his father spoke about all the ways he’d been rehabilitated. The prison jobs and volunteer projects he’d been involved in. Like that justified releasing him. After he finished speaking, his attorney stated a bunch of crap in his defense, the only one there speaking on his behalf. Whereas Ethan, his aunt, the D.A., and the arresting officer from that night were all there to make sure his father stayed on the inside. The door opened, and he assumed it was Aunt Maggie returning, but if he looked at her he’d lose it. He had to remain focused.

The commissioner turned to Ethan, asking him to speak on how the murder had impacted his life. Ethan took a deep breath, looking at the board members. This was it.

“Not only did I lose my mother that night, but a part of myself. I’d lost my father long before. I still have the emotional and physical scars of that night.” He gestured to the scar on his face. The result of his father backhanding him, his wedding ring slashing Ethan’s skin, when he’d tried to protect his mother. “I could handle my own pain, the broken arms and ribs, but I couldn’t deal with seeing my mother in pain.”

He took a deep breath, reigning in the flood of emotions the memories caused. “That night he beat her ’til one final blow sent my mother crashing to the floor, and she lay there, motionless.” He could hear himself screaming out her name. He wanted to slap his hands over his ears, but that wouldn’t make the voice in his head disappear. “When I tried to run to her, he grabbed me around the neck. He’d have killed me too given the chance. I broke free and ran for help, thinking she was unconscious like the other times. My mother wanted to hide our secrets, but I couldn’t do it any longer. Maybe she’d still be alive if I’d spoken up sooner.”

Every time he’d begged his mother to leave, she’d insisted his father would hunt them down and things would only be worse. After that night, Ethan vowed to protect people in danger. To help them disappear and start new lives, like he’d always wanted to do.

He tried to block out the sound of his aunt sobbing in the back of the room.

“After our neighbor called the police, I snuck back home, wanting to help my mother, afraid my father would run away before the police got there. I held my mother’s lifeless body in my arms, crying, unable to make her breathe. Furious, I went looking for my father and found him passed out in bed, like any other night, like he hadn’t just killed my mother.” He’d stood over his father with a baseball bat. He should have killed the bastard. A few years in a correctional institute would have been worth it. He didn’t give a rat’s ass that it would have made him no better than some of the criminals he protected.

“He tries to justify what he did, blaming it on the alcohol. He was an angry and brutal man sober. He beat the tar out of his supervisor at work because he threatened to fire him if he didn’t get his act together. My mother lived with abuse and fear, and she died with it. Why should he get parole from suffering when my aunt and I never will?”

He heaved a deep sigh. Thank God that was over. However, reading his aunt’s letter would probably prove even more difficult. He took a deep breath, then read her letter on how his father had threatened her when she’d confronted him about the abuse. How she and Ethan would never recover. How he’d taken her only sibling from her.

The D.A. made his case next, emphasizing that Mr. Ryder posed an unreasonable risk and harm to society, and that according to the prison therapist, he still showed signs of unstable behavior. The cop on the scene that night described how, to this day, it was the most heinous crime he had ever experienced.

The board deliberated, expected to return in ten minutes.

Ethan glanced over his shoulder at his aunt sitting in a chair along the back wall, next to Olivia. Shit. He figured Olivia would be safe outside the parole hearing room with a guard, and inside a prison.

After five minutes, the board returned.

“Not suitable for parole. His release would compromise the welfare of society … ”

His aunt let out a cry of joy, and Ethan relaxed back in the chair, releasing his white-knuckle grip on the chair arms, flexing his fingers, attempting to relieve the tension not only in his hands, but his entire body. As his father was escorted from the room, the stench of Scotch and blood slowly evaporated from Ethan’s mind. He pushed himself up from the chair and walked back to his aunt, avoiding Olivia’s stare.

“We did it, Joanna,” his aunt said, gazing heavenward. “We kept that bastard in prison for at least another five years.”

Petite and slender like his mother had been, Maggie stretched her short arms up, and Ethan stooped over to accommodate her hug. Her floral scented perfume replaced the rancid odors that had filled his head. Olivia wore a sympathetic expression, something he didn’t want. His personal life was off-limits. He only got close enough to witnesses to earn their trust, without becoming close friends or disclosing any weakness about himself that they could one day use to their advantage.

His aunt wiped tears of joy and sorrow from her flushed cheeks.

He glared at Olivia. “Thought I asked you to wait outside.”

“She was such a dear, comforting me out there, I asked her to come back in with me.” His aunt gave Olivia’s arm an appreciative squeeze. “I wanted to hear what was going on, but couldn’t bear to sit here alone.” She smoothed a hand over her short white hair, smiling brightly.

• • •

Olivia’s dad’s crime seemed petty compared to Ethan’s dad’s. She had an overwhelming urge to touch Ethan, to hug him — something to make the pain go away. “I don’t know what to say,” she said quietly, eyeing the scar on his face, wanting to brush a gentle finger across it. Until he’d gestured to it during his testimony, she’d assumed it was the result of protecting a witness, not his mom’s life when he was only ten years old.

“Don’t say anything about it. Ever.” His gaze sharpened and the frightened ten-year-old boy who’d just recounted the traumatic event that had changed his life forever disappeared. “You shouldn’t have been in here.”

“I’m sorry.” She reached out, stopping shy of touching his arm, slowly lowering her hand.

“I asked her to come in,” his aunt said.

His gaze softened slightly at his aunt, then he glanced over at the chair where his dad had sat and his body tensed, radiating raw anger and hatred. “We have a plane to catch.” He strode from the room, never looking back.

Maggie shook her head, frowning. “That’s the most I’ve ever heard him talk about his mother’s death. When he first came to live with Sal and me, he didn’t speak a word for weeks. I sent him to a therapist, but he wouldn’t talk to her either. So sad. It’s not healthy for him to keep all of that bottled up inside. Don’t feel bad if he doesn’t discuss it with you. I guarantee he’s never told a girlfriend about his father.”

“I’m … just a friend.”

“Well, obviously a good one, since he brought you here.”

He’d had no choice but to bring her. Yet, she wished it had been his choice. Despite Ethan distancing himself from her, emotionally and physically, she suddenly felt closer to him. A bit too close. Too bad their common bond was that their dads had both been criminals. Although for the last twenty-four years Olivia had been clueless about her past, whereas Ethan had been haunted by his for decades.

Could they possibly help each other lay their ghosts to rest and move beyond the anger and pain that could potentially destroy them?

Dusk was settling in as they reached a point just north of Madison, Wisconsin. Ethan had spent the flight catching up on sleep. The only thing he’d said to Olivia since leaving the airport in Chicago a little over two hours ago was “What do you want?” when they’d gone through a McDonald’s drive-thru. He was obviously still upset about his dad’s hearing and that she’d witnessed a vulnerable side of him. He likely viewed his emotional outpouring as a sign of weakness. Instead, she found it incredibly sexy.

She slid a sideways glance in Ethan’s direction, eyeing the scar on his cheek, obsessed with wanting to touch it. As if touching it would help take away some of the emotional pain it had caused. He glanced over at her, and she met his gaze. He held her gaze for a moment before looking back at the road. She turned and blew a frustrated sigh against the window, counting farm number one hundred and eighty-three. She popped a Gummy Bear in her mouth. Even her comfort food wasn’t putting her at ease. Her stomach was in knots. In less than an hour she’d be meeting her grandparents and changing her life forever.

Ethan’s phone rang, and he answered it.

“Hey Gwen, how’s it going?” Glancing at Olivia out of the corner of his eye, he shifted in his seat, looking a tad uncomfortable talking in front of her.