The Ruin in Our Blood

My father had always maintained that the trick to a good funeral was keeping it short.

He’d shared this opinion at several funerals that weren’t his, usually during the service and never quietly enough.

“Forty-five minutes,” he’d whispered to me at my uncle’s funeral three years ago. “That’s the limit. After that, you’re just holding a dead man hostage.”

I’d elbowed him hard enough to make him grunt.

Now, standing beside his grave while a priest who’d met him exactly once attempted to summarize sixty-one years of Peter Hale, I checked the time.

Thirty-eight minutes.

Dad would’ve been pleased.

Or insufferable about being right.

I stared at the polished wood of his coffin and tried not to think about either.

Rain had been threatening all morning without committing. The sky hung low and gray over the cemetery, and the September air had the damp heaviness that made black clothing stick in inconvenient places. Someone behind me sniffled. My aunt touched my elbow for what was probably the sixth time.

I gave her the same small smile I’d given the first five.

I was fine.

That wasn’t entirely true, but it was close enough for a cemetery.

The priest began another prayer.

My attention wandered past him, over the rows of folding chairs and the people standing behind them. Dad had known everyone. Bartenders, liquor distributors, former employees, current employees, a man named Doug who had apparently once helped him move a refrigerator and had remained in his life for twenty-two years. Half the room at the funeral home that morning had introduced themselves by telling me a story I’d never heard.

Peter loaned me money once.

Peter gave me a job when nobody else would.

Peter punched my brother at a Christmas party.

That last one had been offered affectionately.

There were enough pieces of my father floating around the crowd to assemble a man I almost recognized.

Then there was the man beneath the oak tree.

I noticed him because he wasn’t watching the coffin.

He was watching me.

Tall. Dark suit. No umbrella. Maybe thirty-five, although he stood far enough away that I couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t with the funeral party, and I hadn’t seen him at the visitation.

When our eyes met, he didn’t look away.

I did.

The priest finally said amen.

Forty-one minutes.

Dad had won again.

People rose. Chairs scraped softly against wet grass. Someone took my hand, then someone else hugged me, and for the next several minutes I belonged to a conveyor belt of condolences.

I accepted every one.

Thank you.

Yes, it was sudden.

No, he hadn’t been sick.

Yes, I had people with me.

Yes, I’d let them know if I needed anything.

No, I probably wouldn’t.

By the time I looked toward the oak again, the man was gone.

“Rory?”

I turned.

“Sorry.”

A broad man in a black button-down stood in front of me. I knew him, although it took my exhausted brain a second to place him.

“Cal.”

Cal Murphy had managed Dad’s club for the last four years. He looked as if he’d slept about as much as I had since Thursday.

He pulled me into a hug that smelled faintly of cigarettes and peppermint.

“Your dad would’ve hated this,” he said.

Finally, a condolence I could use.

“He would’ve hated the flowers.”

“He would’ve stolen the flowers.”

“He would’ve tried to return them for cash.”

Cal laughed, then covered his mouth like he’d violated some cemetery ordinance.

I laughed too.

It felt good for approximately two seconds.

Then I remembered why we were there.

Cal’s face changed.

“Hey. There’s something I need to tell you.”

The weight in my stomach shifted.

People had been saying versions of that sentence to me for three days.

There’s something you need to sign.

There’s something the funeral home needs.

There’s something the insurance company needs.

There’s something the police want to ask.

“What?”

“Not here.”

That was new.

I glanced around us. “Okay.”

“The club.”

“What about it?”

“Somebody’s been inside.”

I waited for the rest.

Cal rubbed the back of his neck.

“I went over this morning before the funeral. Just wanted to check everything. Back door was unlocked.”

“Did you forget to lock it?”

His expression answered before he did.

“No.”

“Dad could’ve.”

“Peter’s been dead since Thursday.”

There it was.

The word still landed strangely.

Dead.

As though my father had joined a club rather than ceased to exist.

“I meant before.”

“I locked up Thursday night myself.”

I looked at him.

“After?”

He nodded.

The police had found Dad in his office shortly before seven Thursday evening. Heart attack, according to the preliminary determination. He’d been alone.

Cal had arrived while they were still there.

“Anything missing?”

“That’s the weird part. I don’t think so.”

“Cash?”

“Still in the safe.”

“Liquor?”

“No.”

“Computers?”

“All there.”

“So somebody broke into a nightclub and didn’t steal anything.”

“Looks that way.”

I glanced toward the parking lot without meaning to.

The man from beneath the oak was nowhere in sight.

“Did you call the police?”

“I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Why?”

Cal hesitated.

That bothered me more than the unlocked door.

“Because I don’t know if anything’s actually missing,” he said. “But somebody went through Peter’s office.”

A drop of rain hit my cheek.

Then another.

Around us, umbrellas began opening.

“What do you mean, went through it?”

“Desk drawers. Filing cabinets. Storage closet. Stuff moved around.”

“Was it like that after the police left?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

The rain began in earnest.

My aunt called my name from several yards away, waving me toward a waiting umbrella.

“Don’t touch anything,” I told Cal.

“I didn’t.”

“And don’t let anyone else in.”

He nodded.

I started toward my aunt, then stopped.

“Cal.”

“Yeah?”

“Who knew Dad was dead before it hit the news?”

He thought about it.

“Staff. Police. Family, I guess.”

“And whoever found him.”

His eyebrows drew together.

“Police found him.”

I hadn’t known that.

“Who called them?”

Cal opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

“I assumed you knew.”

“I don’t.”

“I don’t know, Rory.”

I looked back toward the oak tree.

Empty.

By five that afternoon, my father’s house contained three casseroles, two lasagnas, a ham, four pies, enough sandwich meat to survive a minor siege, and fourteen people who did not live there.

I wanted all fifteen of us to leave.

Instead, I sat at Dad’s kitchen table while my aunt explained why I shouldn’t spend the night alone.

“I’ve been living alone for six years.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

She lowered her voice. “Your father just died.”

“I am aware.”

“Rory.”

“Sorry.”

I wasn’t.

The house felt wrong with so many people in it. Dad’s coffee mug was still beside the sink. His reading glasses sat on the counter atop an electric bill. A pair of shoes waited by the back door for feet that would never wear them again.

And every surface was currently occupied by someone eating potato salad.

My phone buzzed against the table.

Unknown number.

I ignored it.

It buzzed again.

A text this time.

Ms. Hale, I have something your father instructed me to deliver to you personally after his death. Please call me at your earliest convenience. —E. Ward

I read it twice.

Then a third time.

“Everything okay?” my aunt asked.

“Work.”

Lying had apparently become easier since breakfast.

I took my phone and went outside.

The rain had stopped, leaving Dad’s little back patio slick and shining beneath the porch light. I called the number.

A woman answered on the second ring.

“Evelyn Ward.”

“This is Rory Hale.”

A pause.

“Ms. Hale. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. You said you have something from my father?”

“Yes.”

“Who are you?”

“I handled several matters for Peter.”

That was impressively vague.

“What kind of matters?”

“I think it would be better if we discussed that in person.”

I closed my eyes.

Apparently everyone in my father’s life had joined a conspiracy to make simple conversations impossible.

“Can you just tell me what you have?”

“An envelope.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s what he left with me.”

“When?”

“Eleven months ago.”

I opened my eyes.

Eleven months.

Dad hadn’t known he was dying eleven months ago.

At least, I didn’t think he had.

“Why were you supposed to give it to me?”

“He said that if he died, I was to contact you directly and place it in your hands. No one else’s.”

A cold little feeling settled beneath my ribs.

“Did he say why?”

“No.”

Of course he hadn’t.

“Can I come now?”

“Yes.”

Evelyn Ward worked from a narrow brick office above a tax-preparation business fifteen minutes from Dad’s house.

She was in her sixties, silver-haired, and so completely unsurprised to see a recently bereaved woman on her doorstep at seven-thirty on a Sunday evening that I immediately distrusted her.

She checked my driver’s license.

Then she checked my face against it.

“Seriously?”

“Your father was specific.”

She led me into a small office, unlocked the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet, and removed a plain white envelope.

My name was written across the front.

Dad’s handwriting.

Rory.

My throat tightened harder at those four letters than it had at most of the funeral.

I sat down.

Evelyn remained standing.

“You knew him well?”

“Well enough.”

“What does that mean?”

A tiny smile.

“Your father paid me to keep certain records.”

“What records?”

“His.”

“That’s tremendously helpful.”

This time the smile almost became real.

“You sound like him.”

I’d heard that my whole life.

For the first time, it hurt.

I slid my finger beneath the envelope flap.

Inside were three things.

A brass key.

A folded sheet of paper covered in numbers.

And a note.

The numbers came first because numbers were easier.

Four columns. Dates. Amounts. Abbreviations I didn’t recognize. No headings, no account numbers, nothing identifying what I was looking at.

I unfolded the note.

There were only two lines.

Rory—

Do not let a Savoy taste your blood.

I waited for the rest.

There wasn’t any.

I turned the paper over.

Blank.

“What the hell?”

Evelyn said nothing.

“Did you read this?”

“No.”

“Do you know who Savoy is?”

Something changed in her face.

Small.

But I spent my working life watching people explain numbers they wished meant something else. I’d become good at noticing the fraction of a second between hearing a question and deciding how to answer it.

“No,” Evelyn said.

She was lying.

I folded the note.

“Who are you?”

“I told you.”

“No, you told me your name.”

A sound came from the outer office.

Not loud.

The click of the building’s downstairs door.

Evelyn went still.

“Are you expecting someone?”

“No.”

Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Unhurried.

Evelyn took the envelope from my hand, shoved the financial sheet and key back inside, and returned it to me.

“Put that in your bag.”

“Why?”

“Now, Rory.”

The footsteps reached the landing.

I put the envelope in my bag.

Three knocks sounded against the office door.

Evelyn stared at it.

Then at me.

“Don’t tell him what Peter gave you.”

“Don’t tell who?”

Another knock.

Evelyn crossed the room and opened the door.

The man standing on the other side was not the man I’d seen beneath the oak tree.

He was taller.

Dark hair, impeccably cut. Black overcoat over a charcoal suit. No tie. He looked somewhere in his thirties, though there was something about the stillness of him that made age difficult to judge.

He looked at Evelyn.

Then at me.

He knew exactly who I was.

“Rory Hale.”

It wasn’t a question.

I stood.

“And you are?”

His attention stayed on me.

“Gabriel Savoy.”

For one stupid second, all I could think about was the folded piece of paper inside my bag.

Then Gabriel smiled.

“I’m afraid your father died owing my family eight million dollars.”