“Then you know who I am.”
Richard nodded.
“I know who you are.”
I looked from one man to the other.
“Somebody please tell me what’s happening.”
Jason’s expression had changed. The skepticism he’d always shown toward my relationships was gone. In its place was something I had never seen in my son before.
Fear.
Not anger.
Not jealousy.
Fear.
“Mom,” Jason said quietly, “I think you should sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit down.”
My voice shook.
“I want to know why my boyfriend is looking at my son like he’s seen a ghost.”
Richard wiped his face.
“Linda, I need to tell you something.”
“Then tell me.”
He swallowed.
“Your husband wasn’t alone when he died.”
I froze.
“What?”
Richard looked at Jason.
“I was there that night.”
The world seemed to tilt beneath my feet.
My husband’s death had always been one of the most painful memories of my life.
He had died suddenly eight years earlier after a late-night accident on a country road. The police had called it an accident. A truck had crossed the center line. There had been no mystery.
At least, that’s what I’d always believed.
I stared at Richard.
“You knew my husband?”
“I knew him.”
“How?”
Richard lowered his head.
“We worked together.”
Jason’s face had gone pale.
“You were the other man in the truck.”
Richard looked at him.
“Yes.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“You were there?”
“Yes.”
“And you never told me?”
“I was going to.”
“When?”
Richard looked ashamed.
“The day I met you.”
I laughed, but there was nothing funny in it.
“The day you met me?”
“I recognized your last name.”
“Then why did you ask me out?”
“I didn’t know what to do.”
“You didn’t know what to do?”
My voice rose.
“You knew my husband. You knew how he died. You knew my son. And you still let me fall in love with you?”
Richard’s eyes filled with tears.
“I didn’t know Jason was your son.”
Jason interrupted.
“You knew enough.”
Richard turned toward him.
“I know.”
“Then why didn’t you tell her?”
“Because I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
Richard’s voice cracked.
“Of losing the only good thing that had happened to me in years.”
I stared at him.
“That isn’t an excuse.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“It isn’t.”
There was silence.
Then Jason said something that made my stomach drop.
“Mom, that’s not the whole story.”
I turned toward him.
“What do you mean?”
Jason looked at Richard.
“You were driving that night.”
Richard nodded.
“But my father wasn’t.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“What are you saying?”
Jason took a shaky breath.
“I’ve spent eight years trying to figure out what happened.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
“I didn’t believe the police report.”
He showed me an old photograph.
It was a picture of my husband’s car.
But there was something strange about it.
The damage wasn’t on the driver’s side.
It was on the passenger side.
I looked at Jason.
“What does that mean?”
“It means Dad wasn’t driving.”
I looked at Richard.
He was crying now.
Jason continued.
“Someone changed the story.”
Richard finally spoke.
“Your husband was driving at first.”
Jason frowned.
“What?”
Richard looked at me.
“There was an argument. Your husband wanted to leave. I tried to stop him.”
“Why?”
Richard hesitated.
“Because he had discovered something.”
“What?”
He looked toward Jason.
“Something about a company we worked for.”
Jason stared at him.
“What kind of something?”
“Financial fraud.”
Silence.
Richard explained that my husband had discovered money being stolen from the company. He had confronted the people responsible.
And someone had threatened him.
My husband’s death had never been an accident.
It had been made to look like one.
But there was one problem.
Richard had been the last person known to see him alive.
Jason stared at him.
“So why should we believe you?”
Richard didn’t answer.
Instead, he reached into his jacket.
I flinched.
He slowly pulled out a small envelope.
“I kept this for eight years.”
He handed it to me.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
My husband stood beside a younger Richard.
On the back, in my husband’s handwriting, were six words:
“If anything happens, trust Richard.”
I stared at those words until they blurred.
Then I looked up.
“Why didn’t you give me this eight years ago?”