"She had help."
He rose then, all but lunged from the chair to roam the room. It was
full of the tangible proof of his success. Gold records, platinum
records, Grammys, American Music Awards. Signs that the music he had
created was important.
Jockeying for space with them were dozens of photographs. Devastation,
yesterday and today, Brian with other singers, musicians, politicians
he'd supported, celebrities. There was a framed snapshot among them, of
Emma and his lost son, sitting on the banks of a little creek and
smiling into the sunlight. He had created them as well.
Twenty years dissolved in an instant, and he was back on the sun
dappled grass, listening to the laughter of his children. "I thought
I'd put this behind me." He rubbed his fingers over his eyes and turned
away from the picture. "I don't want Bev to know, not yet. I'll tell
her when I think the time's right."
"That's up to you. I wanted you to know I'm going to reopen the case."
"Are you as dedicated as your father?"
"I'd like to think so."
With a nod, Brian accepted that. Whatever bond had been forged on that
horrible night two decades before had yet to be broken. But he had
another child to consider. "What about Emma? Are you going to put her
through all the questioning again?"
"I'll do everything I can to keep Emma from being hurt."
He opened a bottle of ginger ale. A poor substitute for whiskey. "Bev
seems to think you're in love with her."
"I am." Michael shook his head at the offer of a drink. "I'm going to
marry her as soon as she's ready."
Brian stood where he was and drank. The thirst was unbearable. "I
didn't want her involved with Drew. For all the wrong reasons. I've
had the opportunity to ask myself, If I hadn't pushed her, if I hadn't
objected so strongly, would she have waited?"
"Latimer wanted you and what you could do for him. I only want Emma. I
always have."
With a sigh, Brian sat again. "She has always been the most constant
and beautiful part of my life. Something I made thoughtlessly that
turned out perfectly right." With a ghost of a smile, so much like his
daughter's, he looked at Michael. "You made me nervous the day Emma
brought you to that miserable house of P.M."s in Beverly Hills. I looked
at you and thought, This boy is going to take Emma away from me. Must
be the Irish," he said as he drank again. "It seems the lot of us are
drunks or poets or seers. I've had a chance to be all three."
"I can make her happy."
"I'll hold you to it." He picked up the letter again. "As important as
it is to me for you to find who killed my son, it's more important that
you make Emma happy."
"Dad, P.M. and Annabelle have brought the baby. Oh, I'm sorry."
Emma stopped with her hand on the knob. "I didn't know you were here,
Michael."
"You were shopping when I got back." He stood, casually taking the
letter from Brian and slipping it into his pocket.