Chapter 5 - The Night the Power Went Out
The storm hit just after midnight.
Freezing rain coated the trees.
Wind tore a branch across the northern power line.
The Rossy estate lost electricity for eleven seconds before the backup generators engaged.
Then generator two failed.
Half the west wing went dark.
Mateo woke immediately.
Vincent was in his office when the emergency lights turned red.
He ran.
Not walked.
Ran.
When he reached Mateo’s room, Clara was already there.
Mateo sat upright in bed.
Breathing too quickly.
“It’s dark.”
“I know,” Clara said.
“The bomb.”
“It’s not the bomb.”
“The lights went out before the bomb.”
Vincent stopped at the doorway.
He had forgotten that.
Or buried it.
The roadside blast had taken power from the SUV for a fraction of a second.
To Mateo, darkness meant explosion.
Clara sat beside him.
“Listen to me.”
Mateo shook his head.
“It’s happening.”
“No.”
“It is.”
“Tell me what you hear.”
“What?”
“Right now.”
Mateo’s breathing shook.
“Wind.”
“What else?”
“The alarm.”
“What else?”
He listened.
“Dad.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“I’m here.”
Mateo grabbed his wrist.
Hard.
Vincent sat on the bed.
Clara continued.
“What do you smell?”
Mateo swallowed.
“Rain.”
Vincent smelled only the room.
But Mateo kept going.
“Dad’s cologne.”
Clara nodded.
“What do you feel?”
“My blanket.”
“And?”
Mateo’s grip tightened.
“Dad’s hand.”
Vincent looked down.
Their hands were locked together.
Mateo’s breathing slowed.
The generator kicked fully online.
Lights returned.
Mateo flinched.
Then relaxed.
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Finally Mateo said, “That was stupid.”
Clara’s voice sharpened.
“No.”
“I freaked out.”
“You remembered something scary.”
“I’m eight.”
“Eight-year-olds get scared.”
“My dad doesn’t.”
Vincent almost laughed.
He looked at his son.
“I was scared.”
“When?”
“Ten seconds ago.”
Mateo studied him.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you were.”
The boy looked down at their hands.
“You always get scared when I do?”
“Pretty much.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
Vincent smiled.
“It is.”
Clara covered Mateo again.
“You two done emotionally bonding? I’d like to sleep this century.”
Mateo laughed.
Vincent stayed until he fell asleep.
In the hallway, Clara leaned against the wall.
“You did good.”
Vincent looked at her.
“You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
“Careful.”
She smiled.
Then the smile faded.
“You should talk to someone.”
Vincent’s expression hardened automatically.
“There he is.”
“Who?”
“The man who thinks therapy is a federal investigation.”
“I don’t need therapy.”
“You monitor hallways from a bunker.”
“For security.”
“You removed the camera from Mateo’s room because you knew I was right.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“You enjoy provoking me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“A little.”
He almost smiled.
Then she became serious.
“You survived the same bomb.”
Vincent said nothing.
“You lost your wife.”
Still nothing.
“You almost lost your child.”
His jaw tightened.
“And you’re acting like grief only happened to Mateo.”
Vincent’s voice lowered.
“Do not talk about Elena.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
He walked away.
At three in the morning, he found himself in the kitchen.
No lights except the one over the stove.
Clara came in for water.
She stopped.
“I’m not apologizing.”
“I didn’t ask.”
She opened the refrigerator.
Vincent stared at the marble countertop.
“Elena wanted to take another car.”
Clara turned.
He had never told anyone this.
Not Dominic.
Not the priest.
Not the police.
“She said Mateo was getting carsick.”
His voice sounded detached.
“I told her the armored SUV was safer.”
Clara said nothing.
Vincent continued.
“She complained the suspension was terrible. I told her she was dramatic.”
His hands tightened.
“Five minutes later she was dead.”
Clara leaned against the counter.
“You think choosing the armored car killed her.”
“It put her in it.”
“Who planted the bomb?”
Vincent looked up.
“A man named Russo.”
“Then Russo killed her.”
“I chose the car.”
“And if you’d chosen the other car and it got hit?”
He said nothing.
“You’d blame that choice too.”
Vincent looked away.
Clara’s voice softened.
“Grief likes to pretend it’s logic.”
He gave her a humorless smile.
“You rehearse that?”
“No. I’ve just met enough people trying to make tragedy obey mathematics.”
He stared at her.
“Why did you really take this job?”
She looked at the floor.
“My father died.”
Vincent waited.
“Two years ago.”
“Were you caring for him?”
“Yes.”
“Is that the employment gap?”
“Part of it.”
“What happened?”
“ALS.”
Vincent’s expression changed.
Clara continued.
“I spent eighteen months watching a man who could fix anything lose the ability to button his shirt.”
She swallowed.
“He hated being helped.”
Vincent understood immediately.
“So you learned not to help unless necessary.”
“Yes.”
“And not to pity.”
“Yes.”
Clara looked toward the hallway.
“Mateo reminds me of him sometimes.”
“That’s why you’re good with him?”
“No.”
She smiled slightly.
“I’m good with Mateo because Mateo is funny, stubborn, manipulative, dramatic, and extremely bad at admitting when he likes someone.”
Vincent raised an eyebrow.
“That sounds familiar.”
“I was talking about you.”
He laughed.
Quietly.
Unexpectedly.
May you like
For the first time since Elena died, Vincent stood in a dark kitchen at three in the morning and laughed with another person about himself.
It scared him more than he expected.
