Page 70 of Wreckage and Rain

Colt

Six weeks.

I keep waking up at four in the morning. Not from a dream. From nothing. I open my eyes in a bed that is too big and too cold and I lie there until I need to get up for work at six.

The coffee maker still auto-runs on her timer. She set it the second week we lived in this house and never adjusted it. Six fifteen. The pot is full by the time I make it to the kitchen. I haven't touched the brew button and I haven't had a cup of coffee in this house since she left. I keep it brewing because if I turned it off I would have to admit she isn't coming back to drink it. That is the kind of man I am now.

Her pillow still smells like her shampoo. I check it every morning before I get out of bed. I haven't washed the case. I won't wash the case. There is one strand of her hair on the inside seam.

My assistant has started leaving lunch on my desk at noon. She doesn't ask. She doesn't say anything. She leaves the plate and walks out. I eat half of it. She takes the plate back without making it a thing. I've lost ten pounds. I don't remember any of them leaving.

My father hasn't mentioned her. In six weeks. He asks about Tidewater. The Calloway portfolio. Q3. He sits across from me in the conference room and looks at me like a man looks at the version of his son he always wanted.

That should be my first clue.

***

Dominic shows up one morning with a manila folder and a face I've never seen him wear. He uses the key I gave him five years ago for emergencies. He doesn't knock.

"Sit down."

"You're in my house, Dom."

"Sit the fuck down, Colt."

I sit. He drops the folder on the kitchen counter between us. Half an inch of paper, tabbed, organized with the precision of a man who went to law school before pivoting to venture capital and never lost the filing habits.

"The PI delivered this yesterday. Took his guy a while. I've been up all night with it." He puts both hands flat on the counter and looks at me. "What I'm about to tell you is going to change how you understand the last year of your life. I need you to let me get through it before you react."

"You're scaring me."

"Good. You should be scared."

He opens the folder.

"Cheyenne Aldrich was hired by your father."

"I know that. He recruited..."

"Not recruited. Hired. Specifically. For a specific purpose." He pulls a printed email. "This is from your father to a headhunter in Atlanta. Read it."

I read it.

Looking for a female candidate, 25-30, for an account executive position. Must be intelligent, ambitious, and presentable. The role requires close collaboration with my son, who is being groomed for CEO. The ideal candidate will be someone he respects professionally and finds personally compelling. Discretion is paramount.

Personally compelling.

My father wrote those words. Sat at his desk and typed personally compelling like he was ordering a piece of furniture.

I have to look away from the page. The kitchen window. The dead sunflowers on the sill. The mug Summer's mother gave her for Christmas three years ago that still says World's Most Tolerant Wife in cracked gold lettering.

"That's a recruiting brief," I say. "It's ugly. It's not a conspiracy."

Dom doesn't look up. "Six candidates were identified. Your father met with each privately."

"He meets everyone privately. That's not evidence, that's Tuesday."

"Cheyenne was selected because she fit the profile and because she was willing to participate in the full scope of the plan." He turns a page. "Base salary one-forty. Quarterly payments into a separate account totaling another two hundred thousand. Those came out of one of your father's shell companies."