Chapter 2 - The Boy Who Wouldn't Let Go
"Don't touch me."
Wesley's voice was so small that Graham almost missed it.
His son was sitting on a pool lounger wrapped in a towel, his knees drawn tight against his chest. Travis stood a few feet away, holding an ice pack against his cheek.
Graham had knelt to check Wesley's arms for injuries.
That was when Wesley pulled away.
"Wes?"
The boy looked down.
"Please."
One word.
Graham had heard his son beg for another bedtime story, for extra syrup on his pancakes, for ten more minutes before school.
He had never heard him beg his father to stay away.
Behind them, Marjorie made a sympathetic noise.
"Oh, sweetheart. He's frightened, that's all."
Travis lowered the ice pack.
"He's frightened because he nearly couldn't get out of the pool."
Marjorie turned toward him.
"I think you've contributed quite enough excitement for one afternoon."
Travis stared at her.
"Excitement?"
"You're upsetting him."
"Lady, your grandson was hanging off the edge of a swimming pool, and the ladder was gone."
Graham looked up.
"What ladder?"
Travis pointed at the empty sockets.
"That ladder."
Marjorie sighed.
"It needed cleaning. I took it away before Wesley got in."
Graham frowned.
"Wesley knows he's not supposed to swim when that ladder's out."
"Apparently not," Marjorie said.
Travis's jaw tightened.
"You didn't think to stop him?"
"I was about to."
"From your chair?"
"Excuse me?"
"Because you looked pretty comfortable when I came around that hedge."
Graham stood.
"Back off."
Travis turned his head slowly.
"Oh, we're doing this again?"
"I said back off."
"You hit me while I was holding your kid."
"And you put your hands on him—"
"To pull him out of the water, Graham."
Travis didn't shout.
That made it worse.
He said Graham's name the way someone might speak to a man standing in front of an approaching train.
Graham opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He looked at Wesley.
The boy had wrapped both hands around the towel, gripping it as though it could hold him in place.
Graham noticed those hands trembling.
His anger began to lose its shape.
He took out his phone.
"I'm calling the doctor."
Marjorie immediately straightened.
"Graham, don't be dramatic."
"He was struggling in the water."
"He was splashing."
Travis laughed once, without humor.
"That's one word for it."
Graham stepped away and called the pediatrician's after-hours line. When the nurse heard that Wesley had panicked in the water and might have swallowed some, she recommended an emergency-department assessment.
Graham arranged to drive him.
Travis picked up his keys.
"Somebody should get a good look at his breathing," he said. "I'm glad you're taking him."
Graham looked at the red mark spreading across Travis's cheek.
For a moment, he seemed about to speak.
Marjorie touched his elbow.
"Wesley needs his father. Not another argument."
The apology disappeared.
Travis noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He had lived next door long enough to recognize the strange gravitational pull Marjorie Mercer exerted over her son.
Graham looked at Wesley.
"Come on, buddy. Let's get you checked."
Wesley rose, still wrapped in his towel.
He took two steps toward Travis.
Then he grabbed the man's shirt.
Travis bent slightly.
"Hey, captain."
It was the nickname he'd used the previous summer, when Wesley had made an entire cardboard navy in the driveway.
Wesley's lips quivered.
"You're not in trouble, are you?"
Travis glanced at Graham.
"Not for helping you."
It wasn't an answer.
Wesley understood that.
Children often understood more than adults wanted them to.
Graham extended his hand.
Wesley wouldn't take it.
They walked to the car with a space between them.
The emergency department was bright, crowded, and smelled faintly of disinfectant and burnt coffee.
Wesley's oxygen level was normal. His breathing remained clear. The physician examined him, kept him under observation for several hours, and explained what symptoms would require urgent reassessment.
Physically, he was fortunate.
Emotionally, Graham wasn't so sure.
Wesley flinched when a metal cart rattled past.
He cried when a nurse asked him to stretch out his arms.
And every time Graham shifted in his chair, Wesley checked where his hands were.
Graham tried to make conversation.
"Remember when we came here because you stuck that bead up your nose?"
Wesley stared at his socks.
"The blue one."
"Yeah. The doctor said he'd never seen a kid look so disappointed when it came out."
Nothing.
Graham rubbed his forehead.
"Wes, can you tell me what happened out there?"
The boy pressed his lips together.
"Did Mr. Travis do something that scared you?"
Wesley looked at him then.
His face crumpled.
"He helped me."
"I know he pulled you out."
"He helped me, Daddy."
The emphasis hurt.
Graham lowered his eyes.
"Okay."
Wesley hesitated.
Then he whispered, "Why'd you hit him?"
There were a dozen answers Graham could have offered.
Because I thought he hurt you.
Because I panicked.
Because Grandma said—
None of them made his hand innocent.
"I shouldn't have," Graham said.
Wesley studied him carefully.
"Will you do it again?"
Graham swallowed.
"No."
"Even if Grandma tells you to?"
The room seemed to become very quiet.
Graham leaned forward.
"Wesley, what does Grandma have to do with it?"
The boy looked toward the hospital door.
"She's gonna be mad."
"Why?"
Wesley twisted the edge of his blanket.
"Because I saw."
Graham waited.
His son whispered four more words.
"She took my ladder."
At the Mercer mansion, Marjorie stood alone in Graham's study.
On the security monitor, the pool camera displayed a gray screen.
CAMERA 04 — RECORDING UNAVAILABLE.
Marjorie read the message twice.
Then she opened the bottom drawer of Graham's desk and removed a cream-colored envelope.
On its front was printed:
SYCAMORE ACQUISITIONS — PROPOSED TRANSACTION
Inside lay a letter waiting for Graham's signature.
Marjorie checked her watch.
May you like
The deal had to close before the end of October.
And now, because of one meddling neighbor, she had a much more immediate problem.
