Everything to Lose. Andrew Gross

the file. Photos of the accident—the Honda a mangled wreck. He’d watched Kelty drive away with the cash not thirty minutes before. Shit, he’d handed the fucking thing to him. The guy probably got a woodie for the first time in a decade, carrying around that kind of cash, and couldn’t handle it. Popped through his pants, hit him in the face, then he slammed headfirst into a tree.

      There was an eyewitness report. The police case write-up. He saw that a deer had bolted across the road. That much he’d been able to pick up from what he’d read in the papers.

      Sergeant Neil Polluto, Mirho underlined in the report. Maybe it would be worth paying the good officer a visit somewhere down the line if nothing else panned out.

      Only one eyewitness, Mirho noted. That made the job easy. He knew his next call might prove a bit more troublesome. But anything was doable with the right kind of persuasion.

      He centered on the name, from Briarcliff Manor according to the report. The witness, the first to arrive at the scene.

      The only one on the scene.

      He underlined it, knowing his next stop wouldn’t be quite so social.

      Roland McMahon.

       CHAPTER FIFTEEN

       He was always a difficult child.

      As a two-year-old, if he didn’t want to eat something or wanted to get down, he would bang his G.I. Joe milk cup so hard, he actually shattered it once and needed ten stitches in his hand. Hardly a day would pass when he wouldn’t tell me how much he hated me; a minute later he’d look up at me with the most contrite and innocent eyes and say, “Give me a hug, Mommy. You didn’t think I really meant all that, did you?”

       Did I?

       It makes me ashamed to admit he always scared me a little. Of what he would grow into one day.

      He always had a dark edge, my son, from the day he was born.

      What a thing, living in fear of my own child.

      Sometimes he got so angry I had to lock him in his room, but he would only tear up his bed and rip down all the books from his bookshelves. Break his brother’s toys and smash his little wooden chair against the door. A hundred times. Until he ran out of strength. And then he’d whine in that repentant voice of his that he would never be this way again.

      But when he was good, he was the most lovable and likable boy any of us knew. We called him Curious George. Because he was so smart and needed to understand everything. It just seemed, somehow, his brain got ahead of his heart, his father always said.

      He’ll grow out of it, I would say. He will. You’ll see. Just wait.

       Until he left.

       One day he just said he couldn’t handle this anymore and I never saw him again.

      Once, when he was six, I had him in the bath. It was just me then, and the two kids. Todd was just two. He had a laugh, my Todd; that boy’s giggle could leave the whole family in tears.

      His brother was in a good stage at that time. I grew to trust him more. Things had changed in the two years since Todd was born. I was always busy with him, feeding, changing diapers. Tickling him under his chin, trying to produce that giggle. And I had work.

      His older brother suddenly had to work to get everyone’s attention. The tantrums grew louder and more frequent. He was always stealing things; then somehow they would miraculously reappear. He always looked to be the hero.

      I remember he was supposed to watch over Todd that day. “C’mon, Toddie,” I recall him saying, “c’mon in here with me ’till Mommy gives you your bath.”

       I ran after some laundry that needed folding and he brought in one of Todd’s favorite toys. And I heard the two of them playing in the tub. That infectious giggle.