Miranda James - Classified as Murder

Sean bridled at that, perhaps sensing criticism. “I’m not afraid of hard work. I gave them 110 percent every day, seven days a week.”

“It was an observation, not a criticism. I wouldn’t have lasted six months. Much less made it through law school. I have no doubt you worked very hard, and they were lucky you were so dedicated.” I put as much warmth into the words as I could.

“I sure as hell did work hard.” Sean relaxed a bit, slumped back in his chair.

“That’s an incredible amount of stress for anyone.”

Sean looked at me then. “Yeah, it was pretty bad. At first I didn’t mind. It kept me from thinking about, well, you know.”

I knew all too well. His mother died the summer after his first year of law school in Austin. When he started his second year, I hardly ever saw him. Then my aunt died and left me this house. Laura moved to Los Angeles, and I decided to come back to Athena.

Leaving Sean on his own in Texas.

Funny, I had never thought about it like that before now. The realization stunned me.

I suppose I was too wrapped up in my own misery after Jackie’s death to understand the impact of giving up the only home my children had known.

Was this the root of my difficult relationship with Sean the past four years?

What could I say now to him that could possibly make up for what I had done?

Before I could say anything, Dante startled us both by barking. He bounced up and down by Sean’s chair.

“Sorry; that means he wants to go out.” Sean stood. “If I don’t take him now, he might wee on the floor.” He picked up the dog.

“It’s okay. I’ll go with you, if you don’t mind.” I pushed back my own chair. Diesel muttered in protest.

“It’s your house.” Sean strode ahead, and the cat and I followed him to the back porch.

I let Diesel go out with the poodle, and Sean and I stood on the porch, gazing into the dimly lit backyard. The animals disappeared into the shadows cast by my azalea bushes. The air was cool and fragrant, with a hint of the Confederate jasmine that grew along the fence.

“I’m glad you’re here.” I reached out and gave Sean’s right shoulder a squeeze.

“Thanks, Dad.” He breathed deeply with evident pleasure. “I’d forgotten how quiet it is here. In Houston you can hear traffic noise no matter what time it is.”

“It’s a good place to relax and regroup.” I paused a moment. I wanted to get our conversation back on track, but I felt reluctant at the moment to tackle the deeper issue. “Any ideas yet what you might want to do?”

“Other than sleep for a week or two?” Sean paused. “Maybe then I can get my head together and figure something out.”

“However long it takes.”

“It might take longer than you think.” Sean moved away from me and sat in the chair he’d occupied this afternoon.

“That doesn’t matter.” I scanned the yard for the cat and the dog. As I watched, they darted out of the shadows, Diesel in pursuit of the poodle.

“I’ll be happy to pay rent. I’ve got a fair amount of money saved up. I didn’t have much time to spend it on anything.” Sean sounded bitter.

“Your money’s no good here. I’m just glad you came.” Was my tone too hearty?

“Okay, thanks.” Sean leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “I’ll keep out of your way. Probably catch up on my sleep.”

He was making it very clear that he didn’t want to talk to me. I felt too tired all of a sudden to persist. Maybe he would be more talkative in the morning.

Dante barked and scratched on the screen door, and I went to let him and Diesel in. The poodle made a beeline for Sean and jumped up into the chair beside him. Sean reached down and stroked the dog’s head until Dante settled down.

Diesel chirped and butted his head against my leg. “I guess Diesel and I will go clean up the kitchen. Then up to bed. See you in the morning.”

“Okay. Good night.” Sean still hadn’t opened his eyes.

“Good night.” I stood there for a moment, watching my son, feeling like I did when his mother and I used to tuck him in at bedtime. Diesel butted my leg again, recalling me to the present. I headed for the kitchen with my cat.

The kitchen cleanup didn’t take long, and soon Diesel and I were upstairs in bed. I read for a while but finally put the book aside and turned out the light.

Sleep did not come easily. Sean occupied my thoughts, and I berated myself for not understanding sooner how my moving back to Athena affected our relationship. I took it as a positive sign that he came to me after quitting his job, but I also felt sure there was more to the story than his cracking under the strain.

The next morning I awoke with a slight headache, an unwelcome leftover from my restless night. There was no sign of Diesel when I eased out of bed and headed to the bathroom for some aspirin.

Down in the kitchen, padding about in my pajamas and robe, I found signs that Sean had been up during the night. There were a couple of dirty dishes in the sink and one cabinet door was slightly ajar.

The coffeepot was half full and still warm. I poured myself a cup and then retrieved the paper from the front yard.

By the time I finished my first cup and was contemplating breakfast, I realized I still hadn’t seen Diesel. Highly unusual, because most of the time he stayed somewhere near me—except, of course, when he had to visit his litter box.

A bit uneasy, I checked the back porch right away. To my relief I found Diesel asleep on the floor beside the sofa, where Sean and Dante were asleep, too.

Diesel woke when I called his name softly. He yawned and stretched before coming to me at the door. He slipped inside. I stood there a moment, watching my son, who looked younger and less careworn in slumber. Dante woke up and yawned, sniffed a couple of times, then lay back down and snuggled closer to Sean.

I closed the door gently and went back to the kitchen.

After a quick breakfast, I trotted upstairs to bathe and dress. I had about thirty-five minutes before I was to meet Mr. Delacorte at nine in my office at the college. Luckily for me, my commute to work consisted of three blocks and less than ten minutes’ walk.

Mr. Delacorte, dressed as impeccably as ever, stood on the front steps of the antebellum mansion that was home to the library’s administrative offices, a portion of the rare book collection and archives, and my office. I checked my watch surreptitiously, afraid I had misjudged the time, but it was five minutes to nine.

“Good morning, Mr. Delacorte,” I said as Diesel and I approached him. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Good morning, Mr. Harris. No need to apologize. I am early, after all.” He gazed down at Diesel, wearing a harness with a leash attached. “I do believe this is the first time I have ever seen anyone walk a cat on a leash. He is certainly a beautiful animal.”

Diesel chirped as if to say thank you for the compliment, and Mr. Delacorte smiled briefly in return.

“Thank you. He goes just about everywhere with me.” I unlocked the front door and stepped inside with the cat. I gestured for Mr. Delacorte to come in, and I locked the door behind.

“The building is usually not open on the weekends,” I said as I headed for the stairs. “My office is on the second floor. There is an elevator, if you prefer.” I hesitated to mention it, because Mr. Delacorte looked fit enough, but you never knew.

“The stairs are fine.” Mr. Delacorte walked up them in step with me, while Diesel, free of his leash, scampered ahead of us.

Inside the office Diesel climbed into the bed in the window behind my desk where he spent much of his time while I worked. Mr. Delacorte stood in the center of the room and looked around for a minute or two.