Wouldn’t you?
“You’re lying.”
“I wish I were.”
“Why?” Your voice rose. “Why would you say this tonight? Why would you marry me and then say this tonight?”
“Because after tonight, I had no right to keep living beside you with the truth buried.”
“After tonight?” You stared at him. “After I stood in front of a church full of people and promised my life to you?”
He bowed his head.
Your rage came fast, hot, almost clean.
“You knew me before?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Callahan’s hands curled into fists on his knees.
“Our fathers worked together.”
Your breath stopped.
Your father, Daniel Voss, had owned a small contracting business outside Louisville. He fixed old houses, installed kitchens, repaired roofs, and came home every evening smelling like sawdust and wintergreen gum. You remembered his huge hands lifting you onto countertops, his laugh shaking the walls, his voice calling you “Merry” even when nothing was funny.
“My father?” you whispered.
Callahan nodded slowly. “And mine.”
“Who was your father?”
“Elliot Gray.”
The name meant nothing at first.
Then something moved in your memory.
Gray & Voss Renovations.
You had seen the name on invoices. On a magnet stuck to your refrigerator. On the side of your father’s old white work truck.
Your father had a partner.
You had forgotten.
Or maybe everyone had helped you forget.
You pressed your hand against your stomach. “Your dad was my dad’s business partner.”
“Yes.”
“And you were there that night?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Callahan swallowed.
“I was sixteen. My father brought me to your house after dark. He told me we were picking up paperwork from your dad’s office in the garage. I didn’t know you were home.”
A chill slid through you.
“What happened?”
Callahan opened his mouth, then closed it. For the first time since you met him, he looked truly afraid. Not uncomfortable. Not ashamed.
Afraid.
“My father was desperate,” he said. “The business was failing. He had debts. Bad ones. He believed your father had hidden money from him.”
“My dad wouldn’t do that.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know.”
“I know now,” he said quietly.
Your fingers dug into the dresser.
Callahan continued, each word heavier than the last.
“My father broke into your house. He thought no one was home. He forced me to come because he needed help carrying files from the garage. I waited near the back door. Then I heard voices.”
You could hear it too.
Not the real voices, maybe. But something like them. Men arguing. A chair scraping. Your father’s voice, low and angry.
“My father found Daniel in the kitchen,” Callahan said. “Your dad had come home early. They argued. My father accused him of stealing. Your father told him to leave. Then I heard glass break.”
