Inmate 1577

2

O’Hara pulled a long, narrow pad from his vest pocket and jotted some notes. He clicked his pen shut, and then stole another look at the body of Doris MacNally. “I’ll be right back. Gotta go find out what’s keeping the coroner. Don’t touch anything. Best if you two go wait in the living room.”

The door swung open and closed, a blast of frigid air blowing against MacNally’s face. The police officer who’d been there earlier stepped back inside and folded his arms across his chest.

MacNally did as he was told, taking Henry into the adjacent room and waiting on the couch. He cradled Henry against his perspiration-soaked body, oblivious to the chilled draft that swept through the house…the cold emptiness mimicking what he was now feeling.

“What’s in your hand?” MacNally asked softly.

Henry splayed open his fingers, and an opal brooch stared back at him. It was the only keepsake Doris’s grandmother had left her, and it was something Doris cherished and wore often. MacNally knew it was Henry’s attempt to be close to his mother, to have something of hers that he could hold onto. Emotionally, MacNally could relate: he wasn’t prepared to let go of his life companion yet either.

O’Hara was gone for several minutes, during which time MacNally numbly stared ahead at the wedding photo that sat in a wood frame on the fireplace mantle across the room. He stroked his son’s back, an action that felt pathetically inadequate. But he didn’t know what else to do. He had just turned twenty-four-what could he possibly know about helping a young boy deal with the loss of his mother?

In the space of mere seconds, the lives of Henry and Walton MacNally were shattered beyond repair.

But MacNally did not-could not-know just how much of a difference his mate’s death would make in their lives.

DETECTIVE O’HARA WALKED BACK INTO the house. His cheeks and the tips of his ears were red from the blistering cold, and his face was stern. The creases were more prominent, the brow rigid, the lips taut.

But it wasn’t until O’Hara was fully inside the kitchen that MacNally realized that the man had his service revolver in hand, at his side, poking out from behind his thigh. Concealing it.

“Mr. MacNally, can you please let go of your son and come over here for a moment?”

MacNally’s gaze was fixated on the tip of metal peeking from behind O’Hara’s leg. Whatever the detective had in mind, it was not good. But MacNally had nothing to hide, so he gave Henry a gentle pat on the back. “Son, I need to get up for a second.”

Henry unfolded himself and flopped down beside his father as MacNally pushed up off the sofa. He walked over to O’Hara.

“Sir, I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Doris MacNally. Please put your hands behind your back.”

MacNally leaned back. “Arrest? For-Are you out of your mind? I loved my wife. We were going to-”

“I’m just following orders, sir. Now turn around and give me your hands.”

“How could you th- What could possibly make you think I did this?”

“Once we get to the station, we can talk about it in more detail, get it all straightened out.”

MacNally did as instructed. As he turned, he locked eyes with his boy. “Everything’s going to be okay, Henry. I’m going to clear up this misunderstanding and be back home as soon as I can. I promise.”