Second Honeymoon

Chapter 119

IN THE AFTERMATH, so to speak, of Ned Sinclair’s death, one of my immediate problems solved itself. Squandering the kudos I’d received in the wake of the identification of the Honeymoon Murderer, I’d broken half the rules in the FBI handbook and angered more than a few superiors, not the least of whom was Dan Driesen. But in doing so I’d also shut down a killer who had scared every guy named John O’Hara in the country, including one who just happened to be the president’s brother-in-law.

I wasn’t fired. I wasn’t even put back on suspension. Frank Walsh still wanted me to see Dr. Adam Kline, but after the good doctor heard of the little field trip I made after mending for a few days back home in Riverside, he decided his work with me was done.

“That showed real courage,” he told me in what would be my last visit to his office. “You did the right thing. You’re good by me.”

I wasn’t sure about the courage part, but even before I rang the doorbell at Stephen McMillan’s house, I was pretty sure about it being the right thing to do.

This was one problem of mine that wouldn’t take care of itself.

I sat in McMillan’s living room, listening as he delivered his heartfelt apology for causing Susan’s death. I had little doubt that every word was as true and real as the tears streaming down his cheeks.

“I know it’s no consolation, but I haven’t had a sip of alcohol since the accident,” he told me.

“You’re right,” I said. “It’s no consolation to me or my kids. But I’m sure it means a lot to your family.”

McMillan glanced at a photograph of his teenage son and daughter that was sitting on a small table next to his armchair. He nodded.

The two of us talked for only a minute longer, during which he was either too smart or too scared to ask for my forgiveness. That was something he’d simply never get.

But what I could and did offer him was this: acceptance of what had happened.

I told him I could accept the fact that he fully understood what a mistake he’d made and what a terrible loss it was for my boys and me. He’d made that abundantly clear, and I believed him.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Then, after we both stood up, I did something I never imagined I’d ever do. Not in a million years. Or even longer.

I shook his hand.

“What changed your mind?” asked Harold Cornish once we left the house. As our go-between, McMillan’s attorney had been waiting for me in the foyer. “Why did you finally agree to meet with my client?”

I could’ve told Cornish a very long story about what I’d been through since I’d last seen him on his little visit to my back patio. Martha Cole. Ned Sinclair. And the one thing the three of us had in common, a singular desire.

Instead, I simply summed it all up for him. “Nothing good ever comes from revenge,” I said.