Sam

An hour into cuddle time, my belly growls like a wild beast in rutting season. How long has it been since we ate breakfast?

Cooper laughs. “Sounds like somebody’s hungry.” He slaps my ass. “Let’s get dressed, and then we’ll go grab something to eat.”

I pull on clean briefs and my best ripped jeans. If we’re going to raise hell in this town, I want to look good doing it. I dig around in my duffle bag until I locate my favorite “Beyoncé” T-shirt. It’s either wear that, or wear my I’m His T-shirt, or my Gay Men Suck tee, but Cooper would have a heart attack if I wore either of those last two out in public. “I need to hang up my clothes—they’re getting wrinkled.”

Cooper points at the closet in our room, giving me a duh look. His clothes are already hung up, de-wrinkling as we speak. He’s much better at adulting than I am, but of course he’s had many more years of experience than I have, as I often like to remind him.

As he dresses, I empty the clothes out of my bag, shake out the wrinkles as best I can, and hang them up. I brought two pairs of distressed jeans with me and a half-dozen tees and a couple muscle shirts. Depending on how long we’re going to be here, I may need to hit a laundromat. And a gym.

After Cooper finishes in the bathroom, he heads to Jake’s room to coordinate our plans for the rest of the day. I put on deodorant and brush my teeth and hair.

I don’t know what the plans are for the afternoon, but as long as it involves food, I’m good. Maybe we can do something fun tonight. I wonder if there’s a decent nightclub in this small town. I seriously doubt I could talk Cooper into dancing, but I know he’d play pool or shoot darts with me. Jake too.

When I come out of the bathroom, the adjoining door between our two rooms is open. I walk through to Jake’s room.

“Whoa.” I give a long, low whistle at the sight of Jake’s high-tech surveillance center, which he has set up on a small round table. He’s got three laptops running video footage. On each screen is a live stream from one of the three cameras he’s got positioned: the two cameras outside—one in front of the building, and one in back—plus a camera in his room to protect the equipment while we’re out.

Jake pockets his wallet and grabs his keys. “So, what’s the plan, guys?”

“I’d like to check in briefly with Jenny Murphy,” Cooper says. “She might know what’s happening with the investigations into Stevens and Monroe. After that, we should grab some dinner.”

Jake opens the door to his room. “Sounds good.”

But first, a side trip. Cooper takes the keys and gets behind the driver’s seat. Jake sits up front, riding shotgun, and that leaves me in the back seat.

“Where are we going?” I ask, sitting forward and leaning over the back of Cooper’s seat. I brush my thumb across the back of his neck and smile when he shivers.

“Since I’m here, I’d like to drive by the house I grew up in.”

I lay my hand on his shoulder. “More closure?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

I remember Cooper telling me that his mom passed away eight years ago. His father, who has Alzheimer’s, lives in an assisted living facility at the edge of town. Their family home was sold years ago to help pay for his father’s medical expenses.

Cooper drives for about ten minutes, heading out of the town limits and into the open countryside. We drive for a while on a long, two-lane rural road where we pass large farms on both sides of the road, fenced-in pastures, a few herds of cattle and horses.

He finally slows the vehicle and pulls over to the shoulder, parking in the gravel beside a drainage ditch. We’re parked in front of an older single-story house with white clapboard siding. The house is pretty far back from the road, at the end of a long, tree-lined gravel lane. Even from here, we can see a man outside washing his pick-up truck, and two young boys tossing a ball for their dog. Behind the house, it’s nothing but woods as far as the eye can see.

“This is where you grew up?” I say.

He nods, staring at the house. “It seemed a lot bigger when I was a kid.”

“Is he nearby? Your dad?”

Cooper nods. “It’s about fifteen minutes from here.”

“Do you want to go see him?”

“No.”

“Cooper—”

“I said no.”

I lay my arm over his shoulder, my hand resting over his heart. “This may be the last time you’ll get to see your dad. I think you should go. Just see him.”

“He probably won’t even know me.”

“That’s okay. What matters is that you know him. You should see him, while you still have a chance. You never got to see your mom again. You never got to say good-bye to her. Don’t miss that opportunity with your dad.”

Cooper sighs heavily as he starts the engine. Then he pulls out onto the rural lane and heads back toward town. I think he’s going to ignore my suggestion completely, but suddenly he pulls into the parking lot of a sprawling, one-story resident center. Sweetwater Manor, according to the sign out front.

“This is a bad idea,” he says, parking and shutting off the engine. He hands the keys to Jake. “Wait here. I won’t be long.”

“I’m coming with you,” I say, hopping out of the vehicle.

Cooper just shrugs, and I take that as an invitation to join him.

We stop in the front office, and Cooper explains who he is, and asks to see his father. The woman who runs the facility—Sherry Miller, the director—recognizes him, and they shake hands.

“He can get pretty agitated, Danny,” the woman says, leading us down a hallway past a secured check point. “The facility is secured so that our residents don’t go wandering around and get lost.”

Once we’re through the secured check-point, we follow Ms. Miller down another hallway to a closed door on the right. The name plate beside the door says Harold Cooper. Ms. Miller knocks, but there’s no answer.

“Let me go in first,” she says, turning the door knob. “I’ll come back and get you if he’s up for visitors.”

She leaves the door partly open, and we can hear her talking in a low, soothing voice to someone inside the room. A few moments later, she returns. “He’s sitting in his recliner looking out the window,” she says. “But he’s not very responsive today. He wouldn’t look at me or answer any of my questions. Some days he’s more lucid than others. Some days he pretty much talks the head off anyone who will listen to him. Today’s not that day. I’m sorry.”

“Can I see him?” Cooper says.

He’s standing ramrod straight, his body radiating tension. I can’t even begin to imagine how difficult this must be for him. The last thing he heard his father say was that he—Cooper—should stay in Illinois with his aunt, because if his father saw him again, he’d kill him.

Ms. Miller smiles sadly as she lays her hand on Cooper’s shoulder. “Sure. Let’s give it a try.”

We follow Sherry Miller into Cooper’s dad’s room. It’s a small suite, with a sitting room, a bedroom, and a bathroom. There’s a small kitchen area with a sink, small refrigerator, and a table that seats two, but there’s no stove or any other cooking appliances. In the sitting room, there’s a sofa along one wall with a television set on the opposite wall, next to a bookcase filled with books and family photos.

Cooper stops to look at the photos. Every photo is of the same couple, a middle-aged man and woman—his parents? But I don’t see any photos of Cooper.

His father is seated in a recliner beside a large window, looking outside at a collection of bird feeders on a small patio.

“Mr. Cooper?” Sherry says. “You have a visitor.”

His dad looks to be in his mid-eighties, I’d guess. His gray hair is cut short, and he’s very trim, almost underweight. He’s wearing glasses with black plastic frames.

Ms. Miller walks up behind the man’s chair and lays her hand on his shoulder, patting him. “Mr. Cooper? Your son’s here. Danny’s here to see you.”

Harold Cooper frowns, looking confused, and shakes his head.

“Would you like to say hello?” the woman says.

“No, no,” the man says, shaking his head. His voice is deep and gravelly. “My son’s dead.”

The conviction in the man’s tone breaks my heart. I know Cooper’s an only child, so his dad couldn’t be talking about anyone else.

Cooper moves to stand in his father’s line of sight, staying a few feet back. His expression is neutral. “Dad? It’s me, Danny.”

The old man lifts his head, his eyes focusing on Cooper. “Danny?”

“Yeah, Dad, it’s me.”

Then the old man shakes his head, frowning. “No, I don’t have a son. My son died years ago.”

Then Harold turns his head back to the view out his window, where the multitude of birds flit around on the bird feeders, squawking at each other as they jockey for the best perches.

Ms. Miller smiles at Cooper. “I’m sorry—”

Cooper turns on his heel and heads for the door. Ms. Miller and I follow him out.

The director closes the old man’s door quietly and turns to face Cooper. “Danny, I’m so sorry. If you’d like to come back another time, maybe after dinner this evening, he might be more receptive.”

Cooper shakes his head. “Forty years ago my dad said he’d kill me if he ever saw me again. I tried talking to him over the years, but he never relented. I was dead to him, as far as he was concerned. I guess that hasn’t changed.” He takes a shaky breath, his throat muscles working hard as his lips flatten. “Thanks for letting me see him, Sherry. I appreciate it.”

Ms. Miller walks us back out of the secured wing and back to the main entrance where we came in. We say our good-byes, and she returns to her office, leaving us to let ourselves out through the double glass doors.

Once we’re outside, Cooper stops, standing motionlessly as he stares out across the parking lot.

My chest hurts, and I rub it, not sure how to help him. “Cooper—”

He shakes his head. “Not right now, Sam. Please.” He starts toward the Escalade, motioning for me to follow him. Without a word, he slides into the backseat, and I follow him in.

Jake, who’s still seated in the front passenger seat, turns and looks at Cooper, then at me.

I shake my head, signaling Jake to give Cooper some space.

Jake hops out of the vehicle and walks around to the driver’s side, slipping behind the wheel and starting the engine. “Where to?” he says, eyeing us through the rear-view mirror.

“The newspaper office,” Cooper says, his voice deadpan. He buckles his seat belt and leans back in his seat, reaching blindly for my hand.