They say it’s best to learn to accept the things you can’t control. To conform your mind to all that surrounds you. Be thankful for those things you can control, and let the rest of the pieces fall where they may.

I say, fuck that.

At least that’s the eloquent motto I woke up to this morning, when I opened my eyes to an empty bed, a cold room, and an absent heartbeat; not just faint, but absent. After the initial shock wore off, I was able to hold a trembling hand to my chest long enough to figure out that my heart was, in fact, still beating. However, only every ten seconds or so. Per Google—yes, I looked it up—that means a whopping twenty beats, give or take, during each interval are missing.

Gone.

Now, as I stand in place on the sidewalk, twisting my mood ring in the hope some comfort will magically rub off on me, I think back to Grams. She always said there’s a die-hard fighter in all of us, ready to be awoken the moment you need it most. My question is: how do you summon said fighter? There should be some sort of code word, right? Seeing as my life’s hourglass is down to the last few grains of sand, I’d really prefer the fierce version of myself to the scared one right now.

I take a deep breath and stare hard at the bland, unassuming view before me.

This is silly. They’re just doors, I remind myself. Two white columns located on either side, old red bricks forming the walls around them. Of course, that huge Ashwick Police Station sign hanging above my head does add a slight edge to my nerves. There might be no relation to the man anyway, so I need to get this over with already. Without another thought, I grab the handle and yank the door open.

It’s a small, quiet office, just as I expected for a town like this. There aren’t many people here, but several personnel work away at their desks, another lingers around the coffee machine. All eyes turn to me when I enter, though, and I get the impression they don’t receive many visitors.

I take the few, short steps to the front desk, where a heavyset woman with greying hair smiles kindly from below a pair of reading glasses.

“Well, hello,” she greets, shuffling through a stack of envelopes. “How may we help you?”

“Hi.” I glance around before scooting closer so I can lower my voice. “I have sort of an unusual question, actually.”

“Not to worry, we get our fair share of those here,” she says with a laugh. “Go ahead, hun.”

“Um, is there a Wayne Mulligan still working here, by chance?”

“Oh lord, has it been awhile since I’ve heard that name.” The woman removes her glasses and shakes her head, inspecting me closer. “You need him in particular, or just looking for whomever now holds the Chief of Police position?”

“Him, specifically.”

“Hmm. I’m afraid that’s going to be a bit on the tricky side of things, seeing as he’s now six feet under and all.” She chuckles awkwardly but seems to notice the way my face falls because she immediately quiets, straightening out her top. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I just meant that, well, he’s no longer with us.”

“Can you tell me how long ago he passed?”

“It’s gotta be, what, seventeen years now? He was near seventy when he got hit by that last heart attack.”

Near seventy. That would have put him around Grams’s age at the time. I chew the inside of my cheek, that feeling in my gut deepening. “Did he have any family? Anyone I can speak to briefly just to ask a few questions?”

“Oh, well he did at one time, but, um . . .” The woman stops, clears her throat, then tosses a glance over her shoulder. “Hey, Pete!” She looks back at me and offers an apologetic smile. “One second, dear. Pete! You there?”

“Yeah, yeah, what is it?” A balding, uniformed man with a thinning mustache steps out from one of the back offices. His eyes dart from the woman to me, and he quirks an eyebrow as he approaches us. “Can I help you?”

“This nice young lady has a few questions about Wayne Mulligan,” the woman explains. “Thought maybe you’d be the best one to help her, seeing as how you were with him the most toward the end there.”

The officer nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, all right.” He extends a hand toward me. “Deputy Mark Tallon.”

“Lou Adaire. Nice to meet you.”

“You as well.” He releases his grip and gestures behind him, toward his office. “Why don’t you follow me?”

After thanking the woman for her help, I follow Deputy Tallon inside a small room, where he closes the door and sits behind his desk. I take a seat across from him, trying to figure out how to even begin.

“So, how did you know Mulligan?” he asks, leaning back against his seat and taking a long sip of coffee.

I bite my lip. “Well, I didn’t exactly know him.” Deputy Tallon furrows his eyebrows, and I shake my head at the ridiculousness of this whole situation. “The thing is, I’m actually trying to figure out if maybe I’m related to him somehow?”

“You don’t say.” He sets his mug down and leans forward. “Why would you wonder a thing like that?”

“Just a few things that have me putting the pieces together.”

He pauses, his fingers tapping on the desk. “What’d you say your last name was?”

“Adaire.”

“Hmm.” He shakes his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Suppose that doesn’t mean anything, though. Can you tell me more specifically what might lead you to believe there’s some relationship there?”

“Well, for one, he and my grams were around the same age. And, for another, her last name was also Mulligan. I never knew my grandfather.”

“And your grams, she left town, did she?”

“Yeah, a long time ago. She was probably only in her thirties at the time, and my mom would have been just a child.”

That seems to have gotten his attention, but he stays quiet, pursing his lips together as though contemplating something. Contemplating what, exactly? Whether to talk to me? Whether to help me?

“Deputy, please.” I sit up straighter, determined to get answers before I leave this building. “If there’s anything you can tell me, anything that might help . . . I just need to know if he was who I think he might have been, before”—before I lose my one chance to get answers, before I waste away—“while I’m still here, in town.”

He watches me carefully, the creases in his already wrinkled forehead deepening. “Listen, Miss Adaire,” he finally says, his voice soft, concerned, “Mulligan was a fantastic chief. One of the best officers this town’s seen, even to this day. He was well respected at the force, and I was honored to have gotten to work alongside him before he retired.”

Then why doesn’t your tone reflect your words? “But?”

“But, I’m afraid his family life was a bit of a different story. Now, I just want to make sure . . . I want to make sure you know what you’re asking here. You can’t rebury things like this once you’ve already dug them up.”

I shift in my seat. I wasn’t expecting a reaction like that. “Yes, I know what I’m asking, Deputy. I need to know.”

Eventually, he lets out a breath, reaching his resolve. “All right. Well, Mulligan wasn’t one to chitchat or divulge about his personal life. He lived and breathed the force, you understand? For a while there, it was this big mystery to the town, why his wife just up and left him one day, taking their only child with her.”

He pauses, squinting as he peers over at me, like he’s checking if I’m still okay. I don’t know if I am. My stomach’s tightening at his words, at the confirmation they bring. Clearly, I already have my answer. Wayne Mulligan was my grandfather. I give a small nod of my chin, urging him on.

“It wasn’t until the end there, his last year in fact, that he actually told me anything about what had happened. He had recently retired and his life seemed to finally be catching up with him. But even then he didn’t say much. I only got the gist of it, all right?”

Another nod. Just tell me already.

“Now, I know this may not make much of a difference, but for what it’s worth, he did a lot of apologizing. Said he’d had many regrets, and he was sure he’d be paying for them soon enough.” I swallow, suddenly nervous to hear the rest. This is just getting better and better. “He didn’t exactly get into everything he was apologizing for—seemed to be a whole lotta water under that bridge—but one thing he mentioned was the way he’d treated his wife.” He pauses, clearing his throat and adjusting his uniform collar. “Uh, physically. He didn’t get into the details, and I didn’t ask, but . . . uh, well, if it was enough to make her run, to make her fear for her daughter’s safety . . .”

The color drains from my face, my throat constricting. This can’t be right. Not another abuser, another monster. I know the other one was a man I’d only met in my dreams, but he certainly felt real enough. And now, my own flesh and blood. My own grams . . .

“Now, Miss Adaire,” he starts, his voice becoming more and more distant as the blood rushes to my ears, “I realize this wasn’t what you were hoping to find out, and especially after all this time you must have been wondering who your grandfather was, but . . . well, I’ve seen few women in my time as an officer actually free themselves from an abusive hand. And let me tell you, it takes a strong woman to get out of a situation like that.” Strong. Yes. Of course she was strong. It’s Grams, after all. The strongest woman I’ve ever known. I just never knew what had made her that way. “You and your mother are lucky to have had a woman like her in your life.”

It takes a minute for me to realize it’s my turn to say something, to respond. “Yes,” I mumble, already scooting the chair back to stand. “Yes, we were. Thanks so much for your time, Deputy Tallon.” I extend a shaky hand as he rises with me.

“Of course. I’m . . . I’m just really sorry I didn’t have a different answer for you.”

I offer a small smile as I pull my hand back, tug on my ring—a ring whose shade of blue seems to be getting darker and darker by the hour, as my body temperature spikes. It’s not Deputy Tallon’s fault my grandfather was an asshole. Scratch that, not my grandfather. As far as I’m concerned, he was just another ant in the dirt.

And moving on.