Chapter 6: The Weight of Thirty Years
Officer Reyes took Diane's phone.
She photographed the screenshot, took Diane's statement in a side room off the lobby, and by the time they were finished, a second officer had confirmed that the catering employee who matched the CCTV description had been identified through the staffing agency as a man named Christopher Aldren — known, the agency said, by the nickname Kit.
He'd been picked up twenty minutes earlier at a gas station four blocks from the hotel.
Gareth's phone was still in his jacket pocket.
I found out from Dale, who told me in the same flat, factual tone he'd used all evening.
He seemed like a man who had seen a great many things in hotel security and had learned to report them without editorializing.
"Thank you," I said.
"For everything tonight."
"It's my job," he said.
And then, after a pause: "Your daughter handled herself well.
Considering."
I nodded and went to find my father.
He was outside, on the hotel's side terrace, standing alone with his hands in his jacket pockets.
The Denver night was cold and clear.
He didn't turn around when I pushed through the glass door, but he knew it was me.
"Kit Aldren," I said.
"Does that name mean anything to you?"
A pause.
"No."
"Gareth's college friend.
He's the one who took the phone.
He's already been picked up." I moved to stand beside him.
"The police have Diane's phone.
There are text messages between Gareth and Kit planning this.
Gareth said, and I'm quoting, 'I've done this before.'"
My father's hands tightened in his pockets.
"Dad." I turned to look at him directly.
"What has he done before?"
A long silence.
The traffic noise from the street below drifted up faintly.
"There was a situation," my father said.
"Four years ago.
A colleague at his firm.
A woman named Patricia Holt.
She was about to report him for misappropriating client funds.
And then—" He stopped.
"And then what?"
"And then she was caught on the office security camera taking a laptop from the building." He paused.
"She swore she hadn't.
She was let go.
The complaint never went anywhere."
The cold air felt colder.
"He framed her," I said.
My father didn't answer.
Which was its own answer.
"You knew," I said.
"I suspected." His voice was rough.
"I didn't want to believe it."
"So you didn't look too hard."
He turned to face me then.
He looked older than I'd ever seen him.
Not physically — something behind his eyes.
"I have spent thirty years," he said slowly, "believing that if I just kept the peace, kept the family together, it would be enough.
That whatever Gareth did, it was manageable.
That I could smooth it over."
"And tonight?"
He looked through the glass door toward the lobby, where Nora was visible on her bench, now asleep, her head resting against the wall and the star bandages still stuck carefully to the back of her hand.
"Tonight I watched my son hjt my granddaughter with a piece of furniture," he said.
"And I stood there."
"Yes," I said.
"You did."
He was quiet for a moment.
"I'm going to tell the police about Patricia Holt."
"Good."
"Marissa." His voice broke slightly on my name.
"I don't expect you to forgive me tonight."
"I don't," I said honestly.
"But I'm glad you're doing the right thing now."
I went back inside to sit with Nora.
My father stayed on the terrace for a long time.
When he finally came in, he walked directly to Officer Reyes and asked to give a statement.
I watched him cross the lobby.
May you like
I didn't follow.
But I didn't look away either.
