I froze and saw that Charles had done the same. “Go on,” he finally said.
“The Canadian Transportation Safety Board was notified and a team was deployed. The scene was analyzed, but I was told there wasn’t much to analyze given the amount of deforestation in the area and the harsh conditions. The pieces were transported to Whitehorse for further analysis and that’s when I was called. Our flight pattern data could have been off— if you take the wind currents into consideration, it’s possible they drifted off course and went down there. This could be their plane. The CTSB allowed me to send samples to the manufacturer in France for authentication. Now we’re just waiting for the results.”
We stared at William in stunned silence. His shoulders had slumped and he seemed impossibly weary. I wanted to reach out and stroke his back, but I wasn’t sure if he’d allow it.
“They’re gone, William,” Charles said. His voice was low and sympathetic. “Even if the pieces are from the plane, it doesn’t matter. I know it’s hard to accept, even now, but they’re never coming back. Wyatt is never coming back.”
A heavy silence hung in the air and William ran his hands through his hair, a sure sign he was frustrated. Charles spoke again.
“Do you think this latest extortion attempt and the discovery of this wreckage are somehow connected? It seems a little implausible, don’t you think?”
William sighed. “I can’t ignore the timing. My gut says it’s not just coincidence.” He looked up, and I took a sharp breath at the anguish I saw in his eyes. There was heartbreak and a pain even I, who had lost someone I loved deeply, couldn’t fathom. But William was far from broken. He’d been beaten, but he was not conceding defeat, not if the hard, determined set of his jaw meant anything. “I don’t think that Wyatt’s alive, Charles. But I do think it’s possible that whoever is behind the threats might know something more about the wreckage. That’s what I need to find out and that’s why I haven’t let George take care of this. Yet. I’m sorry for any inconvenience the extra security may be causing. I can’t let anything happen to you. To any of you.” William squeezed my hand then. “But I have to see this through.”
I understood now. I understood everything and I felt like the worst kind of asshole for leaving him in Napa and for doubting him ever since. Why hadn’t I just trusted him like he’d asked? Why hadn’t I seen his vulnerability? He had needed me to be there. He’d needed someone to take care of him. Instead, I’d made him rush back to Chicago to take care of me.
“William,” his uncle said. “Abigail and I are here for you. We’ll always be here. Do what you need to do. Just be careful.”
William nodded and, with a pat on William’s back, Charles quietly left us alone.
“I’m here too,” I said. I would take care of William, the man and the hurt little boy with the tender heart. I loved him more than ever now.
Abruptly, he stood. “We have to go. Grab your coat.”
“We’re leaving?”
“No. I need to find something. Come with me.” He held out his hand, and I took it. We donned coats and gloves and headed outside. It was dark now, but he led me down a shoveled winding path behind the house. His steps were sure and confident, as though he’d traveled this way many, many times before. Finally, a large coach house came into view.
William reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He seemed to know the key without even looking, and he opened the door and flicked on the lights. It was chilly inside but not freezing, and he led me upstairs to a room stacked high with boxes. Some of them were labeled Christmas and others looked old and battered. William headed for those. “These boxes are from my parents’ home in the city,” he said. “Abigail has kept them here for me. There’s something…here it is.” He reached for one of the cartons and pulled it off of a short stack of cardboard boxes.
He flipped the top flap open, and I spied a half dozen or so leather-bound photo albums. My mom had some just like them, filled with our family pictures. William removed an album and turned toward a couch covered with a drop cloth. He yanked it off and pulled me down with him onto the old couch. He drew me close, wrapping his arm about my waist and laying the book half on his knee and half on mine. Opening the album, he said, “Catherine, I’d like you to meet my family.”
I’d seen a picture of his parents in his huge walk-in closet at his penthouse, so I had an idea of what they would look like, but it was still a shock to see the carefree snapshots of his mother and father as a young couple. William looked a great deal like his father, though there was some of his mother in him—he had her eyes. He flipped the pages slowly, years passing with a flick of his wrist. There was a baby and then a toddler who must have been Wyatt. His parents were beaming with pride at the little boy. His mother had a quiet beauty, while his father had much of the same charm and charisma William possessed. They were a beautiful family. I didn’t remember any of my own family photos looking so warm.