Part 1: The Whiskey Truth Thief
The funeral was a quiet affair, held in the same church where Troy and I had exchanged vows nearly four decades ago. The mahogany casket looked far too heavy for the man I used to know. I stood in the back, a ghost at the feast of my own life, watching people offer condolences to a man I had spent thirty-six years loving and two years grieving while he was still alive.
I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. It was Arthur, Troy’s father. At eighty-one, he looked like a crumbling monument. His eyes were bloodshot, and as he leaned in, the sharp, medicinal stench of high-end whiskey hit me like a physical blow.
“Arthur,” I whispered, reaching out to steady him. “You should sit down.”
He didn’t sit. He gripped my forearm with a strength that surprised me. His voice was a raspy, jagged edge. “You think you’re the martyr, don’t you, Claire? Walking away with your head high while he died in that little apartment alone.”
“Arthur, please. This isn’t the time.”
“You don’t even know what he did for you, do you?” he slurred, his face inches from mine. “You saw the money gone. You saw the hotel rooms. And you thought the worst. You always were quick to think the worst of him.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. “I saw the receipts, Arthur. I saw the empty bank accounts. I didn’t imagine the betrayal.”
Arthur let out a wet, mocking laugh. “Betrayal? He was saving your life, you fool. He was paying for a silence you didn’t even know was for sale.”
