Free Knightley and Son (9781619631540) by Rohan Gavin Page B

“I think it had something to do with whatever you were working on, Knightley. And until I find out the truth, I’m holding you responsible for her death.”
    Knightley swallowed hard, then composed himself. “Based on the state of the car, the investigation concluded it was a tragic accident, nothing more,” he replied in measured tones, controlling his emotions. “Your mother was the finest researcher I ever worked with. And she loved you very, very much. I did everything I could to protect her.”
    “You couldn’t even protect your own marriage,” she answered back.
    Knightley winced. “It’s never easy losing someone you love,” he said, unconsciously glancing through the doorway toward where Jackie’s voice could be heard from the kitchen. “And you, Tilly, learned that younger than anyone should ever have to . . . Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
    With that, Knightley closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers and resting them on his brow, as if soliciting guidance from a higher force. His lips pursed, and his breathing reduced to a shallow whistle through his nose.
    “Dad?” prompted Darkus.
    “Alan?”
    Darkus drew closer, concerned. “What’s wrong with him?”
    “He does this sometimes when he’s on a case. He’s just thinking. Alan . . . ?”
    Bill nudged him; then nudged him again; then gently rolled up Knightley’s sleeve and took his pulse; then prized open his eyelids and checked the size of his pupils. He turned back to Darkus, flummoxed. “Well, I’m afraid he appears to be in another narcoleptic trance . . . Essentially, asleep.”
    “But he only just woke up,” said Tilly.
    Darkus felt a sick feeling return to his stomach. “Is it another . . . ‘episode’?”
    “It’s too early to say. If it lasts longer than twenty-four hours, we ought to seek medical attention.”
    “He’s not going back to Shrubwoods. I promised.”
    Bill ignored him and continued to observe Knightley. “It appears to be stress-related—a relapse of some kind. Alan, if ye can hear me, give us some kind of a sign.”
    There was no response.
    “Dad?” Darkus persisted, tugging his arm.
    Bill gestured to Tilly to leave the room, and realizing this was perhaps more serious than it first appeared, she obliged.
    “Dad?” urged Darkus.
    A curious expression passed across Bill’s face, and Darkus caught sight of it: as if his father’s mishap was somehow Bill’s good fortune.
    “Don’t worry, Doc,” he said. “Leave this to me . . .” Bill paused a moment, then whispered to Knightley: “Alan, if ye want Darkus to help us with the case, give us some kind of a sign.”
    His father provided no response.
    “A’right,” said Bill. “If ye don’t want him to help us with the case, give us some kind of a sign.”
    Darkus looked at Bill incredulously. He knew exactly where this was going. Knightley’s face remained as still as the surface of a lake; his body didn’t move a muscle.
    “I’ll take that as a yes,” concluded Bill. “You’re on the case, Darkus.”
    “But—”
    “That is, if ye think you’re up to it.”
    “Well, of course I’m up to it,” said Darkus defensively.
    “Good.”
    Darkus struggled to make sense of the predicament he found himself in. “But . . . what about Dad?”
    “We’ll make sure he’s well taken care of. There’s not much ye can do for him here. And I’m afraid we don’t have time to waste.” Bill excavated himself from his chair and ushered Darkus toward the hallway.
    Darkus lingered by his father’s side. He’d patiently waited four years for him to wake up, and through some cruel twist of fate his father had simply fallen asleep again. But this time Darkus knew he couldn’t remain in limbo anymore. His father’s return—albeit brief—had brought with it a valuable inheritance: a calling. And having honed the necessary skills over a number of years—albeit by accident—Darkus saw no