Free The Opposite of Dark by Debra Purdy Kong

Georgie.” Simone led him into a room and shut the door.
    Casey followed her to a plywood table under a window at the back of the cottage. The fridge and stove looked forty years old. Above the sink, two plates, four cans of vegetable soup, and two cans of dog food sat on a shelf. Charcoal sketches of barren landscapes and soaring eagles were the only decoration on dingy, beige walls.
    â€œDid you draw these?” Casey asked. “They’re really good.”
    â€œMy nephew.” She eased into a chair. “Sit down, please.”
    Her French accent wasn’t strong, but Casey doubted she’d be hearing much of it. Simone didn’t strike her as the chatty type.
    â€œThank you for seeing me.” Casey watched Simone’s curt nod. “As I mentioned on the phone, after what happened Sunday night, I’m trying to learn more about my father’s past. Did you know about the murder?”
    Simone watched her a long time. “No, and that person is not Marcus.”
    â€œEvidence suggests otherwise.” As Casey described her trip to the morgue and the revelation about his West Vancouver home, Simone’s stoic expression didn’t change. “Your family in France told the police they didn’t know Dad.”
    Her eyes widened. “The police talked to them?”
    â€œYes.” Why did Simone look so worried? “The detective’s name is Lalonde. I’m sure he’d like to talk to you.”
    â€œBotulism killed Marcus. If you had seen him, you’d know.”
    â€œI wish I had, but I didn’t know he was sick until some doctor called and said he’d died.”
    â€œMarcus gave me your home number.” Simone looked down at her gnarled, arthritic hands. “I called your house three times, but no answer. I didn’t know where you worked. Marcus only said you were in security. Your profession troubled him.”
    Something Casey had known.
    â€œAnd then I became too ill to continue calling.”
    â€œIt’s lucky you recovered.”
    â€œI had only a small taste of his potato salad.” She shrugged and looked at her tiny patch of yard through the window.
    â€œAs I also mentioned on the phone, I only learned about you yesterday.” Casey waited for a response, but none came. “How did you and Dad meet?”
    â€œAn acquaintance referred him. Said Marcus was an excellent importer.”
    Casey sat back in the chair. “There must be some mistake. My dad was an architect. Are you sure we’re talking about the same Marcus Holland?”
    Simone watched her. “I have a picture. Stay here.”
    She left the room, returning a moment later with a snapshot of Simone and Dad at a birthday party. Dad was wearing his silk tie with the penguins on it, the one she’d bought him for Christmas six or seven years ago. One day, he got ink on the tie. Casey thought he’d thrown it out. After his funeral, while she was packing his clothes for Rhonda, she found the tie neatly folded and wrapped in tissue at the back of a drawer.
    â€œWhen was this picture taken?” Casey asked.
    â€œFive years ago, on my seventieth birthday.”
    â€œHow long had you known each other?”
    â€œTen years.”
    â€œAnd he was an importer back then?”
    â€œYes.”
    Casey wasn’t sure which irritated her more: that Dad’s other life had gone on for so long or that strangers knew more about him than she did.
    â€œI had no idea,” she murmured. “Why didn’t he tell me?”
    â€œMarcus didn’t want you to know that his architectural practice was failing. Architecture was wrong for him.”
    â€œHe was a good architect. Ran his own firm for years and he was always busy.”
    â€œHe was disillusioned and poor,” Simone replied. “Imports and exports brought in money to keep his architectural firm alive.”
    â€œSo, it was a side business.” Casey knew about