Safety first! My friend and backup picked me up that evening to chauffeur me to the local wine bar, Lola’s. I made a small joke inside my mind that she should be making double time for playing the role as both the chauffeur and the bodyguard; the friendship portion was free.

We entered the bar, illuminated only by candlelight. Just as my imagination had led me to believe, we were the only patrons. Another internal smile when I thought of checking the exits and having a plan for when the shit really went down. Okay, enough of the television plays, this was only going to be a platonic conversation…right?

I ordered a cocktail, lord only knows a dirty martini would get me through this, and sat waiting and watching as my gaze switched from my watch to the door and back again.  Finally, in through the blustering wind came the woman who I thought was going to be my answers to so many questions.

She took a seat to my right, opposite of my friend/bodyguard, and made the normal amounts of small talk. I wonder why people feel the need to go through those trivial motions; we all know what we are there for so let’s just get to it. Nevertheless, I played along, talking about the shock of winter weather coming from Texas…. yeah, that’s the reason for my current shock.

Suddenly, she began to cry. She blubbered through her words of how much she loved him and missed him and how she didn’t understand what had happened. Listen, I can certainly understand the pain of loosing someone you cared about, but I wanted to reach across the deserted bar, grab her face between my hands and scream “pull it together you nut, this is my father we are talking about!” I think for a moment I actually saw myself do that, and much worse. However, when I resumed soul and mind back into body I found that I was still seated on my bars-stool, no evidence of movement.

She carried on for a bit until I finally interrupted to ask her to walk me through the events of that evening. Her story was similar to that I had heard from Kim, and I listened to her every word as if attempting to make a mental recording of everything she said. Maybe I had liquid courage, or maybe I was just that full of anger but I didn’t hold any of my internal questions back at that point.

“When you heard the gunshot through the phone, why didn’t you go running to the house? Wasn’t there a part of you that needed to know if there was any chance of saving someone you “loved.” I asked her. My tone was much more frank and cold than I had intended, but like I said, anger was present in that room.

Her response was that she was “paralyzed in fear.” And that she didn’t know the proper response. She said she thought she had done the right thing by dialing 911.

“You will never know if you could have saved him,” I explained to her. “How can that possibly sit well with you?

Her tears spouted again, and once again I found myself wanting to slam her head against the wooden edge of the bar screaming for her to get it together! This is my time, my moment, I have not a care in the world what you feelings are ! You didn’t care enough to walk 100 yards across the street! Why should I care about the pain you are supposedly feeling now?!

I was finally able to gain a bit of control over my thoughts and ask her what the initial fight that spurred the event was even about? She explained that a trip to her hairdresser revealed that my father had been seeing another woman other than her. Amy Ripso was her name, and I had met her before. (At least she was older than I). She confronted my father and Amy and the truth had been disclosed. She expressed her pain and noted that was the reason for their altercation on the evening in question.

Moving the conversation away from her (selfish pain in my ass) and back to the answers I was so desperately seeking, she walked me through similar events that had been explained earlier by Kim. As she explained her story she let me know that following the police finding the body she didn’t know what to do so she called Amy because she lived just a few blocks down Park Avenue. Don’t all women call the other woman in the life of the man they love during a time of crisis? I mean, the other woman would be my absolute first choice as a shoulder to cry on. What the hell kind of game is unfolding here?

As I forced down the rest of the second dirty martini I finally decided to ask the questions that I had intended for this meeting in the first place. I explained to Ms. McCraben that as a family we both wanted and needed to move forward with after death arrangements. Things such as church vs. funeral hall service, burial vs. cremation and division of assets. I informed her that we were missing a piece of the will and inquired if in their moments of intimate conversation (the bile rose in my throat as I uttered these words), if possibly he had shared any information with her.

In the most dry and monotone voice I have ever heard come from a human being, McCraben responded “Oh, the will; I have a copy of that.” Be it the second martini or the the obnoxious frank tone in which she had just delivered the news, I had to use my free hand to steady myself from falling off the bar-stool.

“What the hell do you mean you have a copy of it?” My voice was a bit higher octave than I had intended and I was suddenly grateful for the absence of an audience in the bar. I saw a smile smile curve at the side of her mouth and I know my bodyguard/friend must have noticed the same because I suddenly felt her strong steady hand on my shoulder.

“Well I am sure you are aware that the current copy of the will is missing a page, a very important page that my family needs. Have you any idea where I might be able to obtain the page?” Even as I asked the question, I felt my insides threatening to come out. the prospect of even sitting here and having this conversation with this disgusting excuse for a woman was enough to make me want to waterboard her with multiple batches of dirty martinis; but now that would just be a waste… of good alcohol of course.

Her response came just as curt as the last, although this one was dripping with just a hint of entitlement. ” I didn’t bring the copy of the will with me, but I know the denominations to which you are referring.” With the most coy and gratifying look on her face, McCraben stated ” it says 25% of the estate is to go to your sister Kiera, 25% to you and 50% to me.” She finished her sentence and turned back her glass of red wine. I flicked my high heel on the corner of my stool to spin myself to face my friend. “Will you excuse us for just a moment?” I had known this friend long enough that she knew I was giving her an opportunity to remove herself from the current conversation and giver plausible deniability should this escalate further. Spinning back around to face the hideous monster of a human being that sat next to me, I took the final swig from martini #2 and stood.

I poised myself the best I could, begging myself internally to remember what I had truly come for; answers. I leaned in close so that only McCraben could hear my soft but firm voice. “You mean to tell me that we have sat here for two hours, while I watched your fake tears being forced from your eyes and I listened to every part of your pathetic accounts of the evening and you were sitting on this information all night?”

Her voice had moved from dry and blunt to almost giddy…. “I figured you would ask at some point.”

My friend was arriving back from her trip to the restroom just as I was prying my nails from the wooden edge of the bar. “Well then, I guess we are done here.” I turned to the barkeep and smiled, “Drinks are on her tonight” I stated, and propelled by liquid courage and balanced every so slightly by the arm of my friend, I strutted out the front door.