Dead Fall by Matt Hilton

door, and a flight of stairs led down into the basement. Another door at the bottom was etched around its frame with a dim glow.
    I paused before descending.
    Didn’t need to hear her sob to know.
    â€œI’m too late,” I said. “I heard what happened and I’m sorry.”
    Millie nodded: a single hard slash of her jaw. “My sister died because you wouldn’t believe him.”
    She turned away before I could reply, her tread heavy, then quickening as she fled up the stairs to a bedroom. Overhead a door slammed and I listened to the young woman sobbing uncontrollably.
    â€œShit . . .”
    I pulled the cap off and jammed it into a coat pocket. Scrubbing a hand through my hair, I took the stairs down to the basement, counting the steps. With each one it felt like I was descending into the abyss.

 
    C HAPTER T WO
    â€œ I HEAR YOU’RE supposed to be some kind of knight errant, these days.”
    I shook my head. “That’s not the way I’d describe myself.”
    Don Griffiths was sitting in an old chair with sunken upholstery and faded patches on the arms. How many hours had he spent sitting in this selfsame place over the years? How many memories could that old chair recount if it was given a voice? Over Don’s shoulder an archaic cine-camera projected some of those memories onto a makeshift screen. The flickering images were the only source of light in the otherwise dark room, two small girls playing in a paddling pool while first a younger Don and then his late wife, Sally, mugged and danced for the camera.
    Don didn’t look at me. His gaze was lost among the images on the screen. “How would you describe yourself? I thought you were someone I could rely on. Where were you when I needed you?”
    I exhaled, and turned to view the girls happily playing. Even back then Millie was distinctive. Her slightly older sister, Brook, was pretty as well, but with the elfin qualities inherited from her mother. It was difficult coming to terms with the thought that the little girl—who was so full of life and wonder on the screen—was now dead and buried.
    â€œI was injured.” Though no excuse, it was the only thing I had to offer.
    â€œI noticed you were a bit lame when you came down the stairs.” Don wasn’t interested in anyone else’s pain, only his own. “But you’ve been injured worse than that before. Wounds never stopped you then, Hunter.”
    â€œI was younger.”
    â€œYeah,” Don agreed. “We both were. But my daughter won’t grow any older, will she? Her children will never know their mother’s love again.”
    There was no answer to that. I could only watch as Don shuddered, his chin dipping on his chest. The man wept silently. Laying a consoling hand on his heavy shoulder wouldn’t help. Don wouldn’t welcome my pity. Always pitiless to others, he saw emotion as weakness. Maybe it would do him good to experience some of the grief.
    It was as if Don could hear what I was thinking. His head came up and he fixed his gaze on me. “I know you don’t owe me a damn thing. In fact, if you told me to go to hell, I guess I’d understand. But I didn’t think Joe Hunter was the type to turn his back on a woman or her children.”
    â€œI’m not.” Even as I said it I realized how ineffectual my words sounded. I turned back to the screen. Millie and Brook had moved on to chasing each other around the garden with buckets of water. There was no sound accompanying the home movie, but by the rapture of their faces both girls were squealing in glee. Closing my eyes didn’t help.
    The chair creaked, and there was a grunt as Don stood up. He turned off the projector and the room was plunged into darkness that was evident even behind my closed eyelids. Only at the click of a light did I turn and look at the older man. Don had both hands folded across his bulging stomach, his