The Guilty One Read Free Page A

more than all the career coaches and strategy seminars and corporate retreats in the decades since combined, was the secret to his success. A few years back, before he sold the silicon panel manufacturing business he’d built from the ground up—more to amuse himself than anything—he’d gone looking for the book, but it was long out of print.
    So here Ron was, probably the greatest success story ever to profit from that forgotten decades-old business tome, crouching on the outer ledge of the Golden Gate Bridge, mere seconds from death. It seemed a shame that F. R. MacAuliff (Ron would never forget the author’s name, or his grinning round face above a too-tight shirt and shiny wide tie in the photo on the dust jacket) had never known the effect he had had on his protégé. MacAuliff was probably dead now. Ron looked down at the water far below—murky and choppy today, suitable for despair—and then back at his would-be rescuers. Esteban and Dane—like actors on a seventies cop show, with just the right amount of appealing yet nonthreatening multiculturalism—and a girl with nice tits!
    MacAuliff, Esteban, Dane. The 1970s—was fate trying to tell him something? The thoughts in Ron’s head were starting to feel a little crowded. He’d been born in the sixties, but it was the seventies that had shaped him. His father had never laid a hand on him until he was eight years old. Magnus Isherwood’s rage hadn’t reached its peak until Ron was a teen, but Ron’s memories of that decade were marked by his father’s snarling fury, the fierce grabs that threatened to pull Ron’s arm from its socket, the humiliation of being taken down by a kick to the back of the knees. His father’s laughter as Ron gasped for breath after a gut punch. “Knocked the wind out of you?” he would jeer, as though even that was a sign of Ron’s weakness.
    And it was Magnus’s voice that whispered in his head now, cackling, cocksure. You couldn’t even get this right, could you, boy? How hard could it be—all you had to do was jump!
    â€œYou like sports? You following the Giants?” Esteban said now. Dane was edging closer, to the left. “Man, I could stand to get out of the wind, how about you?”
    Ron swallowed. His hand was cramping around the steel cable. Some orange paint was flaking from the steel plate at his feet. Underneath, the metal was tinged with rust. Ron rubbed the toe of his shoe on it and a flake came free and fluttered lazily down toward the water. The sight made his stomach flip, and he turned away from the water, gripping the cable ever tighter as he considered his would-be rescuers.
    â€œIt’s a good day,” Esteban said, suddenly serious. “I mean, every day’s got its challenges, right? And also, its good moments? I’d love to talk about that. Want to come up here and talk? We can go somewhere and take our time.”
    â€œYou don’t have to make this decision right now,” Dane finally piped up. She sounded even younger than she looked. “It’s a big decision. How about if we talk about it from up here?”
    Ron wanted to respond, but he was having trouble putting the words together. Somehow, he’d gotten stuck in that lost era. It wasn’t just his father’s face . . . it was Karl’s too. Karl’s face twisted with rage the last time Ron had seen him. The hatred written there. And somehow, Ron knew he was responsible. It was entirely reasonable for Karl to hate him for what he’d passed along in the blood, because, after all, Karl was the one who’d paid.
    â€œI always got away with it,” he managed to choke out, his teeth chattering. Was he cold? He was cold. Freezing, in fact.
    The officers exchanged a glance. For half a second he saw Esteban’s expression slip, and then the friendly grin was back in place. “Well, I don’t know