The Vigilante Game: The Golden Arrow Mysteries, #3

By Meghan Scott Molin

What do you do when the hero turns out to be the villain?

The events of the past summer have made MG Martin somewhat of a public figure, seeing as she chased a murderer on Halloween and her roommate confessed to being LA's vigilante hero, The Golden Arrow. Only, Genius Comic's fan-base isn't so sure they approve of her conduct. When MG is placed on a leave of absence by her boss, she has the opportunity to choose between carrying out her sentence in public time-out or quitting and being done with the Hooded Falcon forever. 

Something changes the moment Casey Junior calls her back into his office. Instead of asking for her decision, he's desperate for her help. A new wave of crime is sweeping Los Angeles, and this time it seems to be personally aimed at Casey Junior. He wants her to figure out who is threatening him, and put a stop to it. Throwing caution to the wind, she accepts…plunging MG straight into a new adventure where she is the hero in the cape and costume. Things take a chilling turn when crime scenes turn up matching scenes in MG's own personal comic project, throwing her directly in the spotlight of police suspicion. Someone in her life is playing double agent, framing MG to take a public fall. A whirlwind of comic-inspired cat and mouse leads to a startling discovery: the Golden Arrow may have been the villain all along. 

 

On the Eve of Christmas, everything's on the line, including her safety and Ryan's ticket for a plea deal. Forget the eight-tiny reindeer. MG would give anything for Santa's slaying ability as she and her friends find themselves dashing through a winter wonderland, up Christmas Tree Lane and down, in search of the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Meghan Scott Molin
• Release date: Dec 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393510734

Book preview

Chapter 1

All Hallows dawns sunny and blue this year. The light of day takes the magic out of Halloween night. It does more than reveal its secrets; it renders it inert. In the dark, everything looks enchanting. The possibilities are endless. The night air lends mystery to even the flimsiest of costumes, the darkness hiding flaws in any disguise. And then poof . In the light of day, the magic is gone, and all you’re left with is messed-up makeup, a wicked hangover, and the vague sense that the world used up a large dose of its magic at midnight. Gone are the ghouls, gremlins, and the thought that for one day the veil between worlds is thin—all that’s left today is smashed pumpkins I have to steer my car around, and scattered candy on the sidewalk.

I, MG Martin—comic-book writer by day and police consultant by night—chased my fair share of ghouls and gremlins last night. I know they’re real. Not supernatural, but real, honest-to-Thor villains. Murderers. Grudge-holders. Drug lords and double agents. I was there last night when my best friend declared that he is the Golden Arrow, LA’s vigilante darling. Real as last night’s events may be, I’m almost numb as I make my way down the familiar morning-lit, tree-lined street I’ve lived on for five years. Nothing about last night feels real, try as my brain might to convince my thoughts otherwise.

I still might look like the same person—albeit now a woman in a rumpled Alice dress with a black velvet hair bow askew in my dyed-bright-red hair—but so much in my world has changed. My roommate, Ryan, is still the main suspect in a months-long vigilante case as the self-confessed Golden Arrow, my other best friend, Lawrence, is back in the hospital after a crazed maniac attempted to kill him, and I—well, I am so sore from hair bow to teacup that I’m having a hard time steering my battered old Ford compact down the street. The Ford my boyfriend had to release from last night’s parking jail because I’m broke. Methinks the power steering is on its last little legs, and the cough and wheeze the car gives as I park and shut it off doesn’t give me much hope that it’s going to start again anytime soon.

I sit for a moment, staring as my watch rolls over from 6:59 to 7:00 a.m.. I’m relieved I’ve made it in time for Trog’s normal morning walk, because while my world may be ending, a dog needing to pee is as certain as death and taxes. Thank Thor for small comforting consistencies, I guess. I groan and stretch, a night tossing and turning on Matteo’s rock-hard mattress having done nothing good for the aches and pains I’d developed from the melee of helping to chase two people through a Halloween carnival parade. I’m not the athletic type, and the acrobatics required had far outstripped my normal pedal to work so I can eat whatever I want alliance with exercise.

The thought of my dog pulls me out of the confines of my car—named the Hurtling Turd for its dark brown/copper color and less-than-stellar-track-record—and propels me up the steps to the small porch. I hear Trogdor inside before I even insert my key in the lock, and his sweet little corgi ruff and gleaming black nose are insistent the moment I crack the door open.

Sorry old chap, you had a night alone, I say, crouching down and relishing the feel of my corgi spilling out onto the porch in a cloud of ginger-and-white hair. He must have extra-missed me because not only do I get a little yodel-growl of greeting, he obliges by stretching out onto his belly and displaying a rather impressive set of turkey drumsticks out the back.

Deeming me sufficiently haired and greeted, Trog gets up and shakes with a jingle before heading down the front steps to visit his favorite tree out front in the green belt of yards that connect my house with the others. I reach inside to grab his leash, and my fingers meet the Halloween costume I’d sewn for Trog, intending to put it on him last night. Alas, Trog never got the opportunity to model his Stranger Things demo-corgan look, and it makes me so upset that on impulse I pull it off the hook with the leash and lock the door behind me again. Trog is finished by the time I grab his collar, and off we head down the street. My neighbors either aren’t up and around yet, or are so used to my costumed antics that our appearance doesn’t warrant any sort of rubbernecking. Or possibly, it’s just your run-of-the-mill Los Angeles morning to have a sleep-rumpled Alice walking a fat and fluffy demi-corgan before work.

Work.

I groan out loud, since I have the luxury of a quiet sidewalk to myself. It’s the last thing I want to do today. Everyone is going to want to know what happened, and I don’t know that I have the wherewithal to give the blow-by-blow just yet. I consider taking a sick day, especially since later this afternoon I have a date with my detective boyfriend at the station. Nothing says romance like the light of an interrogation room, right? I gave a statement last night, but Matteo and his partner Detective Rideout have quite a few loose ends to tie up . . . unfortunately for me, since Ryan is my roommate and I’m a consultant on the Golden Arrow case, this is going to involve me. A lot.

A quick trip around the block brings Trog and me back to the house. And as soon as I’ve removed the costume and leash and closed the door, we stand there in the silence. There’s no hum of the coffee machine, no morning news on, no whir of all the fans that keep Ryan’s various gaming devices alive and well. It’s just too quiet.

Even Trog seems lost, because there’s nobody on the couch to snuggle up while I get ready for work. Truthfully, he spends almost as much time with Ryan as he does with me, and has for the entirety of his little five-year lifespan. His other parent is essentially MIA, and I have no idea when he’ll be back. If he’ll be back.

Ryan’s not in jail for a speeding ticket, this is big business. I mean, I worked the case with the LAPD. I know intimately that they have charges for breaking and entering, tampering with evidence, and setting a fire at a printing press.

I look around, contemplating my new reality. My new super-uber-duper-too-quiet reality. A reality in which I assume I now owe all the rent for however long Ryan is gone. The house seems completely foreign to me as I contemplate living here alone. I want my normal life back. I want my roommate here with me. I’ve never taken to change well.

A wave of sheer exhaustion overtakes me, and I sag against the wall of the entryway. There’s zero way I’m going to work. Everyone at Genius Comics is too close to everything right now for me to deal with. I shoot off a quick e-mail without leaving the entryway, basically begging off. I say I’m feeling under the weather, but everyone will know I’m playing hooky due to last night’s festivities. Call it mental health, call it ostriching, I don’t care. They can call me on it another day.

My phone dings. I pull it back out to reveal a message from L.

Home from the hospital.

And like mana from the Great Queen above, it seals my resolve for my new direction today. I turn to Trogdor. Okay, fuzzbutt, we’ve got a mission. Let’s hope that car starts again, or you’ll need your flying goggles.

Oh, it’s you.

I quirk an eyebrow at Lawrence. While I totally understand the door only being open a crack given the events of the past few weeks, his wording is decidedly grumpy for a best friend who is greeting another best friend.

In my arms, Trog gives a little wiggle and a graceless sneeze, complete with spit that lands on L’s cheek.

And you brought friends.

I pat Trog’s head. "Not friends, family. I glance pointedly at the door again. We came to see how you were doing. You know, since you texted me that you were home from the hospital. I made soup," I offer, shaking the bag on my arm when Lawrence still doesn’t move.

He sighs and opens the beat-up metal door to the salon’s back-of-house. "You made soup?"

I sashay in as well as one can carrying a thirty-pound hairy bowling ball and take stock of Lawrence. He looks downright awful, truth be told. Of course not. I just wanted you to open the door. But I did bring some, not even expired, from my pantry. Campbell’s.

A small smile tugs at Lawrence’s lips. How considerate.

Only the best for my bestie, I say, handing him the bag with a smile. But the smile falls off my lips almost as soon as it arrives. L, are you sure you should be out of the hospital? You look . . . well, like you should still be there?

I go back in tomorrow for outpatient checkup stuff, but they don’t want to keep me now that I’m up and around.

But you’re . . . bleeding. I motion to the gauze taped to his neck that has a suspicious dark spot in the middle. Just a week ago, Lawrence was nearly killed when an armed maniac attacked him with a knife in an alley. He’s lucky to be alive.

Just a little. The ghost of a smile plays on his lips. Merely a flesh wound.

Yeah, well, I respond back, that didn’t work out so well for our knight friend, did it? I take L’s arm and attempt to guide him back upstairs. Do you want me to warm up the soup?

He’s resistant to going back upstairs so I stop again.

Thanks for checking on me, MG. Really. I just need some time to recover. I promise.

If I’m not mistaken, I’m being excused. Unacceptable best friend territory. L needs nursing, and I need company. And we need to talk, or not-talk, about Ryan. We’re a match made in the oddest of Valhallas.

Well, that’s why I’m here. And Trog is here as moral dog-support.

Again, L blocks my attempts to go upstairs. I’m just tired, I promise. The last few days have been hell, and I just want to sit in a nice quiet apartment. His face softens and he reaches an arm gingerly around my shoulder. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?

O-okay, I say, making my way back to the door, if you’re sure. I mean, the past few days have been insane, I can’t really blame him, but while he wants a quiet apartment, it’s the opposite of what I want. But I’m not going to force myself and my little dog on a guy who obviously only wants to go rest. So. Fruitless trip it is.

I reach up and kiss his cheek. I’m glad you’re okay, L. Can I check on you tomorrow—

My parting words are interrupted by a quick series of knocks on the door. I startle back from L, raising an eyebrow at him as I go. My mental math says that everyone in our little family is present, allowing for the member who is incarcerated at the moment.

I—ah— L fishes around for a moment before shrugging in defeat and reaching around me to open the door.

Behind the battered metal door, my eyes come to rest on a head full of beautiful dark locks, brushing the collar of a rather expensive-looking leather jacket.

Oh, hello Whalon. Fancy meeting you here, I say in an overly dramatic fashion, while stepping backward to allow him into the entryway. I hold out my hand. I’m not sure that we’ve properly met. It’s an understatement, given that we met on Halloween night while L lay bleeding on the floor of the club where our biggest bad had been revealed, and the chase had started.

Whalon smiles at me warmly, a light seeping immediately into his lovely brown eyes. I’m charmed. Lawrence has told me so much about you.

I’m already pretty sure I like the dude, but his next action solidifies it for me.

And who is this tiny gentleman? His long brown fingers ruffle Trog’s scruff affectionately, and I’m immediately put at ease when Trog leans into it.

Trogdor, I answer with a smile. And he’s glad to meet you as well.

Whalon stoops a little, looking Trog in the eyes. "Well, you sure don’t look like a dragon, but it might not be polite to ask what aspect of your personality leant itself to the naming process. So, we’ll leave it at ‘I’m glad to make your acquaintance.’ He goes so far as to shake Trog’s little dangling leg on my arm, and I am completely won over. I don’t want to interrupt, shall I come by later?" This last question is asked over my head.

Ah, no, I answer, trying not to give L the stink eye for lying to me about needing to rest. He’d obviously wanted to be alone when Whalon arrived, and I don’t blame him. As much as L and I have to talk about, he and Whalon probably have more. It’s not every day that your long lost first love comes bursting into your life while you’re chasing a murderer. Especially when that murderer is a mutual friend from your childhood involved in the thirty-year old murder of your father-figure. No, it’s best I take my leave. Trog and I just stopped by to drop off soup, we’re headed out.

Oh, that’s so kind of you. I brought food too, please stay and eat lunch with us if you’d like. He motions to the brown paper bags at his feet. Brown paper bags from one of the nicest restaurants in town, that look to be filled to the brim with a decadent assortment of food. My stomach gives a growl.

No, I insist, shoving my plastic shopping bag with the can of soup in it at L, I’ve got to be going, thank you though. I’ll—ah—leave you to it. Lunch I mean. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, L.

L shoots daggers at me with his eyes, so I skirt around Whalon and head out the metal door. As soon as it’s shut behind me, I slump against it, and let Trog lick my face.

I know, I know, but we couldn’t invite ourselves to stay. It’s not polite. I sigh. And now, back into the car we go. He gives an ungrateful wiggle as I put him back into the passenger seat, and an undignified grunt as I fasten his little seatbelt harness. Hey, safety first. Do you think Han would let Chewy navigate if he were in danger of being flung to the floor of the Falcon? Definitely not.

And with that, I slide into the cockpit of my vehicle, faced with only one choice of where to go. Don’t have to go home, but we can’t stay here, I say to Trog as I place my beat-up Aviators on my nose. We’re heading to the desert.

Chapter 2

As much as I plan on heading straight out to Matteo’s house, the universe has other plans. The moment my tires screech onto the main street—literally, given my car’s penchant for needing the gas applied at the same time as the brake to keep it running—my phone rings. Usually I’m a hard pass on phone conversations, but my spider-senses tingle, and I dig through my messenger bag to find that it’s the main number for Genius Comics. Kyle, Simon, Paige, and Andy all have my cell number.

Something wicked this way comes, I mutter to Trog, as I pull the car over at the nearest curb, and press accept on the call.

I’m already firing up my defense ray for taking a sick day today. Do I play sounding sick? Attempted-murderer-catching flu? I decide to play it cool and vague despite my knotted stomach and sweating palms. I seriously hate phone calls. This is MG, I say, willing Trog to stay quiet. Thor help us if a dog or cat walks by.

MG, Lelani Kalapulani. Lelani. Vice President of Marketing at Genius Comics, Ryan’s girlfriend, my informal mentor, Matteo’s ex-fiancée, and all-around enigma. The cool voice of my boss is like the winds of winter falling on Winterfell. Night King chilly.

I—ah—hello. In this instance do I call her Ms. Kalapulani? Only Andy does that. But she’s never called me before. Ever. If this is about my sick day, I can totally come in. This borders on my ‘no apologies’ rule, but hot damn I’m a little rattled. Lelani is at work. The day after her boyfriend, my roommate, Ryan, was arrested for being the Golden Arrow. She’s either a fembot or the adultiest adult I’ve ever met in my entire life, eclipsing even Matteo.

There’s a beat of silence. Oh, are you ill?

I briefly close my eyes. I sent my text to Andy; it must not have made it to her yet.

I—er—no. Not really. Just a little beat up from last night. No need to expound. She chased a madman through a crowd too. Second rule of fight club, and all.

Good, Mr. Casey wants to know if you’d be available for a two o’clock meeting.

Oh. I flick a glance at the old school green-numbered clock on the dash, and wonder if the time is correct. If it is, I basically just have time to swing by my house, drop off Trog, and make it to the office. But one does not simply decline a private meeting with the President of Genius Comics, so. Yes, I’ll head straight into the office.

Good, thank you.

I’m about to ask why we’re meeting, and possibly how Lelani is doing, but the line goes dead. For the second time today, I’ve been dismissed. I frown at my phone for a good three seconds as if it too finds me offensive before I chuck it back into the messenger bag, wheel my car around, and go back the way I’d come.

Palm trees flash by my window as the commercial district gives way to more neighborhoods. Lawrence and I don’t live that far apart, and blessedly the traffic is light this morning. Los Angeles’s hot and stuffy summer is giving way to its mild and pleasant fall, my favorite time of year. We may never quite get to parka weather, but at the very least I can pull out some colorful scarves and cute hats without sweltering beneath them soon.

Twenty minutes later and one corgi lighter, I’m on my way to Genius Comics. As I approach the large steel and glass building—one which looks exactly the way a superhero’s headquarters should, rising head and shoulders above the buildings around it—I can’t help but ponder this meeting request.

It following right on the heels of the Halloween hoopla can’t be a coincidence. And Lelani hadn’t even been aware of me trying to play hooky, so that’s not a factor. Could it be because I’d bested not one but two villains related to the death of my boss’s father, Edward Casey Senior? I mean, it’s more than a little likely that Casey simply wanted to say thank you. Because of me, his father’s true fate has been unearthed, and rights righted. Justice served. Basically, someone could hand me a mask and a cape and I’d fit right in with the rest of the Justice League.

MG, the Purple Wonder, at your service.

In fact.

It’s well known that Casey Junior is offering a cash reward to the Golden Arrow for access to his story. Maybe as a stand in, he’s going to offer me the cash reward for my story. Or allow me to be the guardian of it until Ryan can claim it, or let me use it to help pay for a lawyer. The possibilities are endless. I mean, given my services to the city, and Casey’s connection with the Mayor . . . perhaps it’s a promotion. Truly, I don’t know why I wasn’t expecting this. L gets to go on the late-night shows, but I will be content as a lauded civil servant. A true hero to the people, removing bad guys from the streets. I wouldn’t kick money for a new car out of bed for eating crackers.

No, no, it was all so easy, I’d say to my adoring fans as I accepted the key to the city. All you need is a sharp mind. Little girls everywhere will see me as proof that they can do whatever they want. Stand strong in a man’s industry, hell, even become a real live superhero of sorts. I’m all but practicing my parade wave as I park in the employee lot.

My ride up the elevator is uneventful, and I arrive on the seventh floor out of habit. Shrugging, I figure I may as well stop in the team room, so I make my way past the receptionist and into the workspace in the back. Or, as I like to say: fancy up front, Walmart in the back. Our workspace is decidedly less chrome and glass than the lobby entrance on our floor . . . think portable workstations and white ceiling tiles—far from the epitome of a creative space. But every single time I arrive at work, the sweeping view out the back window takes my breath away. LA is, if nothing else, a beautiful city from above. From up here it’s made up of a mosaic of tiled roofs, green fronds, the glitter of cars, and my personal favorite: a killer textile district.

Yo, MG. I thought you were sick. Simon sits up, his chair sliding back as his feet come down off the desk of his workspace and onto the floor. Everyone in the room stops talking as I enter. And, given the last few words I heard were The Golden Arrow, I can only assume the discourse hasn’t moved past what happened last night.

Not sick so much as worn out. I roll my shoulders as I set my messenger bag down next to Paige at the little desk area we share. She and I are usually only in the office together on Mondays; for all the other days, she and I split the full-time writer’s position on The Hooded Falcon. I’m not making up my aches and pains. I currently feel like I’ve been run over by at least three-point-seven-five tyrannosaurus rexes.

Oh. Yeah. Understandable. Simon shoots a look across the room to Andy, and I feel like I’m in an episode of Parks and Rec. I resist turning to an imaginary cameraman to make a quippy comment.

Anyhow, I say in a determined effort to direct the conversation, I’m only here for a few minutes. Mr. Casey wants to meet with me.

Beside me, Paige raises an eyebrow. I ignore the impulse to tell her that I hope it’s a promotion and instead straighten my David Bowie Dance Magic Dance T-shirt under the black blazer I’d snagged off the hook in my entryway when I’d deposited Trog. Paired with my black acid-wash jeggings, it’s not exactly what I’d wear to a meeting with a head executive, but it could be worse. Hopefully. Maybe.

Do I look okay? I ask, checking my watch before connecting gazes with Paige. Sometimes it’s useful to have another woman in the office.

Her icy blue eyes flick down to my black sequin flats and back up to my presumably-kinda-messy dyed red hair. At least I’d remembered to remove the hair bow. Define ‘okay’, she says finally. Do you have a compact mirror?

No.

Then you look great, she offers with false cheer and a thumbs up. Behind her, Simon covers a snigger with a cough.

Or maybe sometimes I wish for a less honest woman in the office with me. Paige is as blunt and honest as they come, and while usually I admire that, right now it rankles. Oh well, no time to help it. Onward and upward. I give a small shrug at Paige who returns it, and I set out the door back into the elevator lobby.

It’s a short ride to the tenth floor, where the executive offices are. I walk past the darkened door of Lelani’s office, thankful I don’t have to try and come up with something comforting or suitably pithy to say to her today. So, how was your night? What time did you get home from questioning? How are you feeling about your boyfriend being incarcerated? just didn’t seem like polite watercooler fodder.

Casey Junior’s office is at the end of the short hall, and it probably takes up a quarter of this side of the building. Just like the conference rooms on the main level, it has two large rolling doors that give it rather an approaching the castle level vibe, and I feel the strange urge to ask for a Holocaust robe and a wheelbarrow. Just outside his office is a smaller reception desk, the attendant of which is nowhere to be seen. I smell fresh espresso, and wonder if Casey has a fetch and carry girl, and then ponder the existence of a totally private coffee bar or kitchen for the executives. For a moment, I have a pang of envy for the promotion Andy landed this summer. While he still works with us in the team room, he’s technically now a junior executive. Though I applied for it, it’s not the job I ended up wanting. I’d decided instead to drop to half-time to allow myself time to make and sell costumes. But, if it came with my own private coffee bar? Perhaps I’d been a little hasty.

Since no one is manning the desk, I step up to the doors and do my best Dorothy at the gates of Oz knock.

Come in, comes a voice from the other side.

I roll open one of the doors a smidge and peek in. If the size of these doors and the office behind them are meant to intimidate, they’re doing their job. Whereas I feel at least like an equal fish in my pond below, here I’m an X-wing against the backdrop of the Death Star.

Ah, Michael, come in.

I consider correcting him yet again that my name is Michael-Grace, but decide that at this point, five years in, he’ll never change. So, I just slip through the doors and start the trek to the head of the office where my boss boss, Edward Casey Junior, sits behind an impressively massive wooden desk. There’s no hint of the whimsy that breaks up the baroque furnishings at the Casey mansion here. It’s undiluted Casey Junior. Combined with the heavy furnishings, dark wooden shelves, and cushy wine-colored carpet beneath my feet, it oozes old-world mob-type patriarch. Behind me, the door rolls open, and a young man—tall and thin, a sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle—bustles in, carrying the cup of espresso I’d smelled earlier.

So, no fetch and carry girl, but a fetch and carry boy. Times are a-changin’, even if it’s at a monumentally glacial pace. He scurries ahead of me, sets the coffee on the desktop, then turns to face me expectantly.

Casey Junior finishes signing something in a folder, then sets it aside before flicking a glance at his assistant, then to me. Can Isaac get you anything? Espresso? Jasmine tea? Perrier?

Perrier? Nasty stuff, and far too hipster for me. I waffle between my desperate urge to appear polite and wanting a cup of that magic-smelling espresso. I decide to pack light in case I need to make a getaway. No thank you, I have a cup of coffee downstairs.

Without waiting, Isaac heads back out the doors, and the room darkens as he rolls them shut behind me. I suppress an urge to shiver. The last time I spent time alone with Casey, he was being interrogated about his father’s death. And he didn’t even know I was present. Here and now, I realize he only seemed approachable because he was a fish out of water. I’m now on his turf, and my nerve is failing fast. I might have been too hasty chucking getting in trouble for playing hooky off the table. He sure doesn’t look jovial. And there are no keys to the city on his desk, as far as I can tell.

Have a seat, Casey motions to an overstuffed leather high-backed chair off the corner of his desk, and swivels his chair to face it.

That’s a good sign, right? No one asks someone to sit down if they’re about to give them a dressing down about being late to work. I slide in and attempt to exude confidence. My old motto stands sentinel in my brain: give no quarter. Never let them see you sweat.

It sounds like you had an eventful Halloween, he starts off, fingers steepled in front of his bulldog-esque face, which is complete with neck folds like a WWF wrestler.

Ah. So, I am right. Yes sir, I agree, not quite wanting to toot my own horn. Best to let him thank me, so I can look humble.

Detective Rideout says that you assisted in apprehending another person connected to my father’s case.

Yes sir. Here it comes. Should I rub my nose and give an aw, shucks it was nothing? or would that be laying it on too thick? Of course, it wasn’t just me. My friend Lawrence helped. And Le—ah—Miss Kalapulani was there too. I didn’t want to come off as self-seeking either. Team player. All the way.

Casey Junior’s face doesn’t change, he just studies my face for a moment. Yes, Detective Rideout mentioned that as well. I’m glad to be approaching the end of this. Though my father deserves for these people to be caught, it’s been a terrible ordeal. For the briefest of moments, real emotion tinges his voice, and once again I’m struck by the realization that Casey really and truly did love his father. And that this ordeal has been personal