In the end, Henry didn't reveal his secret. His death did.
"Oh, God, Henry—!" she choked. "It's going to be okay. Everything's—everything's—"
She stopped to choke down another sob.
Henry, the bastard, merely smiled at her, covered in his own blood, in an ever growing pool of blood. The bullet had ruptured his artery. He knew he wouldn't make it and Jo knew he knew. But, God, it wasn't fair. First Sean and now—!
She whipped out her phone to dial 911, but a weak, bloody hand stopped her.
"Don't," Henry rasped. "It—won't—matter."
Jo's heart clenched. "But Henry—"
"You're right," he wheezed. "Everything—okay—"
A tear dropped treacherously down her cheek. "I—Henry—" The words wouldn't leave her mouth. She didn't know what to say.
Henry was dying and she didn't know what to say.
Trembling, she reached for her phone again, determined to call for help, but at the same time her terrified eyes never left Henry's face. She couldn't look away from his painful smile, couldn't help wondering why he was so calm to face death.
"Abe," he gurgled, "Go—Abe."
She was about to reply, but—
Henry and his blood vanished.
And suddenly Jo was staring at stainless, white concrete, wondering if she'd finally lost her mind.
Immortal.
Henry, the quirky, old-fashioned doctor she'd known for nearly a year was immortal.
Over two-hundred years old.
He was older than the United States for God's sake.
He could have met George Washington and Thomas Jefferson and Abraham Lincoln. He could have witnessed or even fought in the Civil War. He could have seen and judged the French Revolution. Fought in World War I and World War II. Seen China when it was still ruled by an emperor. No wonder he'd had such a strong reaction to the Hitler case. He'd lived through it and seen that man's evils firsthand.
He watched the world age while he didn't.
It was incredible. Unbelievable. It made her wonder how many other unbelievable things were actually real. Did witches and vampires and demons actually exist, too?
"Jo?"
Jo snapped out her reverie. "Uh, yeah?"
Henry looked concerned. "Are you alright?" He hesitated. "I know this is . . . a lot to take in."
Jo gave him a forced smile. "I'm fine, Henry. Really. It's just . . . this new case is really setting me on edge."
It wasn't really. It was a routine thing. A homicide in the middle of the night. A dead body. A mysterious cause of death.
Henry wasn't convinced. He nodded in acceptance, but Jo could see it in his eyes. He didn't believe her flimsy excuse. He'd done this too many times to be so easily fooled. At the thought, her heart once again leaped to her throat.
They were in Henry's apartment. Henry stood nursing a glass of red wine and Jo leaned awkwardly against the wall. She'd refused a glass of wine. Abe was in the kitchen making dinner. It smelled like lasagna, a dish she'd always appreciated.
It'd been a week since the . . . incident.
She appreciated everything the two men were doing for her. Really. Henry's . . . death had hit her hard. So much so that she couldn't even muster up the courage to be angry with him for hiding a secret like this from her. (Though could she really blame him?)
For a second she had seen Sean's face on Henry's body. It was like he died all over again, except this time she'd seen it first hand . . . and she couldn't do a damn thing about it.
Sure Henry hadn't really died, but that awful, heart-wrenching feeling—that yet another friend was going to die and leave her—stayed with her, reopened old wounds.
She half-resented that Henry could do what Sean couldn't: come back.
"Would you like to sit?" Henry offered, sitting himself. Jo quickly shook her head. "I'm fine, Henry. Besides, uh, dinner's almost ready isn't it?"
Henry took a minute to sniff the air. He smiled as the delicious scent pervaded his nose. "I suppose it is. Perhaps we should join Abe now."
Jo sent him another awkward smile, before averting her gaze.
Abe. The secret keeper. The only one besides her who knew Henry's secret. She wondered how long he'd kept it. Had they met when Abe was a young man?
Suddenly a thought came to her.
"Henry," she blurted, "who—who is Abe really?"
Now that she thought about it, the story that the two had spun, about Abe and Henry's father being business partners didn't make sense.
Henry gave a small smile. "I was wondering when you would ask that." He took a breath. Jo tensed. "Abe is my son."
Her breath caught.
The world seemed to stop.
"Who is she?"
"Abe's mother."
"No. Who is she to you?"
"Then that would mean that Abe's mother—"
"Yes," Henry quietly interrupted. "She was my wife. Her name was not Sylvia, however." He looked up at her, pain swirling in his blue eyes. "It was Abigail."
At once, Jo connected the dots.
"Wow, that's an . . . a generous gift. This person must have really cared about you."
"Yes, I suppose she did. But then she came to her senses and left me."
She had laughed.
"Yeah, they do that."
Oh God.
"Her name was Abigail."
"I'm sorry, Henry," she whispered. He nodded, eyes sad.
But, despite her horror, her mind returned to Henry's revelation.
Abe, seventy-year-old Abe, was Henry's son. He'd seen his son grow up and grow old.
That was when it struck her just how different Henry was from the rest of humankind.
What did it mean to be human? To be born, to grow, to think, to feel? And then after life has run its course, die?
Then, God, was Henry even human?
He was immortal. He couldn't die even from decapitation. Everlasting. Never aging. He'd still be walking the Earth in a hundred and even a thousand years while Jo was buried six feet under.
Here she saw the insurmountable gap between mortal and immortal. The man who would outlive his children and grandchildren and great grandchildren. The man older than nations and wars.
The difference between man and God.
Never before that moment had Jo felt so insignificant.
"Uh . . . Henry, I've got to go." She turned towards the door, hesitating, before turning back around. "I'll—see you tomorrow," she finished lamely.
Henry stood up. "You can't stay for dinner? It's nearly ready."
Jo swallowed. "I—I just remembered that I'm supposed to meet up with Mike to go over the case again. Sorry."
Henry furrowed his brows and that's how she knew he knew something was up. But ever the immaculate gentleman, he didn't call her out on it.
He just watched sadly as she left.