by Hart, Holly
Yeah. Get in there.
This time, Max types for a while: ok. I’m going in. update you later. tell wes sorry about his dad...if there’s anything I can do, let me know.
I send him back a picture of the kitchen and a frowny face. He doesn’t reply: guess he’s already gone after Carson.
With my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I set out in search of more lanterns, or at least a candle or two. A bunched-up duffel bag’s sitting where Wes’s dad used to sit, in the easy chair near the window. There’s a TV on the wall in the living room—that’s new. So there is electricity, or at least wiring for it. I hunt around in the cabinet under the sink and come up with a grimy box of 60-watt bulbs. I give it a shake: no broken filaments. Finally, luck’s on my side.
By the time Wes gets back, laden with XtraMart bags, I’ve got the lights on, the floor swept, and a winter’s worth of spiders tossed out the door. Wes stops in the doorway, looking guilty. “Oh—you didn’t have to....” He trails off, dropping the bags on the floor. “Always forget what a shithole this is. To me, it’s just home.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Yeah, it is.” He starts unpacking the groceries, all non-perishables. Doesn’t seem like the fridge is working.
I wander through to the living room. It’s nicer in here: this must be where Wes spends his time. The couch is new, and the carpet’s been replaced, or maybe shampooed. Either way, it’s several shades lighter than I remember. The pictures on the bookshelf have new frames—proper ones, not two sheets of glass clipped together. I pick one up: this, I remember.
“Ugh. Don’t know why I kept that.” Wes takes it from me, dusting off the glass with his sleeve.
“You were cute in your little cadet’s uniform.”
“Hah.” He sets the picture back in place. He was cute, all tiny and defiant, like a boy playing soldier.
“Ever wish you’d been able to stay in military school?”
“No.” He flops down on the couch with a grunt. “Coming home for good was the one silver lining, when Dad got hurt. That place was like...if there was a whole school full of Matt Danburys—and the teachers were Matt Danbury, too.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah.” Wes kicks off his shoes and stretches out. The dark circles under his eyes are alarming, in the glare of the naked bulb. “At least it was good here, for a while. And I had you.”
“You should get some sleep. A nap, at least, while I make some soup.”
He turns his face away from the light, and once again, I’m swimming through the past. Swap the new couch for a pea-green pinstriped number, Wes’s Burberry coat for a ratty blue cardigan, and it’s the night after Matt died. Wes was asleep when we dropped by to check on him, face buried in the cushions. His dad was passed out in his easy chair. I glance at the floor, where a bowl of creamed corn had slid from his lap and shattered, half expecting to find it still there.
I shake my head to clear the fog, and retreat to the kitchen. The water runs brown, then red, when I turn on the tap—but at least there is water. I wait for it to run clear and start rinsing dishes. Max hasn’t texted again. It’s too soon to worry, but I can’t help it.
If I haven’t heard from him by the time we’ve eaten, I’ll text him myself.
Chapter 35
Max
* * *
Carson’s not crying, thank fuck. Looks like he was, and recently, but for now he’s just sitting there. Staring at the floor.
“What?” He glares at his feet, refusing to meet my eyes.
“You okay?” I take a seat across from him. “You look—I don’t know. Upset. Pissed. Something.”
“You think?” He sniffs loudly. “I mean, aren’t you?”
I force myself to ease up. Steamrolling him won’t get me anywhere. “Weren’t you just saying we need to be there for each other? Well, here I am. And you seem—just being honest—all kinds of fucked up.”
That gets a laugh out of him, at least. Not the reaction I’d hoped for, but it’s a start.
“I mean, I don’t blame you. Every time I think about that wedding, going through it all over again, I want to claw my own eyes out.”
Carson grunts. Crosses his arms over his chest. So I’m getting to him—maybe. Making him nervous.
“You know, I still have a piece of her veil. Grabbed a corner when she took off, and I’ve been carrying it around ever since, transferring it from wallet to wallet....”
“That’s....” He clears his throat. “So you’re pretty much obsessed, huh?”
“Fuck you.”
He looks past me, expressionless. “You know, I....”
“What?”
“I’ve been thinking about this whole blackmail thing.” He pulls his paperback out of his pocket and starts folding it back and forth between his hands. “We’ve been looking at this like we’re the victims, but what if we’re the bullies? What if this is us getting what we deserve?”
Motherfucker. “You think Dev deserved to die? Or Kyle?” If he says yes....
“Not Dev. He was, y’know—he was Dev. He was...different. He didn’t even get a—a...dossier of shame. Just the video, and that note.” Carson sniffs again and swallows hard. “Kyle, though—some of his secrets were bad.”
I dig my nails into my palms and count to five: Don’t strangle him. Don’t pound him into hamburger. Don’t—
“And mine....”
Now, this could be interesting. “Yeah?”
“My worst secret—the thing I’m most ashamed of—it wasn’t even on my list. And even without it—even without it....” Carson scoffs. “Forget it.” He blunders to his feet, dropping his book. So that’s his game? Pique my interest with a hint of remorse, only to get up and leave?
“What—deserting this conversation, now?”
He stops in his tracks. I brace myself for a blow, but instead, he bursts out laughing. “Oh, you have no idea.”
“So clue me in.”
He picks up his book, still chuckling to himself. “He’s right about me. I did walk away from my duty—in war and in life. And I’ve been getting away with it all this time, thinking... I don’t know. I don’t know what I’ve been thinking. I’ve been sleepwalking for years, stacking one fuckup on top of another, and... Hell, now I’m losing everything, it’s like none of it was mine to begin with.”
I can’t wrap my head around what he’s saying. He’s...confessing to cowardice? Carson? What possible advantage can he glean from wallowing in his own disgrace? “You’re saying it’s true? You actually ran from combat?”
He sits back down. Rolls up his book. Flattens it out on his knee. “Not that. There was—a building collapsed. I got knocked out. Don’t know what happened after that, but I didn’t—I wasn’t conscious for any of it. Long story short, I woke up in some village—barely a village: few tents, couple of shanties in the middle of nowhere.” There’s a distant look in his eyes, like he’s seeing it right now, some sandswept hamlet, far away. “It was nice. Quiet. They, y’know—they fed me. Bandaged me up. They spoke English fine, but...fuck. I was hurt. I was—Hell, I was scared. I was nineteen years old, fresh off six weeks of getting shot at, seeing shit blown up—I didn’t want to leave. So I kept my mouth shut. Never tried to use their radio.” Carson closes his eyes, breathing shallowly, fingers tapping on his knees. “Anyway. Couple of weeks later, my unit showed up. Got me airlifted out of there. Kept expecting someone to ask me why I never tried to get back on my own, but instead—instead....”
“They gave you a medal.” I remember that. It was pretty big news: a wounded hero. A daring rescue. Prime-time gold.
“Kyle was the only one who knew the real story. That’s why we weren’t speaking. He said something—something true. Something I didn’t want to hear.”
“What did he say?”
“That I half-ass my life.” He tilts his head back, blinking back tears. Or pretending to. I look away, uncomfortable. “He said I duck my responsibilities, knowing someone
else’ll have to pick them up.”
He’s talking about his kids. Has to be. But...he’s going to admit it? The one thing I thought I had on him?
“Thing is, me and Sheila—we’ve been over for a while.” His voice cracks, and he covers it with a cough. “I came home angry; she came home...not who she used to be, at all. She cheated, then I cheated, and...I’ve been cheating ever since. I’ve got two kids, two houses I can’t afford, two women out of patience with me—and I can’t say I blame them.”
He knows. He knows I’m onto him. There’s no other explanation. He’s figured it out, and now he’s trying to justify himself, before he...what? Talks me over a precipice? Shoots me dead, himself? “Carson—”
“Sheila—she doesn’t go out any more. Doesn’t work. Doesn’t shop. Doesn’t let anyone in the house. How was I supposed to leave her like that?”
“I don’t know.”
Carson hangs his head. “Well, now she’s left me. I’m out for good, this time. And Katrina—that’s my...the mother of my children—she’s had it with me, too.” He gets up and turns his back on me. “The money I got from Dev, that’s gone. Couldn’t pay off... She’s losing the house, and that’s on me. I did that.”
No shit. I’d almost forgotten he took money from Dev. Was that what started all this? Did he try to go back to that well?—did Dev refuse? Bastard—bastard. I can’t take another second of his crocodile tears. “And that’s why you’re doing this?”
“Doing—?” He stiffens. “Doing what, exactly?”
“Cut the act. You know what I’m talking about.”
He spins on his heel, and—fuck me. He’s actually crying, eyes bloodshot, cheeks wet and blotchy. I barely have time to wonder how he does that, before he’s on me. “You think I want money? That’s what this is? You think I’m, what, coming to you with my hand out, like that would solve my problems?” He jerks me to my feet by the lapels. “Fuck you, Max. Fuck you sideways. You came in here. You acted like you cared. The one time I talk to you about something important, and you throw it in my face—Fuck. You.”
I shove him off. “Not that.”
“Then what? What else could you possibly—”
“I know it’s you.”
“It’s—” He drops his arms to his sides. The blank look on his face fades into one of consternation, then rage. “You think I sent those notes?”
I open my mouth to reply, but his fist cuts me off. He’s fast, far more agile than I’d have given him credit for. One minute, I’m standing; the next, I’m flat on my back, jaw throbbing, wind knocked out of me. Not sure, but I think I might’ve blacked out for a while.
Carson’s shadow falls over me. I lift a hand to fend him off, but it flops uselessly, drops to my side. I’m dizzy. On the verge of unconsciousness. And he’s reaching for me. Hands coming for my throat, huge hands; he’ll crush my windpipe in five seconds flat.
“Don’t—” My protest is nothing more than a squeak. I bat at him, and bright specks dance before my eyes.
“—hit your head pretty hard.”
What?
“Okay—don’t try to move.” He’s loosening my tie. Popping my collar. “Can you breathe?”
Thought I was. I suck in an experimental gasp. My breath whistles in my throat. I choke, cough, gag forcefully.
“Oh, shit. Relax. I’ll call—”
He’s standing up. Leaving me here. I grasp at his sleeve—Oh, no, you don’t. Not this time. If this is how I die, he’s fucking watching. That’s right. Take a good look at what you’ve done.
“God, what’d I do—what’d I...goddammit....” He pats at his pockets till he finds his phone. “I’m not going anywhere, all right? Just calling 911. You’re bleeding all over the floor.”
I’m bleeding? I gulp in another labored breath. No whistle this time, but there’s an awful tickle in my throat. I gag around it, stomach heaving.
“Oh, hell, don’t do that!” Carson grabs my shoulder, phone clutched to his ear. “Look, it’s been a while since my first aid training. Don’t know if it’s safe to move your head, so just...swallow it down, huh?”
Jesus—how hard did he hit me? I fight down my gorge, shivering through a cold sweat. I can feel the blood now, trickling down the back of my head. Must’ve hit something on my way down.
“Damn it. Why’d you have to—why’d you go and say something like that?” Carson smacks himself in the face, twice. Hard. “And why the fuck am I on hold? How does 911 put me on hold?”
I swallow again. The itch in my throat’s letting up, at last. And my head’s starting to clear. I lift my head just enough to prod at my scalp. There’s a pretty good goose-egg back there, and what feels like a decent-sized gouge, but I’m pretty sure I’ll live. I grab the arm of my chair and pull myself to my knees.
“What are you doing? Stay—hello? Yeah! My friend took a fall. Cracked his head. He was out cold for—would you lie down?”
I drag myself into my chair instead. The floor’s fucking hard, and my head hurts. And my ass hurts, and my elbow, and my back—pretty much everything, down to my pride.
And Carson—he’s actually getting help. Hovering over me with real concern. I don’t get it. I caught him. He laid me out...and his next move—he brings the cops into it? Doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t track at all, unless....
“It—it really wasn’t you?”
He glances over at me with a scowl. “No—that was him. He’s conscious now. Uh—kind of?” My ears ring as he snaps his fingers in front of my face. “I don’t know. He sat up, got himself into a chair, but he’s pretty incoherent.”
No, I’m not. Am I?
“Just get here, all right? I—there’s a lot of blood. And he’s cold to the touch. Think he’s in shock.”
I’m cold to the touch? Feels like I’m burning up. I let my head fall back—screw the upholstery.
Carson taps me on the cheek. “Stay with me. Please. Open your eyes.”
Didn’t realize I’d closed them. I focus in on his face. He looks...like me, in the mirror, this morning. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Worried. Same as the rest of us. “You—”
“Don’t try to talk. Just...breathe, okay? Breathe.”
I breathe. Carson fusses. He’s still on the phone, listening, talking, updating someone on my condition. I’m shivering, apparently. Fading in and out. I breathe some more, through waves of pain and nausea and grayness. Shit. Did I just...Did I—
“They’re here.” Carson hangs up, at last. “You with me?”
I nod, and instantly regret moving my head. If I felt spiteful, this would be my moment to decorate his shoes. He kind of deserves it, but... I swallow my vomit, grimacing at the burn.
“You’ll be all right. I’ll come with you. You can press charges—whatever you want. This is....”
His voice dwindles to nothing, drowned by the buzzing in my ears. I close my eyes, open them, and I’m on a gurney, being wheeled through my own foyer. Someone—one of the paramedics, I guess—finds my decor tacky. Carson’s... I can’t see him. Can’t see anything but the ceiling, the stars, the ceiling again, and then we’re in the elevator. In the ambulance. In some green-curtained cubicle, and Carson’s pacing around.
Fucking sit down. Want to talk to you.
He doesn’t.
Not sure I said that out loud.
“Water.”
That gets his attention. “You can’t drink anything. Not while you’re in and out like that.”
I’m not in and out. I’m just...drifting a little. And I’m thirsty. And my mouth tastes like ass. “Water.”
“The doctor’ll be back any second. See what she tells you.”
Doctor? Back? I already—she already...? I don’t remember that at all. For the first time, real fear pools in my gut. But I don’t feel that bad now. My head feels like an anvil fell on it, and I’m pretty sure my dinner’s destined for that puke bowl over there, but I’m all here. I’m focused. Not....
“Talk to me.” I reach for Cars
on, missing by a mile. “Sit down and talk to me.”
“The cops are going to be here any second. I—”
“Fuck the cops. Talk to me.” Need something to hold onto. If he walks away right now, so help me—
He sits down heavily. “I’m here. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. There’s no excuse.”
Damn right there isn’t. I shoot him a poisonous glare. If it isn’t him—damn it. If it isn’t him, the real culprit’s just won again. Set us against each other, landed me in the hospital, and Carson—no. No way. This, at least, I can fix.
“Don’t think we’re good here—we’re not. But when the cops get here, the story is we were horsing around. You knocked me down by accident. I’m not pressing charges. Not for this.”
“Not for this?”
“I only care about the flash drives. The rest—”
“Fuck’s sake!” Fire flashes in his eyes, and goes out just as quickly. “Where’d you even come up with that? Why would I want to—you know what? Don’t tell me. Whatever you must think of me, to imagine I’d stoop so low... I don’t want to know.”
He doesn’t—he really doesn’t. I look away, embarrassed. Those things I said about him, about his military service—God help me if I’m wrong. I was so sure, when I said them, but that stricken look on his face... I don’t think he’s that good an actor. And he took care of me. Got me help. After he punched me, granted, but I might’ve done the same, if the shoe’d been on the other foot.
“Let me just ask—did you ever think to blame Wes? Or Kate?”
My face prickles. Can’t honestly say I did. But neither of them fits. “Kate’s the only one who couldn’t have had all our secrets. And Wes, uh... Let’s just say he was in London when the blackmailer was....” Perving on me and Kate. “Gathering evidence for that last round of notes.”
“Was he, though? Did you see him go?”
Not technically, no, but Wes? Mousy little Wes? Wes, who cried like the world was ending over the death of a kid who made his life miserable?
Carson picks at a loose flap of skin, where he split his knuckles on my jaw. “I’m not saying it was him. Or her—or you. But it sure as shit wasn’t me. I can’t prove it, but—wait.” He sits up fast. “Maybe I can. When was he spying on you and Kate?”
