Keep You Close

by Karen Cleveland

  And what proof do I have? If I tell him everything, if I tell him about that gun in Zachary’s closet, and he doesn’t believe me, then all I’ve done is give him reason to arrest my son. And whoever’s doing this—whoever’s trying to keep me quiet, or get back at me, or whatever—what will he do if I come clean?

  I close my eyes and take a breath. But what I see isn’t Torrino. It isn’t Halliday, either. It’s that hand again, pressing hard against that woman’s back, bathed in spiraling lights. I’m watching him walk to the door with her. Watching him bend to whisper in her ear. I know he’s about to turn, about to make contact with me, and I open my eyes, send the memory tumbling away. But I feel like I’m gasping for breath.

  * * *

  —

  As I continued to drive down that highway all those years ago, I couldn’t stop shifting my gaze between the rearview mirror and the road, still watching for a tail. If there wasn’t one by now, my brain told me there wouldn’t be, that I could relax. My heart told me not to, that I should never relax, not when my son was involved.

  I looked at Zachary in the mirror. His eyes were closed, his head tilted sideways. Fast asleep, so peaceful and quiet. And it made me hope that maybe our life could go on as normal. Maybe everything would be okay.

  The farther I drove, the more I told myself I’d made the right decision. I still had a good reputation. I’d work hard in the new position. It was internal affairs—that wasn’t all bad. Surely there were people in the Bureau like Halliday, abusing their power. Maybe there were even some like the one I once was—vulnerable, afraid. Maybe I could find a way to make a difference.

  It wasn’t until we were halfway to D.C. that the thought occurred to me. If, in this new job, anyone did retaliate, it would be someone with the best training, with access to formidable resources. Someone who’d lost—or who stood to lose—everything. Someone, potentially, with power.

  If there was another threat, it would be by someone on the inside. Getting out of town might not be enough.

  It could make my life much, much worse.

  Chapter 23

  Zachary grabs another slice of pepperoni pizza from the box, his third one. It seems like just yesterday I was cutting his food for him, promising dessert in exchange for finishing his dinner. Where did that little boy go? Where did the time go?

  He catches me watching him. “You okay, Mom?”

  I set down the slice I’m holding. Of course I’m not. If he had any idea what’s going on…“Yeah.”

  He keeps his eyes on me as he chews.

  Is he okay? It occurs to me that I haven’t spoken with him about his visit to Halliday, not really. The fact that he’s finally met his father. I don’t know what to say, really. But I should say something. Surely that should have been my first concern.

  “About Halliday,” I begin.

  He pauses his chewing. His expression grows guarded.

  “About the past…”

  He finishes chewing the bite, watching me the whole time. Doesn’t take another, just waits for me to go on.

  What am I supposed to say? The mother in me is at a loss for words; the investigator takes over. Start with what you know. Lead up to what you don’t. “You took that DNA test. Grandma said a year ago?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And then you got in touch with Halliday. Couple of months ago?”

  “I guess.”

  “You waited a long time to contact him.” It’s a leading statement, the kind that should make him say something.

  He reaches for a napkin. “I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do.” He wipes a smudge of sauce off his fingers. “I spent some time looking into him. Online. And—”

  My phone vibrates against the table. I glance at the screen. Fairfax County Police.

  A jolt of panic runs through me. Not now. The police can’t be involved now. Not until I figure this out, until I can unmask whoever has set up this trap.

  The phone’s still vibrating, dancing ever so slightly on the table. Zachary’s still watching me, waiting for me to answer it. I force myself to reach for it, press the green button. “Hello?”

  “Stephanie Maddox?”

  Not now. Not yet. “Yes?”

  “Ms. Maddox, this is Officer Diaz with the Fairfax County Police Department. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  “Yes?” My voice sounds foreign, like it doesn’t belong to me.

  “There’s been an accident.”

  An accident. No. No, Zachary’s here; Zachary’s safe.

  “It’s your mother. Joan Maddox.”

  Mom. “Is she okay?” Now my voice sounds distant, like I’m speaking from very far away.

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry to say she’s in critical condition.”

  * * *

  —

  “Ma’am?”

  In my mind I see my mom, her smiling face. I hear her laugh. And then I remember the ugly words we said to each other last night.

  “Ms. Maddox?”

  The tears in her eyes, the pain in her whisper. Oh, honey…why did you never tell me that? The way I went in for one final, hurtful, unnecessary dig.

  “Mom?” Zachary’s voice. “What’s wrong?”

  “What happened, Officer Diaz?” I say into the phone.

  “Looks like she took a fall—a bad one. Down a flight of stairs. In one of the stairwells of her condo building.”

  Oh God. I’m staring at the chessboard, all these black and white squares, all these pieces waiting to be moved. Time is precious, Stephanie. And time is slipping away. My panic is fierce. I bite my lip, hard, to keep from crying. What if we never find the time to finish the game?

  “What hospital?”

  “Fairfax,” he says, but I’m already reaching for my coat, motioning for Zachary to do the same.

  * * *

  —

  Mom’s hooked up to a tangle of tubes and machines, unconscious, bandaged. The ER doctor told me her prognosis is uncertain, that the next few hours are critical.

  She’s got multiple fractures, but that’s not what has the doctors most concerned. It’s the head injury. Cerebral edema. Swelling in her brain.

  I sit by her bedside and hold her hand. And I try, with all my heart, not to focus on the painful charges she leveled at me. Your work is your life. Zachary comes second. He always has.

  There’s been a steady stream of doctors and nurses flowing through the room. I’ve asked each of them for updates, frantic for any shred of information. They’ve all been noncommittal, impossible to read.

  Zachary was here, too, but when his restless toe-tapping made me want to shriek at him, I suggested he grab a bite to eat from the cafeteria. At the moment it’s just Mom and me. And I can’t stop thinking of the terrible things I said to her. Awful things I didn’t even mean, that I said only to hurt her.

  There’s more to being a good mother….

  We weren’t as close as you think, Mom….

  “We were close,” I whisper, even though there’s no sign she can hear me. Will she ever be able to hear me? I need to set things right.

  Time is precious, Stephanie. And time is slipping away.

  I watch her chest rise and fall. I listen to the relentless beep of the machines. And I let the tears come, streaming down my face, clouding my vision until everything is a blur.

  Chapter 24

  By the next morning, Mom’s prognosis is less grim. She made it through those first critical hours. The doctors seem slightly more optimistic.

  I let HR know about the accident, requested a day off. Take all the time you need, the chief said. Let us know if you need anything, Steph.

  I’ve continued to press for any scraps of information about her condition. Spent far too much time Googling medical terms. And I haven’t been able to shut o
ff the loop in my brain, the one that’s replaying our awful last conversation.

  What if those are the final words she hears me say? Why did I say them?

  Alone, when it’s just Mom and me, it’s so quiet. I can’t stop thinking of the way she reacted when I told her the truth about my past. The pain in her eyes, in her voice. Why did you never tell me that?

  “How’s she doing?” Zachary asks when he stops by the hospital after school. He’s in jeans and that faded maroon hoodie he wears way too often, the one with the hole in the side seam. He drops his backpack on the floor, then sinks into the empty chair.

  “About the same. But it’s a very good sign she made it through the night.”

  “She doesn’t look like herself.”

  “It was a bad fall. Her injuries…”

  I’m still searching for the right words when he speaks again. “Mom…is she going to be okay?”

  I squeeze her hand in mine. It feels so terribly frail. “I hope so, honey.” God, I hope so.

  My cellphone chirps, an incoming text. I reach for it and check the screen. It’s Scott. I heard about your mom. You doing ok? I blink at the words, try to think of how to answer that, in a text. If only he were here, in person, I wouldn’t feel so alone—

  “Mom? What’s going on?” Zachary nods at the phone in my hand.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? You won’t take your eyes off the screen.”

  “It’s Scott.”

  “Scott? What does he want?”

  “He heard about Grandma.”

  His frown deepens, and a terrible thought strikes me. What if Scott found a way to confront Zachary, without my permission?

  “You haven’t talked with him recently, have you?” My voice betrays my panic.

  “Not in years.”

  Thank God. “What, then? Why the attitude?”

  “I don’t have an attitude,” he mutters.

  “Zachary.”

  “It’s just…I don’t like him talking to you.”

  “What? Why?”

  “He’s hurt you before. After you broke up…I remember how hurt you were.”

  My phone chirps again, but this time I don’t look. I can’t tear my eyes away from Zachary, like if I stare at him long enough, maybe this incredibly odd conversation will start to make sense. “Zachary, our relationship ended. It’s nobody’s fault. It happens.”

  He gives his head a frustrated shake. “I just want to make sure he’s not hurting you again.”

  * * *

  —

  I send Zachary home and remain at Mom’s bedside throughout the night. I watch her, silently implore her to wake up, to stay with me. There’s no change in her condition, at least none that I can see.

  That strange conversation with Zachary has continued to run through my mind. You don’t need to protect me, I’d told him. He’d only shrugged, cheeks reddening. Mumbled something about needing to do homework, grabbed his backpack and left.

  And yet when he was gone, when it was back to just Mom and me, I felt less alone than I had just a short time before. We might have our differences, Zachary and me. And there’s certainly distance between us. But deep down, he cares.

  The doctor that’s examining her now is a young woman, surely younger than me. I’ve continued to pester each doctor and nurse for updates, for their opinions. The investigator in me is frustrated. I want facts. I need to know when she’s going to be well.

  “Her injuries are severe,” she says. And then she hesitates, casts me a sidelong glance.

  “What?”

  “It’s just…Was your mom ever unsteady on her feet?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Has she fallen before?”

  “No.” I search her tired face, trying to understand where this is going. “Why?”

  She shrugs. “Nothing. I mean, falls can happen to anyone. It’s just…”

  “What?”

  “Well, the extent of the injuries, the severity of the fall…” She straightens from the bed, frowns at me. “It’s the kind of trauma we’d expect to see if someone had been pushed down the stairs.”

  Chapter 25

  The only sound is the relentless beep of the machines. The young doctor is gone, off on her rounds. On her way out, she had tried to dismiss her suspicions, assure me that falls can happen to anyone, especially at Mom’s age, that it was more than likely just an accident.

  Those stairs were steep. Concrete. Hadn’t I warned Mom a half dozen times to be careful on them? To take the elevator? It was only a matter of time until she tripped and fell, wasn’t it?

  Pushed.

  No. It was surely an accident.

  I reach for her hand, avoiding the IV. It was the stairs—those stairs were dangerous.

  I close my eyes, and in my mind I see Halliday’s face. She knew the truth about him, the whole terrible truth. What if…

  Impossible. It was an accident, a horrible accident.

  Wasn’t it?

  * * *

  —

  Midmorning, I need to act. I force myself to leave Mom’s bedside, drive to her condo building in Vienna, out in the suburbs. Park in a visitor’s spot at the rear of the lot, trek to the entrance, eyeing each individual I pass: an older man who nods politely in my direction; a young woman with earbuds; a middle-aged man in a suit, yammering into his phone.

  I’m in the property manager’s office now, a small one, barely bigger than a closet, crammed tight with filing cabinets. “How is your mother, Agent Maddox?” he asks, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose with his index finger, his eyes darting this way and that. He clasps his hands on the desk, then unclasps them.

  “Improving, slightly.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” He pushes up his glasses again, even though they hadn’t slipped. “What can I do for you?”

  “I want to talk about the accident.”

  “Of course.” His fingers start drumming the desk.

  “What sort of condition were the stairs in when the fall occurred?”

  “Excellent condition, Agent Maddox.”

  “Not slippery for any reason?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “A handrail was present?”

  “Of course. Everything is up to code.” He casts me a nervous smile. “Accidents happen, Agent Maddox.”

  “Do you have security footage? I noticed a camera in the lobby.”

  His smile fades. “We do. Lobby and parking lot.”

  “I’ll need footage from two days ago.”

  “Of course.” He swivels around to the computer behind him, begins typing commands. “I’ll just make you a copy now.”

  “Thanks.”

  Moments later, he hands me a flash drive, fiddles with his glasses once more. “Why do you need the footage, Agent Maddox?”

  I tuck the drive into my pocket, stand to leave. “Just want to be thorough.”

  * * *

  —

  I sink down in the chair beside Mom’s bed. Her eyes are still closed, her skin still terribly pale. The bandages on her head look freshly changed. I listen to the relentless beep of the machines. The chatter of nurses in the hallway. And I breathe in that ugly sterile hospital stench.

  I dig the flash drive from my pocket and plug it into my laptop, start reviewing the footage. It’s grainy, and black-and-white. I rewind to the beginning of the footage, the lobby camera first, and pore over it.

  Zachary stops by, hovers in the doorway. His hair looks shaggier than usual, in need of a comb. He’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt with white lettering: STOP POLICE INJUSTICE. “How is she today?”

  My eyes are still on the shirt. “Really, Zachary?”

  He glances down at his chest. “What, you don’t think
we should?”

  He’s trying to get a rise out of me. I’m not going to let him. I tilt my head toward the hospital bed. “The doctors say she’s improving.”

  He stays in the doorway, looking at her. Then, “I’m going to get some food from the cafeteria. Want anything?”

  I shake my head.

  “You okay, Mom?”

  “Hanging in there.”

  His gaze rests on my laptop. I look at it, too. The video’s paused. There’s a grainy image, a man frozen, standing in the lobby.

  By the time I look back at the doorway, Zachary’s gone.

  * * *

  —

  The latest MRI showed decreased swelling in Mom’s brain, and the lacerations on her head are healing. I call HR again the next morning, request another day, get the same reply. Take all the time you need. They’re probably eyeing my sick leave balance. Over a decade of accumulated leave. I can’t even remember the last time I took a sick day.

  I move on to the security footage from the parking lot, start running traces on every license plate that’s visible to the cameras.

  Midmorning, Mom wakes up. She’s groggy, disoriented. But she recognizes me. And that leaves me shaky with relief. I can’t imagine what it would be like if she didn’t know who I was.

  “Stephanie,” she rasps.

  I reach for her hand and squeeze it. “Mom.”

  I can barely feel the pressure when she squeezes back. Tears sting my eyes. She’s always seemed so strong to me, so invincible. But she’s smiling.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “You had quite a fall.”

  Her eyes search mine. A cart rumbles down the hallway, the scent of boiled vegetables in its wake.

  I should wait to ask, but I can’t. “Mom, what happened on those stairs?”