Without Proof

by Janet Sketchley

  Michael cleared his throat. “Proper. Stuffy.”

  Without having been there, Amy understood. “Not Gilles.”

  “Exactly.” Aunt Bay rapped on the tabletop. “The portrait, the fancy coffin and floral arrangements, those said nothing about the free-spirited young man we loved.” Her index finger wiped the corner of one eye. “I was going to suggest we go this year on the anniversary of the crash. I wish I’d spoken sooner. Steps this big should be taken in a group where you belong.”

  Amy sighed, ignoring the twist in her stomach that said Michael’s aunt was right.

  Chapter 8

  Amy’s engagement ring lay in a corner of her jewellery box, a thin chain nestled inside it. She’d worn it around her neck after losing Gilles. Putting it away on the first anniversary of his death had felt terribly final, but her life-loving fiancé would never have wanted Amy to tie herself to his memory. Now, she slipped the chain over her head and tucked the ring inside her shirt.

  Downstairs, the doorbell rang. Amy zipped her brown hoodie, grabbed her purse from her bedroom chair, and headed for the door.

  Michael and his aunt both stood in the entryway chatting with Ross. Amy reached the bottom of the stairs and collected the cane she’d left propped by the closet. “Thanks for coming, Ross. I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

  Ross flashed a broad smile. “It’s a beautiful day to get out of the city, even for such a solemn trip.” He nodded to the others. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Rockland. Michael.”

  Amy tried to fill her eyes with apology as she said goodbye, but Michael wouldn’t meet her gaze. She crossed the paving stones with Ross to his pristine silver Audi.

  Ross ushered her in and closed her door.

  Amy pinned on a smile and tried to relax. A girl could get used to chivalry like this. When Ross slid behind the wheel, she said, “Lovely car. Did you get it from Gilles’ father?”

  Brown eyes flicked her way and then returned to task. “Yes. My father has a fondness for luxury cars. I tell him he should buy a Renault from Mr. Renaud.”

  Amy settled her cane more securely between her seat and the door and said nothing.

  As Ross put the engine in gear, he shot her another glance. “R-e-n-a-u-l-t. It’s a type of car. Sorry, bad joke. But that’s the first thing I thought when I heard the name.” He turned onto the narrow pavement and headed back to the highway.

  The Audi glided on the straight bits of road and hugged the curves so smoothly that a peek at the speedometer surprised Amy. She snuggled into her seat. What a difference from Michael’s rattletrap van. Even from Aunt Bay’s little four-by-four. This was like driving with Gilles again. Except Gilles had insisted on a high-end SUV for his sports equipment.

  They cruised up behind another car and Ross slowed. “Peaceful place to live, but these drivers would stress me out.”

  A steady stream of vehicles travelling toward them gave no chance to overtake. After a few more turns Ross seized an opening, swung into the opposite lane and powered past the car that had held them back.

  Amy barely heard a change in engine pitch. She assessed the man beside her. His shiny black hair was almost military-short, just long enough to reveal a hint of curl. His sweater looked like cashmere and probably cost a fortune. The dark green complemented the soft brown of his skin. A simple gold ring on his right hand held a dark, square stone.

  Ross Zarin was made of money, and it had done a quality job. Amy smiled, remembering Gilles. He’d been raised in privilege, too. She’d been scandalized at how he’d taken it for granted. Wealth let him have what he wanted — toys, adventure, and from what she’d heard of his past, women. But Gilles never acted rich, neither the spoiled snob nor the cultured elite. Ross bespoke a type of affluence that emphasized his natural confidence. The difference intrigued her.

  Amy’s mother had been a successful executive, but she’d funnelled as much as she could into savings for Amy in case anything bad happened. Like the cancer that took her life in Amy’s teens.

  Ross glanced sideways. “You’re very quiet. Having second thoughts?”

  “Maybe. I couldn’t attend the funeral, and I thought this would be the final bit of closure. What if I’m not ready?”

  “Then we drive past the site and find a spot for coffee. You will have at least come one step closer.” He flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Why did they hold the funeral without you?”

  “The crash dislocated my hip. I was in the hospital.”

  “Was Gilles not cremated? They could have waited for your release.”

  Amy stared at the passing buildings. “Gilles’ mother insisted.”

  “Grief does strange things.”

  So did petty nastiness.

  Amy pictured the surge of bitterness receding from her like the tide. She would not give Honore Renaud the satisfaction of poisoning her life. Of course, Beatrice said that only Jesus could help Amy let it all go and start over.

  Ross followed a ramp onto the highway. “My mother died when I was very young. Attending the ceremony would have been too much for me, but my grandparents took me to see her body. I’ve always appreciated that.”

  “Oh, Ross, I’m sorry. How old were you?”

  “Four. My one memory of my mother is saying goodbye. And a terrible sadness.” He switched lanes to pass a delivery truck. “My father took it very hard. I spent the rest of my childhood with my aunts and uncles in Iraq.”

  “So far away… Were you lonely?”

  His lips twitched. “Hardly. Between two households, there were thirteen cousins. I was never alone. Of course I missed my father, but he visited when he could.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t remarry.”

  Ross spared a brief look from the road. “Please, never tell him I shared this. When he came to Canada, my father fell in love and married against my grandfather’s wishes. My mother was a faithful Muslim, but my grandfather was a stern man with plans of his own. My mother’s death in a car accident destroyed my father. He saw it as a punishment from Allah, and he remains single in penance.”

  The distance sped past as they chatted, and before long the GPS instructed Ross to leave the highway. They navigated secondary roads to reach the stretch of pavement where Gilles had made a desperate, glider-style landing. Amy’s pulse quickened at the mental echo of the engine’s last gasps in the sky. “Gilles took a chance, landing on the road, but it was the best option he saw with so much forest. We couldn’t believe it was clear.”

  Ahead a white, wooden cross stood sentinel in the overgrown ditch. Ross pulled to a stop on the shoulder of the road and turned to face her. “This may be the only roadside memorial for a plane crash instead of a car.” He squeezed Amy’s arm and quickly let go. “Do you want to get out, or is this enough for today?”

  Her mouth went dry. She stared at the white marker, eyes burning. What was she thinking, to try this? Could she set foot on the spot where her dreams had died? Face the pain again? Amy lowered the zipper of her hoodie and touched her breastbone, rubbing the faint bump of her engagement ring beneath her shirt.

  She blinked away the tears and set her jaw. For Gilles, she could do this. One scrap of memory, one faint clue, could bring him justice. Her hand found the door handle. “I need to go alone.”

  “I understand. Call if you need me. I’ll be right here.”

  Amy climbed out of the car. The ground beside the pavement was soft from yesterday’s rain. Her cane tip sank in. She tugged it free.

  Low undergrowth had filled in the spot where the plane came to rest. The damaged trees had been cut down, and new growth hid their stumps. Amy stood beside the car for a long moment, studying the scene. Remembering. Rescue vehicles with flashing lights. Two ambulances and a fire truck, plus a police car. No traffic. They told her other police cars had blocked the road in case of an explosion.

  A tear tracked down Amy’s cheek. She’d lost it then, crying that if there’d been fuel they’d still be in the air. But the
emergency workers hadn’t known what brought down the plane.

  One slow step at a time, Amy picked her way down the bank and through the bracken. The marker’s paint was already fading, and a few spots marred the brass plate. Using her cane for balance, Amy squatted and wiped the metal with a tissue. Her fingers slid across the text: Gilles Renaud 1988 - 2013.

  A packet lay at the foot of the little cross, and the growth seemed to have been pulled away. Frowning, Amy bent nearer. Flowers. Dead and decomposing, but laid here as a bouquet. From whom? She straightened. If someone who loved Gilles wanted to turn this into a proper memorial like some of the other crosses, they’d have used an artificial funeral arrangement, maybe even cleared a bit of space and added a tiny white fence.

  She could do that. With his grave in the family plot in Montreal, Amy had nothing here for a connection point. She brushed two fingers across the top of the cross and stepped farther away from the road.

  The plane had come to rest… roughly here. She set her feet, leaned on her cane, and stared at the trees.

  It had been a perfect flying day, and Gilles practically glowed with the thrill of giving her a new experience. He’d walked her around the plane for the pre-flight inspection, pointing out every single thing on the checklist and explaining why it mattered. Inside the plane, he’d completed what he called an engine run-up before going back to the flight operations office for a minute.

  When he returned, they’d taxied onto the runway, picked up a thrilling amount of speed, and lifted into the sky.

  She’d been surprised at how hot the sun made the cockpit. Enchanted by the scenery… the coastline, farmer’s fields. Lulled into timelessness. When the engine first sputtered, Gilles switched tanks. Switched back, when it didn’t help, insisting they should have fuel for another hour.

  Teeth gritted, swearing — or praying — in a rapid monotone, Gilles had finessed the wallowing plane down onto the pavement, telling Amy to watch for approaching cars. Nose up until the last possible moment, speed nearly gone, they hit hard. A sound like a shot came from beneath them and the craft skidded sideways off the pavement onto the soft shoulder. The plane lurched, spun. Tipped as the ground fell away beneath it.

  Eyes closed now, Amy fell into a memory kaleidoscope of helplessness and screaming. The tortured sound of shearing metal. Gilles’ voice, louder now, definitely praying. The tang of burnt wires. Bumping, jostling. Pain — such pain. And something wet on her skin.

  Gilles’ voice calling her name. She’d smiled, touched his face. Something in his eyes… “Medical tag. Around my neck.” He sucked a breath through clenched teeth. “Phone 9-1-1.” A shuddering sigh. “Find Michael.” His gaze held hers, desperate to communicate, but what?

  Crying, Amy scrabbled her phone from her pocket.

  Before she could enter the numbers, Gilles grabbed her free hand. His eyes were too bright, his skin pasty white. “Amy… Toujours aimée…” He slumped against his safety harness, eyes shut. His hand slipped from hers.

  Amy caught his wrist. Her fingertips found his pulse, and the terror backed off. Adrenaline made her tremble enough that it took three tries to punch in the emergency call.

  He’d never regained consciousness. Now, standing here with his final words echoing in her mind, Amy slumped heavier against the support of her cane. He’d wanted to say something. But what?

  “Gilles, I don’t want to fail you…” Amy’s words ghosted into the trees, and she could almost see her breath. Surely it wasn’t that cold. Cane propped against her leg, she rubbed her arms.

  Behind her, a car door slammed. Ross called, “Amy? Are you all right?”

  Amy nodded. She took time to wipe her eyes and pull together the shreds of her composure before turning back to the car.

  Ross waited on the bank to help her climb up to the road. When he touched her hand, he frowned. “You’re freezing!” He steadied Amy on the pavement and studied her face. “Do you think it helped?”

  “I don’t know. But I needed to come. Thank you.”

  He bustled her into the car and cranked up the heat. “Coffee now. Or tea. And talk as much or as little as you like.” He pulled a u-turn and headed back the way they’d come.

  So understanding… except he didn’t understand the weight of defeat. Couldn’t she have remembered one tiny clue?

  Chapter 9

  Amy closed her eyes and leaned into the headrest, letting the powerful engine carry her. “Ross, this was very kind of you, giving up a free afternoon to help a stranger find some closure.” Couldn’t she have found clues instead, in the resurfacing memories?

  “Not quite a stranger. And I’m glad I could help.” The turn indicator clicked, and Ross pulled into the gallery’s driveway. “I didn’t want to raise this in the café, but visiting the crash site was hard for you. Is it settled in your mind now, or did it raise more questions?”

  He’d mentioned questions earlier, too. The words of the anonymous text cut through her thoughts. Asking questions could cost your life. Amy shivered. “The thing is, Gilles landed safely, against all odds. If one of the tires hadn’t blown and sent us into the trees...”

  “They said it was a fantastic piece of flying, to get down in one piece.”

  That was Gilles. Anything he did, he did well. Amy’s heart twisted. “It just seems so — I don’t know, futile. He pulls off this amazing landing, saves our lives, and then dies because of a faulty tire.”

  Nodding gently, Ross didn’t break eye contact. “The pain of an accident is bad enough, without that reporter spreading rumours of sabotage.”

  Amy gathered her hair in both hands and let it fall behind her back. “I don’t think anyone’s taking him seriously.”

  “You should ask for a public retraction.”

  “That would only remind people what he said. I’d rather let it go.” And hope Troy knew how to investigate discreetly, for his safety and for hers.

  Amy thanked Ross again and climbed out of the car. What a waste. No remembered clues, and nowhere to turn next. Going to the flight club would scream “questions” to whoever sent that text, and at this point, she had no questions to ask. If not for the warning, she’d have written off her recurring doubts as one more stage of grief. Could a person loop back into denial?

  Ross waited until she opened the front door before driving away.

  Amy stepped inside. “I’m back!” No way would she give in to the guilt that demanded she slink home in repentance. It was past time Michael and Aunt Bay stopped coddling her. If they had a little more faith in her, she could have shown them the text. They could have helped. Amy’s lips twisted. In that case, the three of them would have visited the crash site together.

  She pulled off her boots, and carried them through the house to the back deck. Clapping them together over the railing let the worst of the dirt fall into the grass. She scanned the scattered trees leading down to the water. Was the little bird still around? Not that she’d recognize him. A board creaked behind her, and Amy turned from the view.

  Michael took another step and stopped, hands in his pockets. “How was it?”

  She raised the boots, then set them down beside her. “Muddy.” Leaning against the railing, Amy breathed in the fresh air. Someone, not too far away, had mowed a lawn today. “But better than I expected. I didn’t know how steep the bank was. No wonder we hit so hard. Have you seen the spot?”

  He nodded, slowly. “Once.”

  “Did you leave flowers?”

  “I did.”

  Amy’s lips twisted. “I’d like to clean it up and make a proper memorial.”

  “Is that… something you’d need to do alone?”

  Amy closed the distance between then and laid a hand on his elbow. “Michael… today wasn’t about shutting you out. It was time to see where he died, and I thought you’d find a reason to keep me away. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

  A muscle spasmed in his cheek. He stared over Amy’s shoulder toward the water. “I would do any
thing to see you whole again.”

  Loyalty vibrated in his voice. Dedication and sympathy. But not what she wanted to hear. Amy tried to smile “You’re a good friend.” She squeezed Michael’s elbow and stepped past him toward the house.

  At the door, Amy stopped and spoke without turning. “You’re a good protector, too. But sometimes healing involves stretching and taking risks.”

  She hurried inside. Behind her, the door opened. Michael carried her boots through the kitchen. Before he reached the front closet, the doorbell pealed.

  “It’s just me!” Emilie’s voice.

  At least the girl would take their minds off the tension between them. Amy straightened her shoulders. So she hadn’t found a clue. She still knew something had happened beyond a simple accident. And she’d taken that step of closure to return to the scene. Not that she’d forget Gilles, but she could live in his absence. Would Michael have believed that, if she’d asked him to drive instead of Ross?

  Emilie’s hair was pink-tipped today, matching her bright pink sweater. She grinned at Amy. “Thanks for waking me up this morning. I got my laundry done in time to escape from my roommates.” She kicked off her shoes and launched into a slide across the floor in fuzzy, pink-striped socks.

  Michael caught Amy’s eye and smiled.

  Emilie spun to face them. “Where’s Aunt Bay?”

  “She went next door to stay with Dafiq. His parents had to go out.” Michael checked his watch. “She should be back soon.”

  The girl’s eyes widened, and she shook her head. “Is he that little terror who doesn’t know how to walk? By which I mean he’s always running around? I don’t know how she puts up with him.” She headed for the living room.

  Amy followed. “Aunt Bay worked hard to love the little guy, but she really does. And he’s more settled around her. He knows his limits.” Safia and her husband had no family in the area. The young mom had needed plenty of support when Amy first arrived.

  Behind them, Michael asked, “Anyone want a drink? I made lemonade to go with supper.”