The Beginning After

by Kiersten Modglin

  “I know. I just…I don’t know how to face her right now, Izzy. I don’t want her to hate me.”

  “My dear, she’s your mother. She could never hate you,” she said, though she wasn’t sure if that were entirely true under the circumstances.

  “I wish that were true.”

  “You just need to come home and talk to her. She will understand.”

  “I don’t know that she will.”

  “You’ll never know if you don’t talk to her, Kyle. I understand. I don’t love you any less.”

  “You’re different, Izzy. You aren’t like her. You aren’t like Dad.”

  “I’m only different because you think of me as different, my sweet. I love you just the same as they do.”

  “I’ll come home,” he promised.

  “Soon?” she asked.

  “Soon.”

  “I won’t lie to your mother for long.”

  “I know. I’m sorry I have to bring you into this.”

  She cradled the phone as if she were holding his face, rubbing it gently. “Don’t apologize, Kyle. You’ve done nothing wrong. I will protect you as long as I live, you know that.”

  “I know,” he said. “I just wish I could change everything.”

  “You can’t change anything but the future, sweet boy. That’s just how life works.”

  “It sucks sometimes,” he said, yawning.

  “You should get some rest, m’dear,” she said kindly. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

  “Okay, Izzy.”

  “Take care, sweetheart. Sweet dreams. It’s going to get better.”

  “Goodnight,” he said softly, just moments before the line went dead.

  She placed the phone down, her heart full of sadness. There was nothing she wouldn’t do to take that boy’s pain away. She wished more than anything she could promise him that it would all be okay, though she knew that was a promise that wasn’t up to her.

  She wiped a stray tear from her eye, jumping once again as the tea kettle began screaming from the kitchen. She raced in, grabbing it from the burner and cursing as the steam burned her wrist. She took a mug down from the cabinet, filled it, and placed a tea bag into the scalding water.

  She turned around, throwing the tea down. “Christ!” she yelled.

  “I think we need to talk,” he said, staring into her eyes. She hadn’t heard the door open, his footsteps muffled by the blaring of the tea kettle.

  “How much did you hear?” she asked, not daring to move to clean up her tea.

  “Everything,” Frank said, grabbing a towel from the back of a nearby chair and tossing it to her. “Now start explaining.”

  Twenty-Six

  FRANK, 2016

  Frank sat across from his client, a folder in his hands. She scooted her chair forward, her growing bump making it harder than ever to get close to the table. She tucked a piece of her dark hair behind her ear, folding her hands together and clearing her throat.

  “Okay, Mr. Beasley,” she said, “what do you have for me?”

  He opened the file in front of him, pulling out a sheet of paper. “These are the reports from our surveillance. I’ve had your husband trailed every night for the past month. I’ve also looked over the phone bills you sent in. Here is a list of the names of people he’s called or received calls from over the last six months.” He pulled another paper from the folder and slid it to her.

  Her gaze danced over the paper, her fingers trailing each line.

  “Do you recognize the names? Is there anyone you want me to look into?”

  When she was finished looking over the list, she looked up, shaking her head. “These are all okay. Me, his parents, his sister, a few of the people he works with. No one suspicious.” She paused. “He has a work phone too. Would we be able to get records from it?”

  “Already done,” he replied, sliding the next sheet of paper to her. “Here’s the list I’ve compiled for it too, though some of the calls were made to or from burner cells. Not entirely unusual for a cop, anonymous tips and all.”

  She glanced over the next list, her hand moving to her stomach. She rubbed the bump softly, a small smile creeping onto her face. “So, you’re saying he isn’t having an affair?”

  He shook his head. “Of course, I can’t be absolutely certain. I’m very good at my job, but even I’ve been fooled once or twice.” He paused, his lips firm, as he tried to read her expression. “What I’m saying, though, is that I have no reason to believe your husband is having an affair.”

  She smiled up at him, small tears in her eyes. “Thank you,” she said quietly, her voice cracking.

  “It was my pleasure, ma’am. This is the type of news I actually like to deliver.”

  “May I?” she asked, gesturing to the remaining contents of the folder.

  “Of course,” he told her, sliding it toward her. “It’s yours. Surveillance photos, notes from our investigation, websites he’s visited, places he frequents, etcetera. Basically, your husband’s life for the last month.”

  “Thank you,” she said, sifting through the paperwork. “My friends were right, you are the best.”

  “I love what I do,” he said honestly. “And I’m always glad when I can help.”

  “You know, I can’t help but think that you can’t stay very busy in a town like Pawley’s Corner. Haven’t you thought of branching out into larger places?”

  “I have a few offices in larger markets. I do well for working in little old Pawley’s Corner, though.”

  She smiled coyly at him. “Lots of scandal?”

  “You’d be surprised,” he said, smirking.

  “Well, if you ever decide to take the leap, I work out of Birmingham. I’d love to pass your information around to my colleagues.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” he told her. “I may take you up on that someday. For now, I’m okay though.”

  She stared at him, her eyes kind, as if she were trying to read him. Finally, she closed the folder, holding it to her chest. “Well, thank you again. I trust we can keep this all between us?”

  “Of course.” He nodded. “I wouldn’t have much of a business if that wasn’t a guarantee. Besides, I still don’t even know your name. Who could I tell?”

  Her jaw dropped open slightly. “You didn’t research me? I figured when I gave you my husband’s name…you would’ve realized why I was being so secretive.”

  “I never research my clients.”

  “Why is that?” she asked.

  His eyes darted away from hers, thinking quickly. “I don’t want my process to be clouded or my decisions to be affected by what I learn about you. I try to keep my mind clear so I can focus on the case. I know your husband’s name because you gave it to me. I know he’s a cop because that was required for me to have someone watch him daily. I don’t know much else, because I won’t look into it if I’m not asked to. It keeps things simpler that way.”

  Her eyes continued to dance around his face, as if trying to decide if he were lying. “My name’s Sarah,” she told him finally. “Sarah Williams.”

  “You didn’t take your husband’s last name?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

  “No,” she said, standing up from the table, folder in hand. “I thought you would’ve already known this, so I don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you now. I’m a journalist. And, well, I’m an anchor with the Birmingham Morning Show.”

  Frank tried to keep his face still, though he knew his shock must’ve radiated throughout his expression. “Oh.” The Birmingham Morning Show was a nationally syndicated program. It was huge. In fact, Frank should’ve recognized her. Her face had looked familiar, he remembered, but he could never figure out why. He was working in the presence of a celebrity. He realized how ridiculous it was to be star struck by her when he worked with a state senator daily, but Todd was his best friend, that made this slightly different.

  “Yeah,” she said, “so, as you can imagine, the producers didn’t wan
t me to change my name when Clay and I got married. It just made it easier to keep it the same.”

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Sarah Williams-Nealson.”

  She laughed. “Call me Sarah.”

  Twenty-Seven

  FRANK

  Frank stared at Isabel, rage filling his body. “You lied to us.”

  She nodded. “I did. And I’m sorry.”

  “Where is he, Isabel? Where are you hiding him?”

  She held her finger up. “I’m not hiding him anywhere. I’m simply keeping my nose out of it while he hides.”

  “He’s fifteen, Iz. He doesn’t get to hide. His mother is worried sick. She deserves to know the truth about where he is.”

  “He’s safe,” she promised, patting Frank on the chest. “I would never let him go anywhere I didn’t trust.”

  “Where is he, Isabel?” he demanded.

  “That’s not my secret to tell,” she snapped. “He’ll come home when he’s ready.”

  “Who are you to determine when he’s ready?”

  “I’m not determining anything, I’m simply allowing him to determine it for himself. He’s fifteen, like you said, Frank. He’s old enough to know what he wants. He’s old enough to deserve the truth.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, his curiosity peaked.

  “I just think there are too many secrets in this family; Kyle is the one getting hurt by them most of all.”

  “The secret I’ll assume you’re talking about died with Todd. It won’t affect anyone anymore.”

  “We both know that isn’t true,” she said, her lips pursed. “There are many more secrets than just Todd’s. Peighton’s, yours, and Kyle’s…it’s time they were brought to light, so Kyle can understand himself.”

  “What are you saying? What good would laying all that out do?”

  She paused, staring at him. Setting down the towel in her hand, she grabbed hold of his arms, squeezing them tight. “Secrets do not make a home,” she said, “and no matter how much I love this family, I can’t simply continue to ignore that. I tried to tell Peighton that the secrets need to come out. Kyle needs to hear the truth.” She raised her eyebrows, staring at him through her thick eye glasses. “About everything.”

  “What do you know?” Frank asked, his heart beginning to pound.

  “More than you all think,” she said. “When you’re always around, it’s easy to blend into the background. I hear things, see things, and know things that would make you blush, my dear.”

  “So, what are you saying? What have you told him?”

  “It’s not my place to tell him anything, Frank, and so I haven’t. But I think you’ll find telling him the truth could lead to a much simpler and happier life. He deserves that. You all do.” She dropped his hands, turning to the sink to rinse out her dish cloth. “And, who knows,” she called over her shoulder, “it may even save a life.”

  “What?” he asked, a lump rising in his throat.

  She didn’t answer, continuing to run the cloth under the water.

  “What did you do, Izzy?”

  “I’m not the one you should be asking, am I? We both know Mr. Todd’s death wasn’t an accident. I just don’t want anyone else to end up like him. We have to protect Kyle.”

  Twenty-Eight

  PEIGHTON

  Peighton sat on her front porch swing, staring into the yard. She watched as a bird landed on top of Kyle’s old treehouse, remembering the summer that Todd and Frank had built it for him. Kyle had loved the treehouse. She recalled the nights he’d attempted to make it through without coming inside because he’d grown afraid, and how so many times she’d wake up to find Todd outside with him, just to show him there was nothing to fear.

  Todd had loved their son, she smiled just thinking about it. There was nothing he wouldn’t have done for that boy. She could remember so clearly how the three of them would huddle in Kyle’s bedroom during a storm, eating pizza and brownies, and waiting for the rain to pass. They’d watch movies together, play board games and make shadow puppets on the walls when the power went out. Peighton could see those memories in her mind as if they’d happened only hours ago, could picture the pizza-stained chin of her eight-year-old son, hear his electrifying laughter. She could see Todd: his flannel pajama pants, brown hair that had fallen from its perfect style, and his giddy smile that always reminded her of a child. Nothing made her happier than seeing those two happy and together.

  She wondered what Todd would say to her now, knowing that she’d somehow managed to lose the best thing they’d ever created together. Would he blame her for Kyle’s disappearance? She knew the answer before she could even form the question in her head. No. He wouldn’t have. Todd would’ve known what to do, he would’ve had the words to bring Kyle home. But he wouldn’t have blamed her. Todd was gentle and kind to a fault, always trusting. He’d never had an ill word to say of anyone in all the years they’d been married. He’d been hurt, sure, but his heart was pure and Peighton was convinced there was nothing in the whole wide world that would’ve ever changed that.

  “I miss you,” she whispered to her husband, wherever he might be. “I wish you were still here. None of this feels right anymore.”

  As if in answer, she felt a gust of warm air, the wind chime Todd had bought her for Valentine’s Day dancing in the breeze. She smiled up at it as if it were him, glad to know, to hope, that he was still watching her.

  She glanced up as something in the distance caught her eye, surprised to see Clay’s truck pulling into the driveway.

  She stood, holding onto the chain that held the swing to the roof and watched as he climbed out of his truck, walking up the covered path to the porch.

  “Hey,” she said to him, before he was quite close enough.

  “Hey,” he said breathlessly, “I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”

  “Frank had to work this morning, so I came home early. I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.”

  “I’m sorry I ran out.” He held his arms out to her.

  She walked to him, burying her head into his chest. “It’s me who should apologize. I had no right to talk to you the way I did when you were only trying to help. You’ve always been trying to help.”

  He placed a finger under her chin, pulling her face up toward his. He moved his lips closer to hers, touching them slightly. She opened her mouth, willing him to continue, but he pulled away, catching her off guard. She took a step back.

  “What was that about?”

  “It was a truce.”

  “A truce?” She laughed.

  “Yes,” he said seriously. “I shouldn’t have run away like I did. I needed to clear my head. It wasn’t fair of me to get so upset with you when you didn’t know.”

  “Didn’t know what?” she asked.

  “Sit down,” he said. “We need to talk.”

  “Okay,” she said cautiously, sitting down on the swing once more. He walked in front of her, sitting down on the white railing around the porch.

  “I haven’t told you everything about my marriage.”

  “It’s not my business, Clay.”

  “It is,” he said, “it is if we want us to work.”

  “Us?”

  “Us.”

  Her jaw fell open, heart picking up speed. “Since when is there an us?”

  “I know what I said, Peighton, and I meant all of it. We’re messy and complicated and probably a terrible idea, but that doesn’t change the fact that you are all I think about.”

  “I am?” she asked, closing her eyes for a split second to take in what he was saying.

  “You are,” he told her, stepping closer. “You are absolutely all that I think about. And I know we haven’t known each other for that long, and that in the short time we have known each other we’ve gone through more madness than I care to recount…but I care about you, Peighton. And I’m willing to put everything aside and give us a real shot.” He paused, looking at her watchfully. “If
you are.”

  She stood up, placing her hands on his chest and leaning toward him. “We are messy.”

  “We are,” he confirmed.

  “And we are…way more than complicated.” She leaned a bit closer.

  “We are.”

  “And this probably won’t work,” she warned him.

  “It probably won’t,” he agreed.

  “And we’ll probably both end up hurt,” she said, her lips inches from his now.

  “We will.”

  “But…” she said softly, “I’m in this, Clay. I’m in this with you.”

  Without another word, he put his arms around her, pulling her to him and pressing their lips together. She kissed him back, her heart pounding in her chest as if it were going to explode. She tried to calm herself, their hurried breaths bouncing off one another. All too soon, he pulled back, wiping his mouth.

  He held up a hand. “But, if we’re going to start this, I want it to be done the right way. Which means, I owe you the truth.”

  “What’s the truth?”

  “I owe you the truth about Sarah, my wife. I owe you the truth about our marriage and her death.”

  “Meaning what, Clay?” she asked, growing worried.

  “It’s a long story,” he said, rubbing her cheek with his thumb, “and in order to tell it, I need you to sit.”

  “Why?” she demanded.

  “Because I can’t be distracted,” he sighed, pulling his hand away, “which means I can’t touch you or I may never finish this story.”

  Blushing slightly, she sat down, almost sad to leave his arms. “Okay,” she said, folding her hands properly in her lap and preparing herself for the worst.

  “The first thing you should know is the reason I reacted the way I did last night when you told me I didn’t have children.”

  “Clay, I’m really—”

  He held up a finger. “Just, please, let me finish. The reason I was so upset was because when my wife was killed around two years ago, she was five months pregnant with our first child.”