HF01 - Almost Forever

by Deborah Raney

  “No, Dad. I’m guilty. What can a lawyer do with that? I don’t want to try to get out of it. I want—I need—to pay the consequences. I couldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t.”

  “You’re just saying that because you’ve lost Adam.” He pushed up from the sofa and started to pace. “You’re depressed, Bryn. But honey, you have to fight this. You have so much to live for.”

  She smiled softly. “I don’t think I’ll get the electric chair, Daddy.”

  His face went gray. “Don’t even joke about something like that.”

  She went to him and put her arms around him. Love for her father welled inside her. She hated that her actions had caused him such grief and shame. Hated that more than anything about this whole mess. A quick image of the stretchers lined up outside the burning shelter corrected that thought immediately.

  “Do you want to go with me?”

  His eyes grew wide, and he glanced at his wristwatch. “Are you going now?”

  She took a deep breath. “First thing in the morning. I . . . I can’t go through the weekend with this on my head.”

  “Of course I’ll go with you. And you stay here tonight.”

  She nodded. She had her things in the car, knowing Dad would insist on her staying once he knew what she planned to do.

  Bryn tried to imagine the scene tomorrow—her father holding her hand as she told the police everything. It would be so much easier with him beside her. And yet it broke her heart to think of putting him through that.

  A sob convulsed her. She stood quickly. She couldn’t let Dad see her break down. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she choked out, forcing her voice to steady.

  He nodded, a faraway look in his eyes.

  Bryn almost ran down the hall to the bathroom. She closed the door, locked it, and slumped to the floor, pressing her back against the cool tiled wall.

  She yanked a bath towel off the rack and buried her face in it, trying to stifle the sobs. “Oh, God, I don’t understand! How could You let this happen?” she whispered.

  The truth will set you free.

  She heard the timeless words again, and with them came a tentative peace.

  The pen may as well have

  weighed a thousand pounds

  for its burden in her hand.

  23

  The guest room at her father’s house was the small bedroom at the back of the house that served as his den. Exactly a year after Mom died, Dad had moved out to the country. Bought this little ranch-style house on three wooded acres twelve miles from the Falls. She’d hated like crazy to see him sell the house she grew up in, but he’d insisted it was too hard to have memories of Mom everywhere he turned. And she understood. She’d found it difficult to visit him at the old house after Mom died. She could only imagine how empty it must have felt to Dad.

  She smoothed the blankets Dad had spread on the saggy old fold-out sofa, turned out the light, and crawled under the cool sheets. Out in the kitchen, she heard Dad running water, opening and closing cupboard doors. Then she heard him walk—shuffle was more like it—down the hallway, stop by her door for a moment, then move on to his room.

  After tossing and turning for twenty minutes, listening to the clock on the wall above the sofa tick off the seconds, she threw off the covers and felt her way to Dad’s desk. She groped for the switch on his desk lamp. The lightbulb cast a yellow puddle on the old desk blotter. Bryn remembered it from his office in the house where she’d grown up.

  Quietly she slid open one of the side drawers, looking for paper. She found it where he’d always kept it. Pulling out that crisp sheet of white paper brought sweet memories of Daddy sitting at his desk after work, fresh from the shower, smelling of shampoo and a freshly laundered shirt. She would creep up beside him, not wanting to disturb him as he bent his head over the desk, sharpened pencil in hand.

  Years later she figured out that Dad’s evening “business” consisted of working the crossword puzzle in the News-Leader. She smiled at the memory and chose a pen from the Eberfield & Sons mug on his desk.

  Yet as she wrote the date at the top of the page, she sobered. The pen may as well have weighed a thousand pounds for its burden in her hand. Still, she was afraid words would fail her tomorrow, so she set the point to the page and wrote out her confession.

  I, Bryn Hennesey, wish to confess my guilt in the fire at the Grove Street Homeless Shelter on November 1 of last year. Though it was completely unintentional, I believe my negligence caused the fire that killed my husband, Adam Hennesey, and four other firefighters.

  She stopped and stared at the words, overcome with grief. Seeing her confession spelled out in black-and-white brought home again the gravity of what she had done. She studied the words, aware there was probably a way to word her confession that would leave loopholes and give her a chance of avoiding conviction.

  Dad wanted her to hire an attorney. But no attorney in the world could change the fact that she was guilty. She didn’t want to get out of punishment for what she’d done. Besides, there was no punishment that could ever right what had happened that night. Even death—could she have offered her very life—could never balance out the five lives the fire had taken. The people her carelessness had killed were valiant heroes. She was a coward, who didn’t deserve one day of the happiness she’d enjoyed.

  She thought of that magical morning at Ferris Park with Garrett, of the joy that had filled her just being with him. She had been so wrong to let him think she was a friend. Though she didn’t understand how the human mind worked, surely she had known the truth all along. Surely somewhere, deep inside, she’d been aware that she was to blame for the tragedy. What was she thinking, allowing Garrett to trust her, be her friend, maybe even fall in love with her?

  And how could he help but hate every cell of her being when he found out what she’d done?

  She picked up the pen and continued to write. She had to remain rational. She had to face the truth . . . and then face whatever consequences came with it.

  Thursday, January 17

  A yellow slice of sunlight painted the matted carpet in the den. The familiar, comforting aroma of Dad’s Folgers wafted under the door, and Bryn heard her father rummaging around in the kitchen.

  She must have managed to finally fall asleep, but she had seen the hands of the clock announce every hour until five o’clock. It was seven now. She’d felt dread last night, despair even, but now she just wanted to get this day over with.

  Would she be sitting in a jail cell tonight? Sleeping there? She didn’t know. But neither did she fear what might happen. It was in God’s hands now, and by the time the sun set tonight, she would have done everything in her power to bring the truth to light. There was immense relief in that knowledge. And the tentative peace she felt only proved that she’d been living with a terrible, hidden knowledge since that fateful night.

  She quickly showered and dressed and went down the hall to the kitchen. Dad was sitting at the table, his back to her, his head bowed. She hadn’t realized how gray his color had become. She cleared her throat and his head jerked up.

  “Good morning. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She forced a note of cheer into her voice.

  “I’ve been thinking, Bryn. What if we wait until the fire inspector’s report comes back? Maybe something will turn up to prove that it wasn’t a candle after all. If you didn’t remember until now, maybe it didn’t happen the way you think it—”

  “Dad. Please.” She held up a hand. “I know you don’t want this to be true, that you’re desperate to find a way out. But . . . you’re just making it harder for me. I’ve prayed about this. I know the truth. And I know what I have to do.”

  He pushed his chair back and stood, defiance in his stance. “I’ve been looking on the Internet. Do you know what the penalty for involuntary manslaughter is? You could go to jail, Bryn. Prison. There has to be another way. There has to be a way out. At least let them appoint you a lawyer.”

  She nodded
. “Dad . . . I’m not looking for a way out. I’m guilty. I deserve to go to jail.” She’d begun to think she deserved to die. But seeing the distress on her father’s face, she offered him words that had comforted her in recent days. “There may not be a way out, but there has to be a way through. I’m not afraid, Daddy, so please don’t be afraid for me. I’ll be fine. God will get me through whatever happens.”

  It made no sense, but in that moment, she realized that it was true. In this worst moment of her life, she felt as if someone had pulled her out of a raging river, set her on the solid shore, and wrapped a warm blanket around her.

  But in a few minutes, she would willingly jump back in that river. She only hoped the current didn’t carry her too far from home.

  Bryn had thought she was calm, but when she walked through the front doors of the Hanover Falls Police Station, her hands began to tremble.

  Dad must have sensed her fear, for he put a hand on her back, an uncharacteristic gesture for him. “I’m right here, honey.”

  She slipped the confession she’d written last night from her purse and sucked in a breath.

  A female officer in uniform looked up from a desk as they walked toward her. “May I help you?”

  She had no idea what the protocol was for this. “I need to speak to someone about—a crime.”

  “Are you the victim?”

  She swallowed past the thickening in her throat. “No. I’m the one who—committed the crime.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She held out the envelope. “I have a letter of confession here. Can you tell me who I should give it to?”

  The woman pushed back her chair and rose slowly. She gave a nod toward Dad. “You her attorney?”

  “No. I’m Hugh Terrigan. I’m her father.”

  Bryn thought there was pride in his voice. It surprised her. What she’d done had shamed him. But Dad’s pride gave her strength.

  The officer shook her head. “You’re going to want her attorney present.”

  Bryn took a step forward, not wanting Dad to have to handle this. “I don’t have an attorney. I’m guilty. I’m . . . not trying to get out of it.”

  “What is the nature of the crime?”

  “I think you’d call it involuntary manslaughter?”

  “You killed somebody?” She looked skeptical.

  But Bryn nodded.

  “Whoa . . . whoa . . .” The woman held up both hands, palms out. “Hang on a minute. I’ll get Chief Perlson. Wait right here.” She scurried around her desk and disappeared behind a door to her left.

  Through a glass partition, they watched her weave through a maze of waist-high cubicles and stop at the desk of a man Bryn recognized from photos that had appeared in area newspapers after the fire—Chief Rudy Perlson. Adam had worked numerous accident scenes with Perlson and had always spoken highly of the guy.

  The chief looked up and caught Bryn’s eye, gave a slight nod.

  A minute later he ducked through the door in the partition and motioned to her. “Come on back.” With a jut of his chin, he gave her father permission to come along with Bryn.

  Two other uniformed officers and several women in street clothes looked up from their desks as Bryn and her father followed Chief Perlson to a sparsely furnished office in a back corner of the building.

  “Officer Jamison says you want to confess a crime?”

  Bryn nodded. “That’s right.” She held out the envelope. “I wrote out a confession.”

  He ignored the envelope, took a form from the desk drawer, and poised a ballpoint pen over it. “Name?”

  “Bryn Hennesey.” She spelled it for him.

  He looked up, studied her like he might be connecting that she was Adam’s wife, but merely asked for her address and date of birth. When he’d copied them down on the form, he asked, “Do you have an attorney?”

  “No, sir. I want to plead guilty.”

  He shook his head. “You’re still going to want an attorney.”

  She glanced at her father, then back at the officer. “Do I have to have one?”

  “Bryn.” Dad cleared his throat. “Please listen to reason. Let them get you an attorney.”

  She looked up at the clock on the painted cement-block wall. Ten o’clock. Garrett would receive her letter today. She’d ignored several phone calls and text messages from him, knowing she couldn’t pretend everything was fine if he hadn’t read her letter yet, and too frightened to talk to him if he was calling in response to her letter.

  Perlson cocked his head. “You do have the right to have an attorney present before you make a confession or answer any further questions. I’d strongly advise you to do so.”

  “I don’t want an attorney. I just want to make my confession.” If she couldn’t get this over with now, today, she would go mad.

  The chief shrugged and wrote something on the form. Looking up, he studied her. “So what is it you want to confess?”

  Bryn laid the envelope on the desk and pushed it toward him, feeling as if she’d just stepped off the edge of a cliff into the abyss.

  If Bryn closed her eyes,

  she could almost imagine it

  was Garrett beside her,

  and everything else was just

  a bad dream.

  24

  Friday, January 18

  Bryn sat on the sofa in her father’s guest room, a mixture of relief and terror swirling through her veins. She was home after a sleepless night alone in the Hanover Falls detention center.

  Yesterday, after half an hour of filling out forms and being questioned, she’d been placed under arrest and escorted to a holding cell at the station.

  Every time she thought about the shame of that moment, and seeing Dad’s anguish at having to witness it, she regretted she’d let Dad come with her. Thankfully, Chief Perlson had managed to get her a bail hearing this morning, and the judge had released her “on her own recognizance”—whatever that meant. Apparently they didn’t see her as a flight risk, so at least she hadn’t had to spend the whole weekend in jail.

  She’d wanted to kiss the chief for getting her out of there. She remembered how fondly Adam had always spoken of Hanover Falls’ chief of police and she understood now. She suspected Perlson had felt the same about Adam, and she thanked God for the man’s mercy toward her.

  But she couldn’t expect mercy from here on. She’d committed a felony. The word rang in her ears.

  She would appear before a judge on felony charges of involuntary manslaughter. The tragedy had drawn national attention. If Garrett’s attitude was any indication, the community was hungry for vengeance and restitution. The judge would no doubt give them what they wanted.

  “Ms. Hennesey, I can’t advise you strongly enough to get a good attorney,” the chief had said, “or at the very least let the court appoint one for you. This isn’t something to take lightly. You do not want to be a pro se litigant . . . unless of course you don’t mind the idea of spending the best years of your life in prison.”

  She’d been prepared for that. Time in the detention center at the very least. But probably prison. She deserved nothing less. Dad had harped at her about getting an attorney, and finally—for the sake of her father’s heart and health—she’d agreed to talk to the lawyer Eberfield & Sons retained.

  Dad somehow managed to arrange a meeting this afternoon in Judson Meyer’s Springfield office. Bryn didn’t have a good feeling about it. Either the guy was desperate for clients, or he was so eager for the publicity this case would bring him that he’d cleared his schedule for her. Neither scenario gave her much comfort.

  A knock sounded at the door, and Bryn straightened and quickly wiped away the smudges of mascara she knew must rim her eyes. “Come in.”

  The door creaked open, and Dad stood there, studying her. “How you doing?”

  She merely nodded, afraid she’d break down if she tried to speak.

  He came in and sat on the sofa beside her. “You’re doing the right thi
ng, honey . . . talking to this guy. He’s a good lawyer. He’ll do right by you.”

  She didn’t know what to do. She just wanted it to be over. “We should probably go, don’t you think?”

  He struggled to his feet. “I’ll get our coats.”

  Neither of them spoke on the drive to Springfield. The radio played Dad’s country music. If Bryn closed her eyes, she could almost imagine it was Garrett beside her, and everything else was just a bad dream.

  All right, then, Bryn. May I call you Bryn?” Judson Meyer appeared to be about fifty, with attractively graying temples, steely blue eyes, tailored suit, and a demeanor no doubt meant to instill confidence in his clients. But to Bryn, he looked too much like one of those sleazy attorneys from a TV commercial.

  Her hands trembled uncontrollably. She pressed her palms together and put her hands under the table in a vain attempt to appear calm.

  “I need to ask you some questions, Bryn, and I need the God’s honest truth. If I’m going to represent you, I need to know everything you know, down to the smallest detail.”

  She met his eyes and nodded. At least they wanted the same thing in that regard. The truth.

  “We’ll waive the preliminary hearing. You know what the charges against you are.” He explained the possible pleas she could enter at the arraignment. She could scarcely keep track of all the terms—plea bargain, no contest, pro se litigant, plead out. The phrases all melded together—and none quite sounded like they contained the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Help me, God.

  For an hour, the attorney volleyed questions at her—about her work at the shelter, about the events of that night, details about the candle, down to what color, what scent it had been. She answered his questions carefully, feeling removed from the situation—as if she were telling someone else’s story.

  She told him about her dream—or memory . . . she wasn’t sure what to call it.

  The attorney looked incredulous. “A dream? You’re basing your guilt on a dream?”