“I have no idea what an intake manifold is, but, Chief, that sounds like it’s a good thing?” Mabe asks.
“It’s a very good thing. Basically, it means that Patty is telling the truth. You didn’t kill those boys that night, Patty.”
Patty’s eyes start to leak tears, as do Mabe’s.
“Now, I have to ask you this, only because I need to make sure all my bases are covered.”
Patty nods.
“Were you drinking that night?”
“No, Chief. I … I drank alcoholically after that night and maybe because of that night. But I did not drink that night or before that night.”
The chief stares Patty down, reading her body language, her facial expressions, anything that might give a signal of dishonesty, but there is none that he can see.
Tripp and Conroy lost their lives that night not because of who was driving or who was drinking, but because of a faulty vehicle.
“Being drunk isn’t a crime. Being the designated driver in a faulty vehicle isn’t a crime either. The way I see it, Patty, you’ve served your time, which has led you down this beautifully broken road.”
“You both will have to live with what you saw that night and your decision to leave, but remember, there is nothing you could have done to save those boys. They were both way beyond human aid.”
Mabe and Patty sit with the chief’s words and allow them to fester inside them.
“I should talk to the families though,” Patty whispers. “Tell them the truth.”
Chief McBride gently places his hand on Patty’s. “You know, I’ve been doing this job for a long time. Seen a lot of heartbreak, a lot of death. So, I want to ask, before you do that, think about the heartache that will surface again. They’ll have to relive their deaths all over again. They’ll have to relive that night. Before you do that, are you doing it for yourself or for them? Because what would be the outcome? Will it change anything? Will it bring back Tripp and Conroy? Will it fix anything?”
This hits Patty straight in the teeth, in the gut. The truth can be an awful pill to swallow. “Myself.”
“What’s next?” Mabe asks.
The chief shrugs. “Nothing. Case closed.” He stands to leave.
And as Patty and Mabe watch the chief drive away in his patrol car, they both know they’ll have to live with what they heard and saw that night and the decisions they made, but they both are finally feel free.
36
Tess
Casey hangs up the phone, and my heart sinks.
Seeing the pain in his eyes is almost harder than listening to Cash spew the secret we’ve kept for eight long years.
“I swear to God, Tess, I never told a soul.”
I shake my head as the tears begin to well in my eyes. “We should—” My voice breaks. “We should have known that with you in the public eye now, we couldn’t keep this secret forever.”
But there’s more in Casey’s eyes. More that he’s not telling me.
“What is it, Case?”
But he shakes his head. “Nothing. How the hell did a reporter get ahold of this information?”
I stare down at my hands, feeling numb, as though I were in a bad dream.
“We can’t hide from the truth, Casey.”
And when these words fall from my mouth—words that have entangled themselves, embedded themselves in the back of my mind—I realize we need to come clean.
“What about our little boy, Casey? He’s eight. He knows how to read. What if he sees this story on a cover of a magazine? What about our families? I don’t want them to find out this way.”
Fear fills all of the dark pockets of grief that I’ve held on to for so long.
Casey calls his brother back, and Cash doesn’t pick up. I see the anger on Casey’s face, not just from Cash not picking up, but also all the past disappointments that he’s caused Casey.
The lies.
The missed birthdays.
Missed holidays.
The selfishness, self-centeredness.
The ego.
His reckless ways.
His ignorance of truth.
Casey leaves a message. “Get that reporter off your back, Cash. Fucking leave it alone. Please.”
He hits End.
“We should go home sooner, just in case.” I try to conceal my sadness that has now turned to anger.
“Tess, whether we go home sooner or after the weekend, it won’t make a difference. If this story goes live, we’re still going to look like we’ve hidden it if we tell them now before the story runs or after.”
He’s right.
“Besides, she doesn’t have proof. I wasn’t, you know, where I’m at now, so there wouldn’t be pictures or anything to trace all this back to us. The only thing is the birth certificate—”
And we both hold our breath.
I let out a sigh. “We have one copy, and the adoptive parents have a copy. That’s it. The adoptive parents would never put this out there if they loved their child,” I say. “No way in hell they’d start a media frenzy like this.”
“We found a private agency for unwed mothers. There’s no way the outfit would have leaked this,” Casey says. “Just need to face the music.”
I longed for Casey when he left over the weekend, not because I needed him, but because I wanted to be with him.
Nothing, thankfully, ran in any magazine, tabloid, newspaper, as I spent hours searching the internet.
Mary Jo said we could sell the house for an easy $872,000. The truth is, I need the money from the house. I haven’t been working, and my ego won’t allow me to admit this to Casey.
“With these views and the easy access to town and the ocean, you’d better believe this house will be snatched up quickly,” Mary Jo had said.
And on Monday, as we board the plane for Dillon Creek and ponder the house price, telling the truth, and finding truth, I receive an e-mail from Touch magazine, an e-mail subscription I signed up for in my quest to find anything on our story bleeding across the pages.
I read the headline.
ATWOOD FATHERS BABY
When shock and grief combine itself, it’s a recipe that makes one almost go mad. Without air in my lungs and with a sinking feeling in my stomach, I look to Casey and show him my phone.
We take our seats on the airplane, and he takes my phone and opens the article.
He reads.
I’m too scared to look.
He’s quiet.
I can’t speak, as fear gathers in my body.
My hands begin to sweat, and I feel as though I’m going to throw up.
The other passengers board the plane like it’s a normal Monday, and it is to them. They laugh and joke and read and go about their day as if nothing were wrong in the world, and it isn’t for them.
“Please, Case,” I say breathlessly, “tell me what it says.”
He continues to read the article as if he hadn’t heard me.
It feels like years pass before he looks up at me.
I let out a loud sigh that is broken down by a muffled cry. “What?” I whisper and peek over his shoulder.
Disbelief is all over Casey’s face.
Unidentified child.
Eight years old.
Undisclosed source close to the adoptive family.
Cash Atwood.
Those are the phrases I pick up from the article. “Cash Atwood?”
“Cash,” he says and stares through me. “Cash said it was his baby.”
“Mr. Atwood, sorry, I hate to interrupt, but would you mind signing this for my nephew? You’re his favorite bull rider.” A man in his mid-fifties stands in the aisle, a pen in one hand, a piece of paper in the other.
Automatically, Casey takes the man’s paper and pen and signs it. “Thank you, sir. Appreciate the support,” he says, like a practiced line that he repeats over and over and over.
A plastic smile spreads across my face as we sit somewhere between disbelief and reality, and
I still can’t get used to this Casey. I’m not used to women fawning all over him or the people asking him for his autograph or to take a photo.
The man thanks Casey and walks back to his seat. Casey hands me back my phone, a blank stare on his face.
“I’m not sure if I should be thrilled or curious about why Cash did this,” I whisper to Casey.
Casey shakes his head, unfit for words—I can tell by the way his jaw is tight and his stare is hard.
When we arrive in Dillon Creek, it’s late in the day, and the sun is setting behind the wall of redwood trees that serve as the backdrop to town. Calder left a truck for us at the Arcata Airport.
As we drive down Main Street, Casey slides his hand between my legs and looks at me longingly. “You okay?”
I look back at him. Nod. “I will be. I just want this to be over with now. I want to get on with our lives.”
But for me, there’s a stain on Dillon Creek now, which was once a place I sought refuge from the outside world, a tiny well-kept town that sits just past the State Route 211.
Old feelings of inadequacy return.
I couldn’t hold on to my job.
Not that I wasn’t good enough. I know I was—am.
It’s the politics.
School should be in session now.
My kids have a teacher who should have retired years ago.
And here I am, twenty-seven years old, still trying to figure out life.
“Home?” Casey asks.
“Yes.”
The porch light is on.
Anna must have done that. I inwardly smile at the thought of a hug and a late-night chat about boys with a glass of wine with my best friend.
“Do your parents know we’re coming?”
He uses we like I will let him come to my parents’ with me. Let him endure the blameful looks from my parents. The heated words that might spew from all of our mouths.
I shake my head.
“You didn’t tell them?”
I shake my head again.
“Tess,” he sighs. “Why not?”
“I don’t want them to be prepared, Case. I want all of this to happen naturally. Come on. You know my mother.”
He pushes strands of my hair behind my ears. “You know it’s Dillon Creek. It’ll make the paper tomorrow. I’m sure the truck was seen driving through town.”
“There are four Atwood brothers. How would they know it wasn’t just Calder or Colt with one quick glance?”
He shrugs. “Could be right. When do you want to go over to your parents’?”
“Tonight.”
Casey sighs again. “Let me go with you, Tess.”
“No, there are some things I need to do alone, Case.”
He gives a half-laugh. “Reminds me of when we were kids. Remember when Branch Thompson stole your backpack, just to be a shit ass. You told Anna and me that you were going to go to his house and get it. Hell, we weren’t older than maybe eleven or so. When we grabbed our bikes, ready to go, you told us we couldn’t. That there were some things you needed to do alone.” He laughs. “But we followed you. Heard you yelling at him on his front porch about wetting the bed and sleeping with his favorite blanket and that all this dirt you had on him came from a reliable source. And then”—he laughs—“you said, ‘Give me my backpack, and I’ll let you live.’ ”
We both laugh.
“That kid ran inside so quickly and grabbed your backpack.”
We’re still laughing when we pull in my driveway.
Home.
“I’ve never doubted your abilities, Tess. I know … I know our son is just as tough as his mama, and I know you can do this alone. But if you don’t want to do it alone, I’ll be here.” Casey leans over and kisses me lightly on the lips, and I feel it in my toes.
He pulls away. “Call me when you’re back home? I’ll come stay the night.”
My stomach erupts with butterflies at the thought of having Casey in my bed tonight. Between my sheets. Under me. Inside me.
“That sounds wonderful.” I kiss him once more, and he jumps out of the truck, grabs my bag, and carries it to my front door.
“Thank you.”
Casey turns to leave. “Tess?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you more than bull riding and the stars and the moon, and I’ve never stopped loving you.”
I feel his words in my heart. “I love you too.”
I watch as he drives away, taking tiny pieces of my heart with him.
The porch of my parents’ house is decorated to the nines for Thanksgiving. My mother has an impeccable decorating style. I just hope she’s not several glasses into her nightly ritual.
I close my eyes and pray as my heart begins to pound.
I knock and open the door.
“Hello?” I call out.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
My heartbeat is so hard that I hear it in my ears.
My mother peeks around the corner, and her jaw falls open. “Tess!” she calls out. “Dad! Tess is home!”
But she sees the look on my face.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” She grabs me by the shoulders.
“We need to talk,” I say as I walk past her. I ease myself down to the sofa, letting my purse strap fall off my shoulder.
The letters are in my purse, so I keep it close—proof that something isn’t right.
My dad comes downstairs.
“Tess, my sweet girl,” he says.
I stand, and he pulls me into a hug.
My father takes a seat next to my mom.
“What is it, honey?” my mom asks.
I let out a deep breath and allow my shoulders to fall into a restful position, knowing they’ll creep up to my ears before this is over. Rehearsing the conversation over and over in my head only cluttered my thoughts.
“Did you find my baby pictures, Mom?”
She’s silent, toying with her hands yet looking at me straight in the eye.
“Please, just be honest with me. That’s all I want.”
“No,” she whispers.
“Do you have any baby pictures of me?”
“No,” she whispers again.
My dad’s eyes grow sad. “What’s this about, Tess?” He puts an arm over my mom.
And in this moment, I’m glad they have each other.
“You don’t have my baby pictures because you didn’t have me when I was a baby. Is that right?” The words fall from my mouth, and even I have a hard time believing them.
My mom’s head drops to her lap as tears begin to fall.
Knowing I’m on the right track because Mavis Morgan does not cry, I reach down into my purse and pull out her letters to Ike. I set them on the coffee table. “Mama, I just need the truth. I need the rest of the story.”
37
Casey
Calder, Colt, Anna, Mom, and Dad are all gathered around the dining room table, laughing and joking.
The pile of Australian shepherds are passed out in the living room by the fireplace.
But the back door—the door our good friends and family know to use—opens.
It’s Cash.
My mom calls out, “Cash?”
She stands automatically and runs to her son. The one who only comes home when he needs something or needs time to think, to come back to his roots. The reckless kid who always stands out and shows off with unexplainable athleticism.
My father, not as forgiving, still stands and walks to his son. Wraps his arms around him. “Been a long time, kid.”
Anna whispers to Colt, stands, and attempts to leave, maybe to give the family time to process the ghost who’s just walked through the back door.
“No way in hell, Anna Atwood.” My mom grabs Anna’s hand. “You are as much a part of this family than these boys,” my mother says in her motherly tone.
Anna turns and laughs. “Yes, Mrs. Atwood.”
Mom pu
lls Anna in for a hug. “Besides, it’s about time. I’ve been outnumbered for years. Even our dogs are boys!”
Calder and Colt stand and walk to Cash.
“ ’Bout time, brother,” Calder says, pulls him in for a hug.
Colt does the same.
But I sit here and stare hard at the brother who just walked away. The brother I idolized for so many years, growing up, before he turned into an asshole. The brother who taught me to whittle wood and break a colt, who taught me the basics about bull riding. Guess to fight them, you’ve got to know how to ride them.
Everyone looks at me and Cash, waiting for something, anything.
And to my surprise, he doesn’t look like a train wreck. Even if the last time he called me, he was drunk, which isn’t anything new.
“Now, you decide to show up?” My words cut through the silence of the Atwood ranch, ricocheting off the surrounding mountains, the soil, the cattle, the walls that have held the Atwood house up for the past one hundred years. “Of all times, now? Well, cowboy, you weren’t needed then, and you’re not needed now.”
Cash stares at me long and hard. Tips his chin up. “Suppose I deserve that.” He rubs his jaw with his fingers.
Nobody says another word.
“You think that you can just come in here and act like nothing happened? Like you didn’t go AWOL and worry the shit out of Mom and Dad?”
“Where were you on the night that Conroy died and I had to hold up Mom?” Cash’s words slither to me.
I see red. “Shut the fuck up, Cash.” I allow the anger and the regret and the sadness and the guilt to surface like boiling water.
Cash says, “Where were you, Casey? In fact, where was Tess?”
He knows.
My fists become balls, and I feel the anger coursing through my veins.
“That’s enough, boys,” Mom says.
“Why’d you take the blame?” I seethe. “Why’d you tell the reporter what you told her?”
Mom interjects, “What are you talking about, Casey?”
Cash smiles. “Tell them, Case. Why don’t you tell the family your deep, dark secret? Because God knows I’m tired of hanging on to it.”
With everything I have, I land a punch across his nose.
Saving Tess Page 24
