“He’d been beating you.” Finally unable to restrain himself, Myron burst out. “He was irrational. You would have been crazy to help, he could have got you both killed.”
T.L. didn’t meet his uncle’s gaze. He pressed his teeth together, welcomed the ache in his skull. “He tried to reach out for Taylor, but Taylor was fighting the water. You know. Doing everything wrong.”
No one said anything, but everyone in the room could visualize what had happened. It took only ninety seconds in the water before you had no chance of saving yourself.
“What did you do after, Theodore?”
The chief’s voice had a hard edge. The name was jarring in a small way; no one had called T.L. by his given name since he was a child. Even his driver’s license said T.L. Weyant knew that; when Elizabeth had brought him to dinner, he’d shook his hand and stared him down and said “T.L.” as though it was a curse.
“I . . . went to my truck.”
“When you left, you believed that Taylor was dead and Paul was injured.”
“Hey,” Myron said, placing his hand flat on the table. A warning. “Those boys tried to kill him.”
“We don’t know that.” Some dull animosity lingered between the two men. “I understand Theodore feared for his life, but Paul and Taylor may have been just trying to send a message. A warning.”
“He said that kid had the bat raised up in two hands, coming down on his skull. You want to tell me that ain’t attempted murder?”
“It’s okay,” T.L. cut in. “Myron, it’s all right.” He shifted his gaze back to the chief. “I got off the ice, first thing. That’s what I learned to do. Once it starts to go, you don’t know where it reaches to. I stayed down until I was close to the shore. Then I got up and I ran to my truck.”
He crawled and slithered and felt the ice’s angry drumline pounding its finale through his body. Ice got in his mouth and scraped his face and caked every crevice of his clothes, and Paul was yelling something that T.L. couldn’t make out. Panic, that was for sure, terror and grief.
T.L. had never watched a man die on the ice, but there was that winter when the deer broke through and three of them watched from the shore, him and Mark and Keith. They’d been getting high around a driftwood fire, the joint burning down to nothing as they watched, transfixed by the sheer desperation in the deer’s thrashing, the stillness when it finally gave up and sank, something he would never forget.
When he finally stood up and ran for the truck, he didn’t turn around. He slipped and fell on the slope up from the shore. When he tried to get his keys out of his pocket, his hand was numb and clumsy. He didn’t look back when he drove away: after revving the engine twice, he turned the heat to full blast, letting the harsh sound block out everything else except the snowy road ahead.
“So that’s it. He told you everything.”
“You didn’t tell anyone what happened.” Weyant ignored Myron, watching T.L.
T.L. shook his head. “No one.”
“Even though a boy was dead.”
“Sir.” T.L. held his gaze. “I know how you feel about me. You’ve hated me ever since I first went out with your daughter. If I came in here and told you I got into a fight, and one of the other guys is dead, you think I’m going to expect you’ll believe my side?”
He was breathing hard. The recording device made a whir-click, but otherwise the room was silent.
Weyant reached across the table and shut off the recorder. He pushed back his chair.
“You’re wrong,” he said tonelessly. “I haven’t hated you since you took my daughter out. I’ve hated you since the day you were born.”
thirty-two
COLLEEN WOKE AGAIN and there was light seeping through the windows. Morning, then, finally. She’d been lying on a vinyl couch in the hospital waiting room. Earlier, when she was tossing and turning, there were other people here. An old woman with a scarf wrapped round and round her neck, who sat with knitting on her lap, unmoving. Later, a big man with a T-shirt that didn’t cover his belly came and sat next to her, faint music coming from his earbuds. Angry, cacophonous music, turned up so loud Colleen could hear it across the room.
They were both gone now. She sat up, feeling the ache in her hips, the cottony bad taste of sleep in her mouth. Her phone was on the end table, where she’d left it so she wouldn’t miss a call. But there was only a text from Andy: Got on 2:00 arr. Lawton 4:58. Got car. Call when you get this.
She dialed, glancing around the waiting room. The nurse at the desk was turned away from her, talking softly on the phone. It was a different one from earlier.
“Andy,” she said, the minute he picked up.
“How are you?”
“I’m—I’m fine, I guess. A little achy from sleeping on the couch.”
“They didn’t give you a cot? Or one of those bed chairs?”
“They didn’t let me stay in the room. They’ve got—there’s a police officer there. Sitting outside.” With the straight-backed chair, the paunch, the radio—just what you’d expect.
“Aw, hell. Did you ever get to talk to him at all?”
“For a few minutes.” She blinked at the memory. “He was pretty out of it. He just said . . .”
He had an IV taped to his arm, a bag slowly dripping. Equipment glowing in the dim room. His eyes were swollen and heavy. When he looked at her, it took a moment for him to focus. The first thing he said: “I’m going to marry her. When I get out.”
“He thinks he’s going to jail,” she said quietly.
She had tried to call Andy in the middle of the chaos at the fishing shack, after they loaded Paul into the ambulance, but she didn’t have cell reception. The police let her drive Shay’s car out, after she agreed that she wouldn’t try to keep pace with the ambulance. She kept her eyes on the road and the speedometer, and as she drove she murmured a prayer, over and over: Thank you, God. Oh, thank you, God. It wasn’t until she was in the hospital parking lot that she tried Andy again. He’d answered right away—he was already up and getting ready to go to the office—and she’d said, “He’s all right, Paul is alive,” and then both of them were talking and crying at once.
It had been a moment of such pure joy, a moment that was lost to memory now, with reality shadowed over with doubt and dread. How quickly she had gone from gratitude that her son was alive to worry about what came next.
“Colleen, I’m not going in today. I’ll leave for the airport around noon and I’ll come straight to the hotel when I land. Remember, it’s the Homewood Suites, right? Will you be able to get over there and get checked in?”
It took her a moment to catch up, and then she remembered. The room Vicki had found, just a few days ago when everything had been different.
Her things were still in the other room, the one Shay had gotten for them. Shay: there, alone. At least, Colleen assumed she was still there; it was where the cops took her last night. Had they stayed to make sure she was all right?
What did it say about Colleen that she had not bothered to wonder, all the long night on the waiting room couch, how Shay was doing, in her first hours as the mother of a dead child?
“Andy, I need you to do something. Before you get on the plane.”
“What?”
“Get Shay’s daughter on a flight. And her son-in-law if he can come, and their daughter. Can you do that?”
There was a pause. “Colleen . . . last night you said . . . with everything that happened, and the police being involved—”
“Taylor is dead.” She was impatient now, even though she knew she had no right to be. “I know. But it wasn’t Paul’s fault. It wasn’t.”
“Colleen . . .”
Colleen gripped the phone harder and hunched over. The nurse was talking to someone else now, paying her no attention. She could smell coffee coming from somewhere down the hall.
Last night it had all tumbled out, Andy trying to get her to slow down, to sort out the facts. The facts. What had it mattered th
en? Their son was alive. Taylor was dead, and that was all she knew.
In the few short moments that she had spent in Paul’s hospital room, she hadn’t learned much. She touched his face, kissed his forehead, smoothed his hair back. He asked for water and she held the bent straw to his lips. He didn’t seem especially glad she was there. She thought he might have gone back to sleep, but then his eyes fluttered open and he looked at her and said, “It’s all my fault.” But that couldn’t be. Elizabeth said it was all her fault. He did this for us, the baby.
Taylor had drowned, and there had been another boy there. Why hadn’t she asked Elizabeth the rest? What could have possibly happened that night? And worst of all, why did Paul think he was responsible?
The other boy. The one who ran away. He was complicit. Paul had been there when the tragedy happened, and he felt guilty about it and ashamed. He thought he was letting his parents down again, letting himself down. And he was sensitive. No one ever understood that Paul felt everything more deeply than most people. So even if it wasn’t his fault that Taylor had died, he would blame himself. It would all get sorted out, and maybe they had all played some part, maybe they all bore some responsibility, but eventually Paul would come to understand that he alone hadn’t made it happen.
Darren Terry’s face came into her mind, the face she never allowed herself to think about. His yearbook picture, taken before it happened. Everyone acted like that was black and white, but it wasn’t. It was shades of gray. Darren, and he wasn’t the only one, had tormented Paul, pushed and pushed until something had to give.
This was different. Paul had friends now. He had a best friend. Whatever had led them out onto the ice, whatever was at the heart of the conflict, it wasn’t just Paul, it was all of them. And Taylor was dead and that was unbelievably tragic, her heart was breaking over it, but he had been there too, he had been a part of it.
“Just get them out here, okay, Andy?”
So he recited the names back, Brittany and Robert and Leila Litton from Fairhaven, California. He said he would text their flight information when he had it. “You’ll need to call Shay and let her know.”
Colleen was silent, biting her lip. She had to go to the hotel room anyway. Her things were there. Shay was there. Alone.
“All right,” she said softly, and hung up without saying good-bye.
I’m going to marry her. The first thing Paul had said last night, but she hadn’t told Andy. She wanted to go back into that hospital room, to hold her son, to see him for herself, but something about the way he had looked at her last night made her hesitate.
The other thing he’d said: It’s all my fault.
And finally, when she started to protest, to beg him not to think about that now—Don’t talk, just do what the doctors tell you. Daddy will be here soon—the confusion had drained out of his eyes and he had pushed her hands away. “Leave me alone,” he’d said. “I don’t want you here.”
IT WOULDN’T HAVE mattered. The door to Paul’s room was closed. The police officer was pushing his chair down the hall. “The chief is in with him now,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m sure you can see him after. Chief’s lifted guard detail. I’m going home.”
Colleen was suddenly exhausted. She needed to see Shay and then she needed sleep. Tonight, when Andy got here, they would come back to the hospital. They’d visit with Paul together. She wouldn’t tell Andy that Paul had said he didn’t want her there; by tonight everything would look different, to all of them. Paul would feel better. He would be sorry for the way he’d spoken to her—he always was. She wouldn’t mention it and they would just start again.
But there was one more thing, first.
Elizabeth had been here, in the hospital. Colleen had seen her last night, during one of the many long, anxious fits between her restless dozing. She had been walking down the hall with a thin, blond woman who had to be her mother. Only now did it occur to Colleen that the girl had experienced a shock too. What if it had been too much for her? What if the baby—?
“Are you sure she wasn’t admitted?” she demanded, and the nurse glared at her. She didn’t understand, how could she? She’s carrying my grandchild, Colleen wanted to explain. Didn’t that mean something? Didn’t that give her rights?
thirty-three
COLLEEN THOUGHT ABOUT Elizabeth as she drove through the pale, wintry morning to the Hyatt. The girl, standing in the dark last night, hugging herself, watching Shay fall to her knees, screaming. What had she been feeling? What did she know?
The hotel lobby was empty, classical music playing softly. There was the muffled sound of a vacuum cleaner down the hall. A gas fire burned behind glass in the faux fireplace. The silk flower arrangement, the sofas, the patterned rug—all of these were exactly as they had been when Shay brought her here two nights ago. Only two nights since she and Shay slept in the same bed, bound by their desperation and their hope.
“May I help you?”
Colleen put a hand on the sofa to steady herself. She was suddenly feeling shaky. Food . . . when was the last time she had eaten anything? Her face felt droopy and waxy. She could smell her own odor mixed with the faint scent of her hair spray.
“Oh,” she said, trying to force a smile. “If you’ll just give me a second.”
The wave of dizziness passed. Colleen clutched the collar of her coat tightly despite the hot air blasting from the heating system.
Shay hadn’t answered her phone or Colleen’s texts. Colleen approached the desk, thinking fast.
“I’ve . . . lost my key,” she said, reaching in her purse for her wallet. She opened it and showed the clerk her driver’s license. “I think my friend put my name on the reservation . . . Shay Capparelli.”
The young woman typed at her keyboard, the pleasant smile never leaving her face. Every girl in Lawton seemed to have the same friendly demeanor, the same sweet and compliant nature.
“Here you go,” she said, taking a card from under the counter and sliding it into a paper sleeve.
“Thank you.” Colleen realized she had no idea what the room number was. “Um . . . that was . . . three fifteen?” she said, guessing wildly. “I’m sorry, it’s just—”
The young woman looked at her curiously, and Colleen blushed. What must she think? That Colleen was returning from a hookup?
“There was an accident,” she said, attempting a weary smile. The lies came so much more smoothly now. “I was a witness. I had to go to the police station to give a statement, and now I’m exhausted.”
“Oh no,” the girl said. “Is everyone all right? Oh, I’m sorry, what a stupid question, if they were, you wouldn’t have had to go to the station.”
“No, no, everyone’s fine, just a few scratches. It was just the cars that were damaged. Totaled, both of them.”
“Oh, thank the Lord,” the girl said. Her relief seemed genuine. What was it with these people, here in the overlooked center of the country, that they were willing to pray for strangers, to take on others’ pain? “Anyway, it’s room three thirteen. Is there anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Mitchell? I can schedule housekeeping for later this afternoon so you can get some rest . . .”
Colleen thanked her and headed toward the elevators. She found the room and paused in front of the door. It was painted a rich orange shade, a detail she hadn’t noticed the other night. All she had to do was knock. It was time, it was the next step.
But she was so afraid. That Shay would slam the door in her face—that would be the least of it. Maybe she would try to hurt Colleen, kill her even, an eye for an eye.
Kneeling in the snow, Shay had never stopped screaming. She lashed out at everyone who came near her, as if she was trying to pull them down onto the ground with her. Colleen had been focused on Paul; she turned her back on Shay and tried to block the screaming from her ears. After they loaded Paul into the ambulance, she looked for Shay and saw her leaning on one of the police officers, all the fight gone out of her as he walked her to a cru
iser.
That had been around three in the morning. Six hours had passed since then. What had Shay been doing? Had the police officer walked her up to the room, at least? Had she slept? Had she woken up and remembered and started screaming again?
All was quiet now. Colleen knocked. She waited a long time, but there was nothing, no sound from within the room. She tried again, and still nothing.
She let herself in with the key.
The room was dark, the drapes closed except for a gap of an inch or two. It took a moment for Colleen to spot Shay. She was lying on the floor next to the window, curled into a ball, still wearing her coat. The hood served as a sort of pillow. She was turned away from Colleen, staring through that small gap. Or maybe she was asleep.
Or—
“Shay!” Colleen raced across the room and knelt next to her, grabbing her arm and turning her over. What if she’d come back here and decided she had nothing left? Colleen’s sleeping pills were still in her toiletry case, hers and Andy’s—enough, maybe, if Shay took them all—
Shay’s eyes fluttered open and she looked up at Colleen. She was so light, like a child, her limbs thin and flopping.
“Are you all right?” Colleen demanded. “You didn’t do anything, did you?”
Shay made a sound that was almost a laugh, an expulsion of breath. She leaned up on her elbows and sighed. “You want to know if I tried to kill myself?”
Already Colleen saw that it was ludicrous. Shay was so much stronger than that. She would never choose the easy escape—that was for women like Colleen. Her face burned with shame.
“I don’t know,” Shay said, sitting up the rest of the way and leaning against the sliding door. Her voice was raspy. Her hair was knotted and tangled; combing it out was going to be a big job. Mascara was smudged under her eyes. “Maybe I should. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Can you get me my purse?”
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