by Nicole Snow
My heart skips several beats. I try to remember what Ryan said about what he was doing yesterday.
Didn't he say he was working on Nelson's car? Jesus.
No, it's got to be a twisted coincidence. My stomach drops into an open pit when I scan through the articles, forcing myself to read the ugly truth. Every word makes me pull angrily on the little locket, twining the chain around my fingers.
Violent murder. Foul play. One suspect.
Three nightmare phrases so strange and out of place for Split Harbor they don't seem real. Neither do the next few sentences I read, the ones that make my hands shake so bad they cause me to drop my phone. A few students across from me lounging in the commons look up when it bangs on tile. I smile uneasily, reaching to pick it up.
It's either smile at this point, or fall down to the ground and vomit.
I don't want to read it a second time. But I need to take another look, just to make sure this isn't a fever dream.
Bart's Auto is closed indefinitely while police examine the scene, the piece reads. No suspects have been publicly identified at this time, though Sheriff Dixon says this could change quickly. Another press conference will be held as soon as local law enforcement have finished investigating their only lead.
Only lead. Fuck, only.
Ryan, where are you?
I want to curl up and die. There's no way he's responsible for this. None.
Worse, I finally get why I haven't heard from him, my parents, or anybody else in town. Knowing the truth hurts.
The urge to call them and scream, demanding answers, forces the phone to my ear. I try to ring Ryan about four times. It goes straight to his voice mail. My parents won't pick up either, no matter what number I try. I don't dare ring the auto shop while it's under lockdown.
My evening classes are just a blur. The next time I check my phone, anxiously eating Ritz crackers with Sprite to ease the queasiness in my stomach, I see a message from Matt.
Call me whenever you get this. It's serious.
I'm grateful he's able to talk to me. He's in the middle of tactical training at some base in Pakistan, away from the combat zone he's normally stationed at near Kandahar. But seeing him write serious turns every vertebrae in my spine to ice cubes.
I wait until I'm back in my dorm, done for the day, before I call. He picks up instantly, breathing heavily on the end of the line.
“Kara?”
“Thank God. Matt, what's going on? I saw the news.”
“Then you know about Drayton and dad's garage.” He pauses, a brutal second so long it feels like it's going to make me suffocate. “Everybody's fine with them. I heard from mom this morning. Dad was just coming home from dropping you off when he got the call. Police told him to come to the shop right away. He's been with them all day, filling out forms and talking to investigators.”
“Jesus.” My heart dives, relieved my parents are okay. It pulls back in my throat when I come to my next question. “What about Ryan?”
“Kara...” This time, the pregnant pause after my name lasts so long it has triplets.
There's bad news coming. I'm about to throw up all over my desk, but only after I realize how pissed I am.
Enraged, actually, because I know he's hiding something. I won't stand being patronized.
“Matt, just tell me what happened. Where is he? Is he okay?”
“Kara...he's gone.”
Gone? Just...gone?
What the hell does that mean? I'm having visions of a serial killer storming into the garage, murdering Nelson Drayton with a chainsaw, and then coming after Ryan.
“Don't tell me,” I whisper, the terror in my throat so thick and hot I can barely speak. “He's dead, isn't he?”
“No. Not exactly,” Matt growls, pauses, and lets out a sigh. “Look, you had to hear it from somebody, and I'm the best one to deliver the news. Nobody's seen him since he left his apartment to go to work yesterday morning. A big storm blew in from the lake last night, flooded everything, and a couple boats disappeared. Right around the time they think Nelson was killed. They found one washed up near Marquette. The other's still missing.”
“Wait!” I close my eyes, wishing I could will this insanity away. “Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. You're saying he stole a boat and skipped town? Just vanished the same day Drayton dies? Matt, I –“
“Fuck. Sis, I'm not gonna pretend I know what you're feeling,” he says, anger and sympathy mingling in his tone. “You're a smart girl. You can put two and two together. You don't need me to tell you what everybody believes, word for word...right?”
There's about five seconds before the time bomb inside me explodes. The full horror hits me, the sick realization I'm engaged to a man they think is a killer, and a thief.
I'm gutted. My brain can't process why they're turning on Ryan like this, going along with the first insane possibility that explains what happened – the one I'll never believe in a million years.
I'm on my feet, shaking and screaming into the speaker.
“How can you even think that's what happened? Christ, how can mom or dad? He's your best friend, Matt.” I have to remember to breathe, or I'm going to pass out. “I don't know what happened, but Ryan isn't a fucking murderer!”
“I don't know what he is anymore,” Matt says coldly. “Let's leave this to the experts. Shit, maybe I can take an emergency leave to come home for awhile, or something, if my CO allows it. I'm sorry you're starting school like this, sis. We were all wrong about him, so fucking wrong. Maybe it's been building up for years from whatever happened to him in those orphanages and foster homes. It's a goddamned shame, I get it. I just heard about the engagement yesterday.”
I don't care what he's heard. I've had enough.
My finger barely taps the key to end the call before I throw the phone on the floor. My roommate, Courtney, is an absolute angel when she comes home, and finds me curled up and rocking myself on the bottom bunk, face down in the pillow. She offers about a million things, trying to help. All I'll accept is time alone – and I think she's glad because I'm really creeping her out.
I could care less about anyone's sympathy. I refuse to pity myself.
I want Ryan to come home. I want this fixed. And I want to go back to the happy, hopeful future I left behind in Split Harbor, before what's left of my heart pulverizes into dust.
Six Months Later
I can't believe I'm home, instead of Paris.
Can't believe I told mom to take my locket several weeks ago and hide it, destroy it, just get it away from me. My fingers still reach for the tiny piece of him that's no longer there.
It's the same with grandmom's ring. It's back in her drawer, slowly collecting dust, buried like my dying heart.
I never believed I could learn to hate a man I used to love – but I have.
I'm sulking around the office, back in daddy's shop, feeling more like a failure than ever today. It isn't like there's much else to do. Business hasn't been great since we turned into the place where a hometown hero died under mysterious circumstances.
“Pack it in for the evening, peanut.” I don't even hear my father come in until he speaks. His reassuring hand comes down on my shoulder. “The boys went home early, and we might as well follow them. Not a lot of work going on with a winter this mild.”
“Don't call me peanut. How many times do I have to ask?” I spin around in my chair, giving him a savage look.
Of course, I'm instantly reminded what a bitch I am when I see the smile on his face melt away. I'll never understand how he can be so positive after we've lost so much.
It isn't the mild winter that's reduced our usual lineup of body work, oil changes, and frozen starters. It's people's willingness to drive the extra twenty miles into Marquette. They'd rather have their vehicles towed there than deal with the outcasts running this tomb. They act like Nelson's ghost is going to come through the walls and howl in their faces for patronizing the place where he died.
; “No rush, Kara,” daddy says softly. “Take as much time as you need. I'll be out front, warming up the truck.”
I drag my feet, sitting at the greasy computer, trying not to cry. It's taken hours to organize the week's meager receipts – work I used to fly through just a couple years ago.
I'm trying not to cry. It's never done me any good, and more tears aren't going to make my issues disappear now.
Outside, through the open door, I hear him coughing. Daddy's been trying to shake a nasty cold or something for the better part of the month, one more thing our family doesn't need after karma went scorched Earth on us.
It's times like this when I wish Ryan could see us, wherever he is. I want him to see what he's done to our business, to daddy, to me. I can't remember the last time I rolled over the possibilities in my mind, thinking he's innocent, imagining the terrible ways he could've gotten himself mixed up in killing Nelson Drayton without actually pulling the trigger.
Was there even a trigger to pull? I don't know. Nobody says how he died, and I don't want to know.
There aren't many public details at all about what went down that night.
Matt knows more than me, supposedly, but he's the last person I'd ask. We haven't been on speaking terms since he called me three months ago, trying to give me a pep talk. I wasn't in the mood, packing my stuff away at the dorm to come home. Constantly reminded of the fatal Fs bombing my GPA into the stone age.
My big brother is one more casualty of Ryan's stupid, selfish disappearing act. I can't trust anyone, not even myself. The uncertainty disgusts me more than anything.
By the time I drag myself out of the office, wrapping my coat tight against the winter chill, I notice daddy left the garage open. His truck is running, but he's not inside.
What now?
I race outside, pouncing into the messy snow piled up about three feet away, where I find him half-buried, struggling to get on his feet.
“What is it? What's wrong?” I start banging my fist on his back while I wrap the other arm around his waist, struggling to pull him up. He's making sounds like he's choking. For a second, I'm afraid there's something caught in his throat, but it doesn't make any sense.
He's a man of habit. He wouldn't be chewing anything large enough to spoil dinner when we'll be eating in a couple hours.
It takes forever to wrestle him backwards, drag his huge body to the truck, where he has just enough leverage to grab onto the flat bed for support.
I don't know who's shaking worse – him or me.
Christ, just seeing him rattling around like he's about to fall injects more fear into my veins than I've felt since the day I found out Ryan was gone.
“Daddy?” I'm reaching for my phone, wondering if I should call 9-1-1. There's something very wrong, and I know he'll give me crap about it if I'm overreacting.
“Help me, Kara. I'm sick.”
My heart drops another five feet. If he isn't downplaying what's happening, then it's worse than I imagined.
Just like the night I lost the love of my life, I dial emergency, and let the next twenty minutes blur by in a daze.
I tell them my father is suffering some kind of attack. No, I don't know why.
Then I stand with him, my hand gently on his back, doing my damnedest not to cry, even when the ambulance pulls up with an ear bursting shriek.
I help him into the ambulance and ride to the hospital. Mom is already there in the waiting room shortly after we arrive. I watch them strip daddy away from me, lay him in a stretcher, and wheel him full speed ahead through the imposing metal doors. It's like I'm looking at a whale's mouth, eager to swallow up another piece of my world.
Mom and I sit outside and wait. Not very patiently. We don't say much.
Her nervous hand brushes mine several times. I take it, holding on like I haven't since I was a little girl.
For once, the worry in her eyes for me is absent, replaced by fear for daddy instead.
Matt calls later that night, as soon as his commander relays the news. Mom does the talking, which isn't much relief. My stomach tightens when I think about the forced, cold way we'll have to pull together as a family for my father's sake.
I can't forgive my brother for being the messenger, but I'm going to have to try. It's his voice that stole Ryan away from me forever, plunging me into this hell that's grown a few degrees hotter tonight.
I know it isn't right. I want to forgive him, to pick myself up and “just move on,” live the three simple words my brother said during our last argument.
Mom is just finishing her update on the phone when Doctor Hanson appears through the door. I get up slowly, shuffling over to the spot where he's motioning us. The look on his face tells me whatever comes out of his mouth won't be pleasant.
“Bets. Kara.” He says our names softly, as if it will help soften the blow. “I'm afraid there's bad news.”
I hold my breath, waiting for it to hit me in the face. Mom looks like she's about to faint.
“He's stable, but we're going to have to get him to Marquette in the morning for surgery. We did several scans with the best equipment here. Each one confirms everything I wish I didn't have to pass along. There's a mass growing in Bart's lower right lung. It's a big one.”
His lips keep moving. He's filling us in on the technical details about daddy's probable cancer, slowly dropping medical jargon, staring intently to make sure we're following along.
I stopped trying about thirty seconds ago.
Outside, the wind has picked up. I hear it banging against the huge sheet of glass behind him, loose in its frame, like Jack Frost himself pounding his fists, trying to work his way inside.
There's nothing left for the cold to take. I wish I had something more than hot, empty tears for my poor father, but Ryan stole my sorrows, my joys, my capacity to give more than the smallest fuck at my world caving in a little deeper.
Losing daddy now – and deep down, I know I will – rubs salt in the wounds the sickening killer who stole my heart tore open half a year ago.
He played me then. Hell, he played us all, pretending to be a good, upstanding, loving young man who meant the very best for me. I'll never understand why he murdered Nelson. Frankly, I don't care.
All the imaginary excuses in the world aren't changing this train wreck.
The fact that he did, that's enough. An innocent man who loved me wouldn't run. Wouldn't abandon me while I flunked out of school and came home to this hopeless little town. Wouldn't have stayed gone while our family business died. Or when I'm going to lose my father.
I have to hand it to mom – she's the one who keeps talking to Doctor Hanson. Nodding like she understands every time he runs through what's next. She tells him how strong daddy is, that he's going to pull through, and it doesn't matter how grim the outlook might be in Marquette, where they can do a lot more for him than here.
Me? I'm not in earshot anymore. I've limped back to my seat, my hands over my face. My head throbs, preparing to explode. Anyone looking at me would guess it's meant to cover the angry tears seeding my eyes.
They don't know I'm cursing Ryan Caspian for the thousandth time. I can't stop seeing red and white every time I remember his despicable face.
If I ever see him in this town again, I'm going to be Split Harbor's second fugitive wanted for murder.
4
Celebration (Ryan)
Three Years Later
“Two million fucking dollars in one week!” Leonard slaps me on the back, his big off white grin taking over his mouth. “Tanner, my man, we have arrived.”
I don't know what my small team gathered at the table in this Seattle coffee shop expect. A grand speech, maybe. Or else they're expecting me to jump up and start doing cartwheels like a madman, letting out the emotion that's been building like lightning over the past two manic years since I started working on Punch Corp night and day.
They don't have a clue that name – Tanner – still seems alien. Doesn't matte
r how many times I hear it.
Tanner reminds me I'm living a lie, even if it's a very profitable one. Makes me think about everything I left behind, especially the girl I lost. I don't care how many millions I make, I'd trade every red cent to hold her in my arms again.
I sit up, calmly taking a sip off my venti mocha. “We're just getting started, boys. Put that excitement to good use. I want new interviews next week, checking every candidate until we've got top notch accounting. We'll need them to handle the new revenue coming in. Remember – this is seed money. You'll get your bonuses at the end of the month, but everything we don't need to live a little is going right back in the ground to grow some more.”
“We're going to need a better lawyer,” Leonard says, always getting ahead of himself. “I'm worried about the language in the license. We're big league now, Tanner. If we don't have this thing iron-fucking-clad, the giants are sure to walk all over us. If somebody gets the bright idea to rip off our patent – Jesus!”
“They wouldn't dare,” I tell him, folding my hands and looking into his anxious brown eyes. “They know how valuable our product is. More of them are jumping on board every week. We're giving them what they need to get across the finish line and put self-driving cars on the streets. It won't be long before we add Ford, Chevy, Tesla, and whoever the hell else wants a piece of the future to our executive services.”
Everybody laughs. A piece of the future is the corporate slogan I came up with one sleepless night.
Today proves it isn't just empty talk anymore. Not with our first big order from an honest-to-God national manufacturer, licensing our patented sensors for their first line of driverless prototypes, about to serve several large cities.
For a second, I let myself think back to Bart's Auto. Would I be here today, an overnight multi-millionaire, if I hadn't gotten my hands dirty under the best boss I ever had? If I hadn't seen the damage a sheet of Michigan black ice can do to a beautiful new car?
