by Nic Joseph
Sam Farr had, quite literally, been beaten within an inch of his life.
After all of the years my father and mother spent trying to get Sam Farr to see time behind bars, I wondered if secretly, Alex had been waiting for his chance to do this.
He was the one who would be behind bars now.
And still, the night’s biggest question hadn’t been answered: Where was Matthew Farr?
I’d just taken a seat next to the door of the waiting room when it opened, and a frazzled, terrified Miranda Farr walked in, her face wet with tears. When she caught sight of me, I had only a few seconds to brace myself before she flew at me, hands swinging, the anger flooding out of her. Her fist connected with my arm, and I pulled back, grabbing both of her wrists and trying my best to hold her at bay.
“How could you let this happen?” she asked, and she broke free, swinging at me again. “I trusted you to help me, to help my family, and this is what happened?”
“He’s going to be okay,” I said, even though I didn’t know that. I didn’t know what else to say.
“Your father is going to jail for this.” Her entire body was shaking in rage, and I had no response but to nod. “Where is Matthew?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I really don’t know.”
She stepped away from me, and I could see the hatred in her eyes. She turned and left me standing there, and I wished I’d had more to offer her. I slumped back down in the chair. I needed to talk to Sam to see if he could provide any insights as to where my father was—and how he’d ended up on a park bench in the middle of the night. As I sat there, I felt a vibration in my pocket, and then the low ring of my cell phone. I sat up quickly, almost falling onto the floor. I didn’t recognize the number that was calling, and my heart skipped another beat.
“Hello? Dad?” I said into the phone, breathless, afraid.
“Um, Mr. Scroll?”
“Yes,” I said curtly, disappointed that it wasn’t my father. “Who is this?”
“Um, my name is Terry. I volunteer at New County Church.”
I paused, trying to place the name.
“We met earlier when you came by and spoke with Ms. Diana.”
“Terry,” I said, frowning as I remembered the shy boy who had been helping Diana while I spoke with her. “Yes, hi. How can I help you?”
“I was hoping I could speak with you about something. It’s really important. I hope you don’t mind me calling you this late. I got your number from Ms. Diana.”
“Of course,” I said, trying to show patience but wanting to tell him to get to the point.
“It’s about Principal Murray.”
“Okay,” I said. “What is it, Terry?”
“I wanted to tell you that you didn’t need to keep looking into whether or not she was…I don’t know. I think you believe she had something to do with the Farr kid, and that’s not the case. That’s completely wrong.”
“Okay,” I said. I leaned forward in the chair. After everything that had happened tonight, I knew he was right. But he was calling for a reason…
“How do you know that, Terry?”
“Well, that’s the thing. I don’t want her to get in trouble, but…we left that day.”
“Who left?”
“Me and Principal Murray. We left. We went to…get something to eat.” He stumbled over the last few words, and I could tell that he had planned them out.
And there was only one reason he would do that. My stomach turned over, and not for the first time that night. Murray had looked me in the eyes, and while she hadn’t lied to me, she’d left out the most important part of the story.
“Did Principal Murray ask you to call me?”
“No,” the boy said hoarsely, and I could hear the concern in his voice. “She doesn’t know I called you. She’d be upset. She kept saying she didn’t know how she would get you to believe she didn’t have anything to do with the Farr kid without telling you she was with me. I told her it didn’t matter, because we were just getting something to eat, and even so, I’m eighteen…”
“You’re eighteen.”
“I sure am.”
“When did you turn eighteen?”
“Two months ago.”
I took a long, deep breath. “Thank you for calling me,” I said, and we hung up. Murray obviously didn’t have anything to do with Matthew’s disappearance, but she did have some explaining to do.
I made a call to Detective Jeffries and told him what I’d learned.
“Does Cap know what you’ve been up to?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “And it needs to stay that way. For now. But you’ve got to look into this principal.”
“I’m on it,” he said.
I hung up the phone and went to see if there were any updates.
As I did, a tall figure approached me.
Just when I thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse.
“What happened?” Kira asked.
“I really don’t want to talk about it, if that’s okay,” I said, measuring my words, knowing the anger I was feeling had nothing to do with her.
“Well, yeah, but can you just tell me—”
“Look, this really isn’t the time or place to conduct interviews for your book.”
“I’m not here for the book,” she said. “I’m here because I care about Miranda and Sam.”
“Is that what you’re telling yourself?”
“Yeah, it is,” she snapped. “What the hell are you telling yourself these days, Francis?”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Three hours later, I stood at the edge of the door to Sam Farr’s room, watching as Miranda embraced her husband and they whispered something to each other. At the foot of the bed stood a woman, her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes trained on Sam’s battered face. Elizabeth Farr was shaking, and even from a distance, I could see the anguish pouring out of her body.
Brian Farr was also in the room, but he hung back, watching his family with a stern, troubled expression.
I watched Sam’s face as he said something else to his wife, and she turned to pick up a cup of water. Placing a straw to his lips, she held it there as he took a painful sip.
He could barely drink water, but he was okay.
He was traumatized and hurt and battered and scared, but he was alive.
I stood around in the hallway, waiting for a chance to speak with him.
But I didn’t deserve to be there.
I wasn’t a cop or a family member. Not a doctor or a nurse. Not even Kira Jones. I wanted to run in the room and beg him for answers, promise I had his son’s best interests in mind, do something to right some of my father’s many, many wrongs.
But I didn’t belong there.
Still, there was a part of me that knew Sam Farr held the key to it all. Whether he knew it or not. As I paced outside of Sam’s room, it hit me that I was falling into the same trap my father had fallen into, and apparently stayed in, for all of his adult life. What kept him going all these years was this idea—this speculation—that there was someone else in the world who knew more about what really happened the night Lucas died than he did.
As I stood at the door, listening to their chatter and the sounds of the nurses and doctors rushing behind me, my breathing became shallow. I was in no position to talk to Sam Farr. I had no claim over the information he was holding. I needed to leave, to call Delroy and bring him up to speed on everything I’d learned in the past two days. I needed to go to Cam’s to talk to Amy. She’d finally texted me back an hour ago with: I’m fine, don’t want to talk. Home tomorrow.
Cam hadn’t said anything after her last text either, and I was desperate to talk to both of them, even just for a moment.
I turned and walked down the hallway, heading toward the exit. I was about
to enter the stairwell when I heard a voice call out.
“Francis?”
I turned around to see Brian Farr. I hadn’t spoken to him since the night of the dinner party, and he eyed me carefully.
“Mr. Farr,” I said, and I felt like an idiot, but I couldn’t address him as anything else.
“Where’s your father?” he whispered, the tears glowing in his eyes. “When is he going to stop?”
“I wish I knew,” I said, stepping forward. “I really do. I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t understand why he can’t let it go,” he said. “I’ve felt for him every single day since that night. I’ve tossed and turned, knowing the entire city thinks my child could be responsible for your brother’s death. But it’s been twenty years,” he said, and I could see the pain in his eyes. “Twenty years of this. When is he going to get that the past is sometimes best left in the past?”
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that sentiment in the past twenty-four hours. I watched as a tear rolled down Brian’s cheek.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I’ll give you and your family some privacy.”
“Well, no,” he said. “He’s asking for you.”
“What?”
Brian used his palm to wipe at his face. “Sam wants to speak with you.”
I cleared my throat. “About what?”
“I don’t know,” Brian said. “But please, make it quick.” He turned and began walking back toward the room, never questioning if I would follow. I trailed him to the doorway, where Elizabeth and Miranda Farr were walking out. Neither of them looked at me.
Brian and I walked into the room.
“You all right?” he asked Sam, looking at me and back at his son.
“Yes,” Sam said, barely looking at his father. Brian took a step closer to the bed, and Sam flinched, turning his head away. Brian sighed and stepped back.
“He’s still upset with me about the book. I told him I think they should put it on hold, and he hasn’t talked me to sin—”
“Dad, can we have a moment?” Sam asked, and though he said it softly, there was a degree of sternness in his voice.
Brian watched him for a moment, and then nodded. “Yeah, of course.” He looked at me before turning and leaving the room.
It wasn’t a small room, but it was oppressive and stuffy, and I curled my hands into fists as I approached the bed. Sam’s face was bruised, swollen, and puffy, but he was looking at me through both eyes now. As I stared at him, I realized I hadn’t talked to him face-to-face like this ever—we’d never said more than a passing hello at church when we were kids, or when he came to my house. I’d seen him at the end of his trial, but I hadn’t had any direct contact with him.
Yet I felt like I knew him painfully well.
“Thanks for seeing me,” I said, turning back to look at Miranda, who was still staring at us through the glass. “I really won’t take up too much of your time. I just—”
“I get it,” he said, nodding his head just slightly. “Miranda told me you’ve been looking into our son’s kidnapping. She really appreciates everything you’ve done. We both do, Francis.”
He said my name as if we’d been friends for years, and I tried not to show my confusion at his comment. Miranda had said that? She’d seemed ready to gouge my eyeballs out.
“And I know you didn’t have anything to do with this, Francis. I know you want to find your father as much as I want to find my son.”
I was shocked by his candor, but I tried to hide it. “Well, can you tell me what happened to you?” I asked. “I mean, to the best of your recollection.”
His eyelids fluttered, and I could tell he was having a hard time keeping it open. “Yeah, I can try. He just snuck up on me. I guess he’d been watching us again, though I don’t know how long. I was staying at my parents’ house—Miranda and I both were. We thought it would be better if we were all there together, so we would be able to support one another, because this is such a difficult time for us all.”
“I’m so sorry—”
He cut me off, the clichéd attempt at sympathy lost on him, or maybe just inappropriate by now. “I went for a walk,” he said, staring into my eyes. “I went for a walk because I couldn’t stand just being in that house anymore. I needed some fresh air. It was going to be a quick one—I didn’t even put a coat on.”
“Where did you go?”
“Not far,” he said. “Only about a mile or so away from the house, toward Green Cove. I was turning around to head back when a car showed up. I didn’t notice it at first, but then I realized it was trailing me.”
“My father?”
He nodded. “He got out of the car and ran toward me before I had a second to think. He hit me over the head with something. I think it was an umbrella, because it wasn’t that hard, but it hit me right here, and cut me.”
He tried to raise his arm toward his face, but he winced and put it back down. “In my temple. I went down almost immediately, and he hit me again.”
“What happened next?”
“He dragged me into the car, and we drove off.”
“Where did he take you?” I asked.
“Nowhere. That’s the thing. We just drove. I was out of it, but I remember my head bouncing up and down on the backseat. And he was going on and on about how he didn’t have Matthew, and he was freaked out because everyone was saying he did. And he said he hated me. Over and over. There was so much hatred, but he was also apologizing for something, and I just didn’t get any of it.” The words rushed out of him, and then he paused. “I really didn’t understand.”
“So then what happened?”
“Well,” he said, “we kept driving, and we talked.”
“You talked.”
“Yes,” Sam said. “We talked for the first time in twenty years.”
I watched his face, and there was something there that almost looked peaceful. He was staring off into the distance, and I wished desperately I could have been a fly on the window during that conversation in the car.
“What did you talk about?”
He tilted his head to the side and seemed to think about the question. Then he chuckled, a raw, odd sound that escaped him.
“We talked about our sons,” he said, his voice breaking, tears running down his face. “Can you believe that, Francis? Your father and I spent about ten minutes circling the blocks, talking about our sons. He asked me about Matthew. About what his favorite ice cream flavor is, and what outfit he hates when we make him wear it, and his favorite bedtime story.”
He sniffed, and I felt my heart racing. I looked back at the door where Miranda was standing perfectly still, her hand on the glass as she looked in.
Sam took a deep breath. “I told him chocolate. Matthew’s favorite ice cream is chocolate. And he hates it when his mother makes him wear the brown sweater with the stars on it. He really hates that one.” His voice cracked again, and he sat up straighter, squaring his shoulders. “And then he told me the same for your little brother. And I just…I could tell he was happy. He wanted me to feel the same thing he did, and I do. I feel it too. It’s the worst feeling in the world to lose a child. I get it. I think he thought I was going to tell him something, something about what happened to Lucas, but I couldn’t, because I don’t have anything to tell.”
“Then what happened?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Somewhere during the drive, it all changed.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, at first, he seemed like he really did just want to talk. But then he kept asking me to tell him what happened that night.”
“What did you say?” I asked gently.
“I told him I didn’t know. That I couldn’t remember. And that wasn’t good enough for him. He pulled over, and he kept asking me. He came around to the back of the
car and he opened the door and he—” Sam’s voice broke, and he looked down at his hands.
“And what?”
“And he just started hitting me.”
“Did you fight back?”
“I tried,” he said hesitantly, looking up at me. “I’m not much of a fighter, and your father… It’s like he snapped or something. I could tell he wanted to hurt me, or even kill me. That’s all I remember. The next thing I knew, I was lying on the bench, and you were dragging me toward your car.”
“You were scared of me.”
“At first,” he said.
I stepped back and stared at him. If my own father hadn’t called me and told me where to find Sam, I might not have believed him, but I knew everything he was telling me was true. There was no way around it. My father had gotten what he wanted, and he would go to jail for it.
“It was one of the scariest moments of my life,” Sam said. “It took me back to all of that stuff after the trial.”
“What stuff?” I asked.
He blinked and looked down at his hands. “You know…the attacks and stuff.” He whispered the last couple of words, almost as if he were embarrassed to say them.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, thinking back to my conversation with Banks. “That must have been terrifying. How many were there?”
He looked up at me and shrugged lightly. “Everywhere I went, someone had something to say,” he said. “At the grocery store, in the bank. Sometimes it was supportive, actually. Other times it wasn’t. The worst one was the man with the bird on his chest…” He cringed.
“The what?”
He blinked. “It was a week or so after the trial, and I was taking a walk a block or so from home. It wasn’t even that late. I remember because the sun was hurting my eyes. Then, out of nowhere, this guy came up to me—he was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, so I couldn’t really see his face, but I remember he said, ‘How does it feel to murder someone and get away with it?’ and he just waited, like I had a response for that.”
“What did you do?”
“I tried to get around him, but he pushed me, hard, against a tree, and he called me a murderer again. He said he knew I’d done it. I was scared, but I fought back and, in the process, ripped his shirt all the way open, and that’s when I saw it—the most disgusting, largest tattoo I’d ever seen. It was a raven, I think, the eyes right on the man’s collarbone, looking back at me, and that scared me more than the man himself. I think I froze, and I didn’t know what he was going to do, but a car came around the corner at that moment, and I ran away.”
