“I can keep a secret.”
She recalled how carefully they had both kept their secret. Of course, it didn’t matter now. A wave of grief crashed through her. “I should go,” Kelli said, clearing her throat. “I just stopped by for a minute.”
“Tell her hi for me, okay?”
“Next time I see her.”
“I miss Trent. You’re lucky that your best friend is still alive.”
That much was true. “So are we, Mark.”
He held her gaze for a long time and she could tell he didn’t feel lucky to be living.
His despondence made her terribly sad. “I—I should go.”
“Glad you came by,” he said.
She didn’t believe him. She left the room quickly because she didn’t want to break down in front of him. Kelli had made it to the front door when Mark’s mother stepped into the foyer and put her hand on Kelli’s hand before she could turn the doorknob and rush outside. “I—I want to say something,” she said.
Kelli didn’t turn; she simply braced for what she might say.
“Our first grandchild … we wanted him. We would have loved him with all our hearts. You and Mark would have always had our support and help, no matter what.” Her voice broke. “Would you have kept him—the baby?”
Chills went through Kelli as the words soaked into her. “I would have kept him.” She almost added the word “alone,” but checked herself. No need to confess that Mark hadn’t wanted their grandson. There was too much pain already. She eased open the door, stepped out into cold bracing air that stung her face and numbed her nose and cheeks.
She got into Jane’s car, turned on the engine and heater, shivered until the heat filled the interior. She thought of summer days from the year before. Days of soaring happiness when nothing mattered but being with Mark and when their love had been all-consuming. She could have told his mother the truth. She could have wept and railed and seethed about her hurt and his rejection. Yet she hadn’t. It had been an act of kindness, of thinking about someone else’s feelings more than her own. Who knew kindness had been lurking in her heart? “Good going, Kelli,” she said above the sound of the auto’s heater. “You’re a fine Big Girl. You have been kind to Mark and his mother. Maybe you can be kinder to yourself now.”
Morgan was sent to a psychiatrist, a doctor who was more than a counselor, because her soul was scarred so deeply that she needed special treatment—behavioral therapy and perhaps medication. People didn’t remain blind for no reason.
The shrink, Dr. Wehrenburg, was a kind middle-aged woman with a quiet voice and a way of making a panicked patient feel calm in her presence. And Morgan and her parents needed calming. Without a medical reason for her continued blindness, Morgan speculated that she was going mad. Dr. Peg, as she liked to be called, insisted this wasn’t the case after a few sessions. “You’ve suffered a severe trauma. This is post-traumatic stress, survivor syndrome and, I believe, conversion disorder, which was once called hysterical blindness.”
“Meaning?” her mother asked.
“Morgan saw something so traumatic that her mind is unable to cope with it.”
“I saw my school blow up. Wasn’t that traumatic enough?”
“No one else is blind,” Paige countered over Morgan’s statement.
“You may have seen something else,” Dr. Peg said to Morgan directly. “Something your brain doesn’t want to relive.”
“I ‘saw’ my dead boyfriend,” she said bitterly. “He talked to me. Hugged me.”
“A coping mechanism,” Dr. Peg said. “There may be something else, though.”
“How am I supposed to know what I saw if I can’t remember it?” Morgan snapped at the doctor.
“That’s where I come in—to guide you, help you.” Dr. Peg’s voice was soothing, but not patronizing.
“How?”
“Talking about your trauma with me. Talking in a group with other PTSD patients. Perhaps another event or conversation will trigger the memory. I believe you’ll eventually remember, and when you do, your sight will return. You have a lot going for you—a supportive family, intelligence, determination.”
“How long? I’m a senior. I want to go to college. I don’t want to be blind!” But even as Morgan said the words, she felt as if she were stepping through mud, pulling and tugging on sludge inside her head that wouldn’t move.
“We’ll get this dealt with, Morgan. Don’t give up.”
Later, on the ride home, her father said, “You’re going to whip this, honey. You’ll go to college. Even if we have to hire a tutor for you while you attend.”
“Won’t that be fun. Me and my red-tipped cane and a tutor taking notes for me.” Morgan gripped the armrest in the car’s backseat, needing something tangible to hold on to. “School starts up next week. I wanted to go back.”
“If that’s what you want—”
“I don’t want everyone feeling sorry for me!” she cried. “I’m the student council president, not a pity party waiting to happen.”
“Everyone’s hurting,” Hal said. “The whole school. The whole community. Everyone’s scarred. Go back or stay home. This is your call.”
Morgan heard her mother say, “There’s someone in our driveway.”
As the car rolled to a halt, Paige said, “It’s Roth.” She opened her car door. “Roth?”
Morgan heard him approach, stamping his feet against the cold that was now rushing inside the auto and stinging her face.
“I—I’m sorry to just show up. I tried your office and your cell, but couldn’t get hold of you.”
“It’s all right. What’s happened?”
Morgan heard her mother’s attorney voice kick into gear.
“The cops called. They want me down at the station now. They want to interview me about the explosion.”
“Thank you for coming in, Mr. Rothman,” Detective Sanchez said, stepping inside the interrogation room.
Roth’s nerves were in a tangle. The detective and her partner, Wolcheski, had kept him and Paige waiting for more than twenty minutes in a small windowless room once they’d arrived at the station. The walls were a dirty cream color and marked with smudges and scrapes. The table was chipped and scarred, the chairs straight and uncomfortable. Everything about the room was shabby government issue.
“Standard procedure,” Paige had told him after ten minutes with the detectives a no-show. “They want you to sweat.”
“It’s working,” Roth said.
Max had tried to go in with Roth and Paige, insisting, “I’m his legal guardian.”
Sanchez had stopped him. “Sorry. Your nephew is eighteen. No longer a minor. You’ll wait out here.”
Carla had squeezed Roth’s hand hard. “We’ll be here to take you home.”
By the time the detectives came into the stuffy room, Roth was ready to jump out of his skin. They took their places, Sanchez sitting across from Roth and Paige, Wolcheski standing by the door. “Can I get you anything?” Sanchez asked. “Soda? Water?”
“A quick interview,” Paige said, sounding irritated. “My client came of his own accord.”
Sanchez opened a file folder. “I see you have a list of complaints for bad behavior.”
“No charges, though,” Paige said.
Sanchez ignored her. “Truancy—multiple times. Graffiti on school walls. Fighting on school property. One school suspension. A complaint of petty theft.”
“Charges dropped by the store manager,” Paige said.
Roth relaxed a little. His lawyer didn’t act the least bit perturbed. He was ashamed. A few years of toeing the line weren’t going to make up for his previous bad behavior in the cops’ eyes. Once bad, always bad, he surmised. No room for his life’s circumstances.
Sanchez looked up, offered a tight smile. “You have tats.” She said it as if it were a character flaw.
Roth glanced down at his arm, at the ink band of barbed wire circling his right wrist. He tugged down the sleeve of h
is sweatshirt. “My uncle’s in the business. My tats are free. And I like them.”
“I don’t think body ink is against the law, Detective,” Paige inserted.
Sanchez shut the folder, leaned forward. “Well, I’ll tell you what is against the law, Mr. Rothman. Setting off fireworks on school property and having the school evacuated.”
Roth felt his heart seize and sweat beads break out on his forehead. How did they—? He sidled a glance at Paige, certain that she was going to get up and walk out of the room because he hadn’t told her about his September prank.
To her credit, Paige leaned toward the detective, cool and collected. “And you can prove this?”
“We read the Edison blogs and social network pages, Mr. Rothman. You’ve been ratted out.”
“Hearsay,” Paige interjected. “Those sites are filled with conjectures and rumors. Kids love to trash-talk and you can’t separate truth from fiction.”
Sanchez eased back into her chair. “But it leads me to ask a most important question. Wouldn’t fireworks be one step down from setting an actual bomb? A test run, so to speak?”
“Are you asking? Or charging?” Paige wanted to know.
“I want to know if your client set that bomb that killed nine people,” Sanchez said bluntly, not taking her eyes off Roth. “And I want him to answer.”
Shaken, Roth said clearly, “I did not set off any bomb.”
“Please remember, my client ran into the school to help victims,” Paige said quickly, her voice rising in pitch. “He saved several lives by his quick actions.”
“Including your daughter’s,” Sanchez said, looking squarely at Paige for the first time since they’d all sat down.
Paige ignored the comment. “Are you charging my client with anything?”
Sanchez waited a couple of beats before speaking. “Not at this time. But we reserve the right to recall him for questioning. And so will the FBI.”
Paige stood and Roth scrambled up beside her. Wolcheski stepped aside at the door, but not before giving Roth a suspicious stare. Roth’s heart banged hard inside his chest. The cops thought he was guilty. And he couldn’t prove that he wasn’t.
“Don’t leave town,” Sanchez threw at their backs.
“My client will be in school,” Paige said over her shoulder. “He plans to graduate with the rest of his class, so of course he’ll be staying.”
They stepped into the corridor. Roth’s shirt was soaked with sweat that had bled through to his sweatshirt. “I—I’m sorry—” he started.
Paige shushed him, walked him out to where Max and Carla were waiting. She held up her hand to stop them from approaching just yet. “You should have told me about the fireworks,” she told Roth.
“I—I know. I was stupid. I should have told you. I should never have set them off in the first place. That was stupid too.” He raised his head, looked into her eyes. “You acted like you knew about it. In—in there … in the room.”
“I read the social networking sites too, Roth. Of course I know the gossip.”
He felt his face redden. “I did the fireworks. But I never set a bomb. I swear to God.”
She shook her head in disgust with his confession. Still, she said, “I believe you. I would never have agreed to defend you if I didn’t believe you. Plus, Morgan told me you would never do something like that.”
“Sh-she did?”
“My daughter’s a good judge of character, and I trust her judgment. Now go home. And go back to school when it starts. Tread carefully. Stay out of trouble. We’re on your side.”
Executioner was nervous. Apocalypse had come over, shut them up in Executioner’s bedroom and gone to work posting messages on several social networking sites from Executioner’s computer. “Finished,” Apocalypse said, signing off the latest posting. “If this doesn’t lead a trail straight to Stuart Rothman, nothing will. The cops are dying to charge someone.”
“It—it’s real anonymous, isn’t it?”
“And encrypted. Do you doubt me?”
“No! Never! I just want to make sure it can’t lead back to me … us,” Executioner added at the last second. Apocalypse was scary, but Executioner wanted to send the message that they were in this together.
Apocalypse swiveled the office chair and stared coldly at Executioner. “Don’t ever doubt me. I don’t like my motives being called into question. You agreed with my plan. You are as guilty as I am. But I don’t expect to get caught.”
Executioner swallowed hard. “I just want to be careful.” Licking dry lips, Executioner asked, “Is it true? Did Roth set the fireworks?”
“I heard rumors. Why do you think I hatched this plan to do him one better? Roth’s a creep. A stupid creep. Thinks he’s badass with his tats and piercings. Our school’s hotshots thought they were more special than the rest of us, but we showed them. We took the bunch of them down. We’re superior. Especially that Trent and Mark. I really hated them.”
Executioner did a throat clearing, hair standing up on both arms. Apocalypse was reveling in intellectual superiority, with not an iota of fear. Executioner was genuinely scared. “The—uh—rumor is that the queen bee is still blind.”
“Yeah,” Apocalypse said with a mirthless laugh. “Ain’t it sad? Green eyes, now dark, too bad. Hey—I’m a poet.”
Executioner laughed, not because the rhyme was funny, but because laughter was expected. The “poetry” had been delivered coldly, with absolute cruelty and without remorse. Apocalypse looked at Executioner and added, “I’m the best there is when it comes to sweet revenge.”
Liza’s heart almost stopped when she opened her front door and saw Roth on her doorstep. He hadn’t come over in months, and when he did show up, she looked awful, having fallen asleep on the sofa watching television. “Roth. You should have called.” She pushed her hand through her ragged hair.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure, sure.” She backed away. “Want to sit? How about a soda?”
“This isn’t a social call, Liza.” He didn’t follow her out of the foyer.
She came back to stand in front of him and saw that his expression was anything but friendly. “So why are you here?”
“I spent the afternoon at police headquarters being questioned.”
“No way.”
“They think I set the bomb, Liza.”
The news rattled her. “But why? Why you?”
His face went stony; his eyes glinted. “Someone wrote about me setting fireworks off last fall. It’s all over the school blogs.”
She was still a little dulled from being awakened from a sound sleep, but slowly realization crept over her. “Are you accusing me of writing the blog entries? Because if you are—”
“I’m just stating facts. Some writers have hidden their identities, so I have no idea who posted the info. The cowards. I just know I confided in you about what I did. You blabbed then. Now it’s back, all over the Internet. The cops even read it.”
Her face went hot and her stomach queasy. “I would never do that to you.”
“I haven’t forgotten. You already did last fall when you mentioned it to your friends.”
“I doubt they even remember after all that’s happened now.”
“Then why am I being dissed? Why is my name all over the place as the likely school bomber? Have you read these postings lately?”
“No,” she said coolly, trying to regain her equilibrium. “My computer’s been down for weeks and Dad says we don’t have the money to get it fixed right now.”
Roth slammed his fist into the wall, making her jump. He cursed and scowled. “You were the only one I told!”
“Morgan figured it out,” Liza said angrily. “Why are you blaming me? Maybe she said something to someone.”
Roth looked at her incredulously. “You saying blind Morgan posted the blogs? That’s low, Liza.”
Liza squared her chin, backpedaled. “I’m just saying maybe others figured it out like she did.”
Roth shook his head, glared at her in disgust. “Stay away from Morgan, Liza. And when school starts next week, stay far away from me too.”
“Get out of my house,” she hissed, furious at his accusation and attitude.
“I’m gone.” Roth yanked open the door and retreated into the falling snow. Liza slammed the door so hard behind him that the upper window rattled. Heartbroken, she felt like crying.
“Damn you!” Liza screamed. But there was no one to hear her. Her misery crystallized into a searing pain that made her drop to her knees and gag. Her wrath smoldered, burned itself out like a fire without oxygen, and was swallowed into the silence of the house. Roth hated her. He would go to Morgan now and she would take him. Liza was sure of this. School would start and Liza was condemned to see Roth and Morgan together everywhere she turned.
Liza was out of the picture with Roth. What she didn’t know was what she was going to do about it.
The entire Grandville community was invited to tour the new atrium the weekend before classes were to begin. The students had lost more than two months of class work—three weeks of which would have been Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year breaks. The remaining weeks were to be made up by early June. The school board had voted to forgo spring break, and by extending classes one hour each day, the year could be finished, exams given, and diplomas handed out on time. There was little opposition to the plan. People just wanted the terrible year over.
“Tell me how it looks.” Morgan was with her mother in the crowded atrium, aware on some level that people were staring at them, but determined to ignore stares and whispers and finish the year with her class. She’d been ambivalent for a few days, but in the end knew she wasn’t a quitter regardless of the odds. Blind or not, with or without Trent, she was going to complete high school. She wasn’t going to throw away twelve years of hard work.
“It’s been redesigned,” Paige said. “The staircase is solid. No more cantilevering. That design was left over from the seventies anyway. The area looks contemporary, clean and fresh. Brighter too. One wall is painted royal blue and stretches two stories. The skylight is back, bigger, though.”
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