by Elle Maxwell
I suddenly understand the phrase “blood running cold” because a chill rushes over me. Every inch of my skin breaks out in goose bumps.
“You think he would do that?” I almost whisper.
“I think he’s in a very vulnerable place,” she replies carefully.
“Can you send me the letter?”
“Yes, I’ll forward it to you now.”
“Thank you. And thank you for calling.”
I give her my email address, and we end the call after agreeing to stay in contact, particularly if either of us manages to reach him.
I try to call Graham. My hand is shaking as I hold the phone to my ear. It doesn’t ring, going straight to voicemail—once, twice, three times. He’s turned it off. Graham, where are you? What are you doing?
I find the email from Shady already waiting in my inbox. I open it with fingers that are still trembling.
- - - - - Forwarded message - - - - -
From: Graham Wyatt
To: Dr. Sade Hadiyah
Subject: Favor
Hey Doc,
If something happens to me, can you please make sure Mackenzie gets the attached letter? Just covering my bases.
I’d ask you not to read it, but it’s nothing you don’t already know.
Thank you for everything, really.
Graham
[1 Attachment]
______________________
Mackenzie,
First, (though also last, and all the places in the middle) I love you.
I love you. Damn, it seems wrong that something so big should only take up eight letters. It feels like it should be Mary Poppins long, or have that math symbol over it that’s for numbers whose decimals go on forever. Remember when we had Pre-Cal together? I could barely concentrate because all I wanted to do was stare at you, but I aced that damn class because you were always so responsible and said we had to study before fooling around.
I loved you so much back then I thought I would explode from it. But it doesn’t even compare to what I feel for you now. And no, Professor, it’s not some idol worship from putting you on a pedestal all those years in prison. Maybe that was partially true when I first got out, but these past months being with you—the reality of you, with our bickering and those thighs you think are too big and your fear of loving me again—I’ve fallen in an even deeper, crazier love with you. That time together as us, again, made the whole rest of my life worth it. Even if it’s all we get.
I have a lot of regrets. But loving you has never—will never, could never—be one of them.
I guess what I’m trying to say is the way I love you isn’t something I could describe in eight letters or 800 letters. I wish I were a genius or a poet who could do you justice. I’m just me, though. And this is the best I’ve got.
But this letter is supposed to be about more than that. I don’t want to leave unfinished business between us. I’m sorry for everything that happened, Z. If you only ever remember one thing about me, I want it to be what I’m going to say next.
Please, don’t go another minute thinking I don’t trust you. That’s not the reason I lied and kept secrets. I’ve thought long and hard, and had some talks with Shady, and I’ve realized the truth … that it’s me I don’t trust. A big part of me still sees myself as the piece of shit who was in that parking lot buying drugs in the middle of the night, who didn’t deserve to use his daddy’s money to hire a lawyer. Shady says I have self-worth issues or some shit.
What it really comes down to is that I knew I didn’t deserve you. But I was a selfish asshole and I pushed myself back into your life anyway because I’m not strong enough to stay away from you. So, I lied because I didn’t trust myself not to mess things up again. Because if you knew about the stuff with Eli, I thought it would expose how unworthy I am. I never lost faith in you or doubted that you would stand by me—I just didn’t want to have to admit that I wasn’t sure you should.
I should have given you the chance to make that choice for yourself. I get now that I was being selfish. I wasn’t protecting you; I was protecting me. I’m so fucking sorry I didn’t figure it out sooner. I’m sorry I didn’t stop to think about what you deserved, which was my every truth. That if you wanted it, you deserved to have every piece of me, even the bad parts.
But I pulled my head out of my ass too late, and I hurt you. And I got you hurt. There’s no way I can make up for what happened—for my hand in things, in creating a situation that led to Eli causing you harm. I literally had your blood on my hands that day. I’ll never forgive myself and I’ll never forget, because it was the worst moment of my life. Worse than handcuffs or even you telling me it was over. Because your pain is the thing I can’t live with.
I’ve spent every minute of the last few weeks trying to step up and do the right thing, to be better. The way you looked at me, like I was a good man who was worth a second chance, who deserved the priceless honor of your love … that’s the man I want to be. If I make one last mistake, I want it to be the kind that good men make, when doing the hard thing is what’s best for those they love.
Maybe you’ll never read any of this. I’d rather all these words I’ve vomited from my fucked up soul get to stay in digital purgatory, and that I’ll have the chance to look you in the eye again and tell you that, fucked up as it is, every bit of my soul is yours.
But if you are reading this, I hope you understand why I had to do what I did. I hope that means I got one thing right and you’re safe.
Last, (but still first, and to infinite decimals,) I love you.
Y
* * *
“MARISA!” I scream and run to her room.
She has the day off, so she’s lounging on her bed. But when she sees my face, she immediately sits up straight.
“What is it?”
“It’s Graham, he—” I’m lost for words, so I frantically shove my phone at her with the email still on the screen.
“Que idiota! Dios,” she mutters when she finishes reading.
“I’m so scared.” Tears fill my eyes and my voice breaks. “What do I do? His phone is turned off. I was going to try his house …”
“Get dressed. I’ll drive. On the way I’ll call Shaina, and you call your dad.”
I pause in her doorway. “My dad?”
“He and Graham have been talking.”
I gape at her.
“You’re lucky that I’m so freaked out right now, because I’m not even going to ask how you know that.”
* * *
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“Dad?”
He hears the tremor in my voice, and instantly sounds alert and on edge. “Is something wrong? What’s happened?”
“Tell me the truth. Why would Graham write me a letter that sounds like he’s about to kill himself, and why would Marisa think you know something about it?”
He sounds far off for a moment, as though he’s pulled away from the phone to curse. Then his voice is back in my ear.
“We should have this talk in person.”
“Why? What is going on, Dad?”
“Where are you?”
“Marisa and I are driving to Graham’s house to check on him.”
“He’s not there. If you’re on the way to Westwood anyway, then meet me at home. We’ll talk when you get here.”
“What is going on?” I repeat. “I’m really freaking out here.”
“It’s going to be okay, honey. I’ll see you soon.”
Then nothing. I keep holding the silent phone to my ear for a few long seconds before lowering it.
“He hung up on me,” I say with no small amount of shock.
Marisa is already off the phone, which was short because Griff and Shaina didn’t have any insight.
“Where are we going now?” she asks.
“My parents’ house.”
39. DEAD SERIOUS
Graham
“Do you really think Eli
will drop his quest for revenge in exchange for money?”
I hear movement on the other end of the line indicating that Mr. Thatcher is pacing. I almost called him last night but chickened out. I barely slept, so I’m glad he sounded alert rather than pissed off when I called him so early. I’m giving him the details about what’s happening tonight. It’s supposed to be top secret, but the man deserves to know.
“Well, he texted me back late last night asking for fifty thousand in cash. So, I think he’ll show up to take the money and then try to kill me anyway.”
I think I catch a low curse.
“And Eddie Duluth is on board with this?”
“Chief Duluth officially handed it over to the DEA a few days ago, and they’re the ones who will be tracking me and recording the whole thing. This is going to work.” I take a deep breath, my words for me as much as for him. “We’re going to get him, Mr. Thatcher. We’ll have him for extortion as soon as he takes the money, and I’ll be taping anything else I can get him to confess to. The Feds just need something to charge him with so they can lock him up. The goal is to get him behind bars and then make sure he stays there forever by compiling evidence to stick him with the rest of his crimes.”
“And the DEA agents will be nearby? You did say you expect him to try and kill you.”
“Aww, are you concerned about me, Mr. Thatcher?”
“Don’t be a wiseass.”
“Sorry, sir. And yes, they’ll be close, but we have to make sure he doesn’t spot them. They’re giving me a bulletproof vest and I’ll be wired so they’ll hear everything and move in if things get sticky.”
“It’s not exactly an airtight plan. Tell me seriously, Graham, is this some kind of suicide mission?”
The line is silent for a heartbeat. I’ve come to have an even deeper respect for this man, and I want to make sure my answer bears no resemblance to a lie.
“No, sir. I hope to God I walk out of this thing. But I won’t pretend I’m not willing to die to put this asshole away.”
“Now you listen to me, boy. You fix that mindset right now. You never enter a battle anticipating your own death. That’s when you get yourself killed. And I don’t want to hear you’ve gotten yourself killed, you hear me? You may be broken up at the moment, but make no mistake: if you die my daughter will be devastated.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me. Just stop talking like you’re a G.D. kamikaze pilot.”
I swallow back a completely inappropriate laugh, because this shit is dead serious. Literally.
“I misjudged you,” he says in a tone more subdued than his previous army commander voice. “I let myself get sucked into gossip without finding out the facts. I apologize for that.” He pauses again. “You’re a good man, Wyatt. You live through this, and I will personally make your case with my daughter.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say again, with more vigor this time.
As I leave the house—I have a shit-ton of cash to acquire—my resolve to live is even stronger. I vow that Mackenzie and I will run the Wyatt Foundation together, and she’ll never have to read that letter.
Eli is the bad guy. And bad guys don’t get to win.
* * *
Mackenzie
“He’s going to do WHAT?” I shriek, so loudly that my mom comes running in from the other room.
“What’s going on?” she asks, hands held out somewhat awkwardly by her sides. Every year while school is out on summer break, she tries a new hobby, and from the look of her splotchy apron and colorful hands, this year it’s painting.
“Mom, did you know about this?” I am fuming, and I want her to be incensed along with me.
Marisa is seated in the corner, but for once she’s processing everything quietly, so I can’t count on her to be furious at my side.
“About Graham? Yes,” Mom replies. “Your father and I have been married for over twenty-five years. We didn’t make it this far by keeping secrets.”
Her words are a knife to my heart, even though the dig is unintentional. Thanks for that one, Mom.
Since she’s being no help, I turn back to Dad.
“He can’t do this! It’s crazy—he’s going to get himself killed!”
Dad runs a hand over his face, and the fog of fearful anger in my mind clears enough that I can see how tired he looks, his age more apparent in his face than usual.
“I tried to tell him as much,” he admits, shocking me. “But Graham is determined to take Eli down, and he believes this might be his only chance. I hate to say it, but I’m not sure he’s wrong. I talked to Ed Duluth after hanging up with Graham this morning, and he says the DEA is going all in on this, even though it may be a long shot, because Eli is slippery and they can’t seem to get any concrete evidence against him. He wouldn’t tell me details, but it appears that Eli’s criminal dealings go even deeper than we realized, and the DEA wants him off the streets. I just wish they weren’t doing it by sending Graham in like a pig for slaughter.”
“Mike!” Mom chastises as I gasp.
Tears start to fall as I sink onto the sofa, overwhelmed. Today has been such a whirlwind. I couldn’t take any time to focus on Graham’s letter earlier because I was so afraid he was going to hurt himself. And then I was barely able to process the relief that he’s not suicidal before Dad told us about this DEA mission and I was overcome all over again with fear and anger.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Dad says, anxiously kneeling down in front of me. He’s always been a little squeamish around tears. Soldiers don’t cry, but daughters do. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s okay. You were being honest. Thank you for that.” I blink hard and try to hold back the flood of tears that’s been building all day, which is suddenly too much for the flimsy dam I’ve been using to hold it back.
“Is there any way we can stop this?” Marisa speaks for the first time since we got here. She looks shaken up too, and I can see fear for Graham written on her face.
My dad shakes his head. “Graham will be prepping with them now. He did tell me that Eli sent the time and location, and that it’s happening tonight, before he had to turn his phone off. But that’s all I know. This whole thing is supposed to be top secret, so we shouldn’t even have as much information as we do. Ed Duluth promised to reach out if he hears anything.”
Marisa has to leave to go to work, but I choose to stay. I shut myself in my childhood bedroom, where I pull Graham’s letter up on my phone and start to read it again. This time there’s no urgency keeping every word from sinking deep down into my soul. The flood of tears is unstoppable, and this time I simply let it come.
I’m barely able to see the words on my screen, but I swipe at my eyes every few seconds and keep reading. Inside me there’s an aching need to be close to him, and these words are all I have in this moment.
“I never lost faith in you or doubted that you would stand by me—I just didn’t want to have to admit that I wasn’t sure you should.”
I sob. Remorse threatens to drown me. For weeks I’ve pushed away any thoughts of how Graham was dealing with our breakup. I couldn’t stand to take on his pain in addition to my own, especially considering I’d caused it; I knew it would break me. But now I can’t help but think about the man—my boy—who wrote this letter, whose last words to me were ones of such self-recrimination and defeat.
“If I make one last mistake, I want it to be the kind that good men make, when doing the hard thing is what’s best for those they love.”
Oh, Graham. I wish I could go to him, take him in my arms and tell him he is a good man, the best of men. That has never changed—his heart has always been pure and full of love, even too much love sometimes, as when the loss of his parents cut so deeply it overwhelmed him. His decisions were never made with ill-intent, never with the thought to harm anyone else. If anything, his deepest flaw is a penchant for self-loathing that blinds him to the way hurting himself will hu
rt those around him. I may never be able to pinpoint when or how his grief morphed into this enduring self-hatred, but now that he’s explained it, I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.
I want to tell him I love him and that I understand. That we’re okay. I couldn’t make a life with a man who doesn’t trust me, but I can make a life with a man who is learning how to trust himself. And now he might not live long enough to give me the chance to tell him that.
“…fucked up as it is, every bit of my soul is yours.”
