Stay with Me (Misty River Romance, A Book #1)

by Becky Wade

  “Who else knows about this?” Natasha asked. “Someone does, because someone sent Gen those letters.”

  Dad frowned. “Russell’s sister, Sandra, knows. She walked in when we were almost finished staging the scene. She saw everything.”

  “Sandra and I had plans to go to Bible study together,” Mom told them. “She’d come to pick me up and was running ahead of schedule.”

  “Your mother told Sandra what had happened. One side of your mom’s shirt was ripped, and her face was pink from where Russell had slapped her. Even so, I thought Sandra would immediately turn us in. Instead, she helped us make it look like the Shoal Creek Killer had committed the murder.”

  “Why?” Genevieve asked.

  “Because she knew how he was,” Mom answered. “Russell had beaten her, too, when she was a kid.”

  “Sandra told your mother to clean herself up and leave with her for Bible study. So we put Caroline’s ripped clothing and the broom and anything else that we thought might incriminate me in a black garbage bag. Sandra took your mother to Bible study, and I drove the garbage bag to a public dumpster a half hour away. Then I drove half an hour in another direction and ran my car into a tree near a field where some kids were playing. I went to them for help, and one of their mothers drove me to a rural hospital. I claimed that the accident had caused the eye injury.”

  “No one questioned your claim?” Genevieve asked.

  “No. They were focused on trying to save my eye. But they were unsuccessful.”

  “What happened next with you, Mom?” Natasha asked.

  “Sandra took me home after the study. She dialed the police, then handed me the phone.”

  “Were the two of you in contact immediately after that?” Natasha motioned between them.

  “Not for the month that I remained in Camden.” Weariness had begun to drain some of the rigidity from Mom’s posture. “That month was a nightmare. The funeral. The media attention. I was grieving for a man I’d loved very much at one time. I was terrified that your father and I would be arrested. It wasn’t until after I moved back to my parents’ house that I called your father.”

  “We agreed that we’d relocate to Savannah,” Dad said.

  “You wanted to be close to each other,” Genevieve guessed.

  “Yes,” Dad answered. “We wanted a chance to get to know each other again in a place that could offer us a fresh start. Savannah was far from where either of us had lived.”

  “Your family members never mentioned your first marriage to us,” Natasha said to Mom.

  “Before I married your dad, I asked them not to speak to me or to anyone else about Russell again. Before you girls were born, I made it especially clear that I didn’t want anyone telling you about my first marriage or the murder. My relatives didn’t want to saddle you girls with that ugliness, either.”

  Genevieve pushed her hair behind her ears. “So Sandra’s the one who sent me the letters.”

  Dad inclined his chin.

  “She was your accomplice at the time,” Genevieve said, “but the letters were threatening. Why the change of heart?”

  “With Russell for a brother, her life had never been easy,” Mom said. “But it became even more challenging in some ways after Russell’s death. Her father drank himself into a grave. She, her mother, and her sister struggled financially. She’s had three husbands. As time passed, I think she became bitter.”

  “Two weeks before she sent you the first letter, she asked us for one hundred thousand dollars to buy her silence,” Dad said. “We told her no. The letter she sent you was her way of applying pressure to force us to change our minds.”

  “And?” Natasha asked. “Have you changed your minds?”

  “We haven’t paid her anything yet,” Mom said. “But we haven’t ruled out the possibility of paying her, either. We met with our financial planner to see if there’s a way to come up with that sum.”

  “If we pay her now,” Dad said, “I’m convinced that she’ll ask for more in the future.”

  “You can’t pay her.” Natasha’s jaw hardened. “She’s blackmailing you, and blackmail is illegal.”

  “She wouldn’t be able to blackmail us if we hadn’t done illegal things, too.” Mom’s words were brittle. Irrefutable. “We have two terrible options. Pay her. Refuse to pay her. We can’t afford to do either.”

  Genevieve’s brain searched for avenues of escape. Mom and Dad couldn’t pay this woman again and again in an effort to guarantee her silence. But the alternative—not paying her and then having Sandra go to the nearest news station with her story—was even worse.

  Natasha and Dad were the two attorneys in the room, but even Genevieve knew that there was no statute of limitations on murder.

  If Dad was charged with murder, the only eyewitness would be biased Mom. Sandra hadn’t actually seen Dad’s altercation with Russell.

  If Sandra’s heart really had hardened over the years, would she testify to Russell’s abuse when she was a child? Would she testify that she knew her brother had been abusing his wife? Or might she throw Mom and Dad under the bus?

  The Shoal Creek Killer had been featured in a recent Netflix series, true crime books, and conspiracy theory blog posts. If word got out that her parents had pinned Russell’s death on Terry Paul Richards, the story would likely become national or world news.

  Her . . . her ministry had earned quite a huge sum of money. She’d only felt comfortable living off a small percentage. She’d given much of it away. The rest she’d invested, because she’d never had any sense of how long her ministry might last.

  Her parents couldn’t afford to pay Sandra off time and time again.

  But she could.

  “I’ll pay Sandra.”

  “No,” Natasha and Dad said in unison.

  “I was finally able to get my hands on an address for Russell’s mother a few days ago,” Natasha announced. “Gen didn’t want to reach out to her. But that was before Gen and I knew all of this.” She met each of their gazes in turn, as if seeking to gain consensus. “Now I think we have to meet with Russell’s remaining family members and tell them everything.”

  “I disagree.” Mom spoke at once. “Think of the ramifications of what you’re suggesting.”

  “What I’m suggesting is that we do the right thing.” Natasha held her head high, unwavering. “Dad already said he wishes he’d admitted everything all those years ago instead of covering things up. We have a chance to rectify that. It’s not too late.”

  “We had a great deal to lose then.” Mom’s volume was rising, her syllables trembling. “We have far more to lose now.”

  “Natasha’s right.” The implacable assurance in Dad’s statement cut through the room, through Genevieve, like a scalpel.

  “Judson,” Mom whispered. Moisture gathered in her eyes.

  “Natasha’s right.” He gazed at his older daughter.

  Natasha and Dad. The two of them had always been the most alike. Even-tempered, more practical, less emotional. Both had a powerful sense of right and wrong.

  Mom took several steps away. “No.”

  Dad regarded his wife with apology for the grief he was destined to cause her. “It’s time, Caroline. I’ve been carrying the guilt of this for thirty-seven years. I need to do this.”

  “Are you hearing me say no, Judson?” A tear flowed down her cheek.

  “I’m ready to go and talk with Sandra and her mother and her sister,” he said gently. “It’s going to be all right.”

  “How can anything ever be all right again after you tell them?”

  “Caro—”

  She swept from the kitchen. The door to the master bedroom slammed.

  Genevieve realized she’d been holding her breath and released it with a sigh.

  “I’ll talk to her,” Dad said. “She needs time, but she’ll come around. She’s scared to admit it, but she knows this is the right path.”

  “Do you want me to call Russell’s mother,
Alice?” Natasha asked. “I can simply introduce myself as Caroline’s daughter and ask if my family can come by and speak with her and her daughters.”

  “Give me the rest of the day to talk with your mother. I’ll call you in the morning and hopefully give you the go-ahead then.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’d rather meet with them soon,” he said. “The longer we drag this out, the worse it will be.”

  “I agree,” Natasha said. “When Mom has time to worry over something, it grows bigger and worse in her imagination.”

  “I’m tired of living with this secret.” Indeed, he looked tired.

  They stood, and Natasha gave Dad a hug.

  “I love you, cupcake,” he murmured to her sister.

  Then he engulfed Genevieve in his secure embrace. “I love you, honey girl.”

  She wanted to weep because he smelled like Irish Spring soap, same as ever. He’d done a terrible thing, but he’d been a wonderful father. “I love you, too.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said to them both when they’d stepped apart. “For what I did. I wish I could shield you from this.”

  “It’s okay, Dad,” Natasha answered.

  Genevieve nodded, because her mouth was shaking.

  He disappeared toward the master bedroom.

  Genevieve took Natasha’s hand and squeezed, then the sisters let themselves out. Without a word, they set off for their houses in their respective cars.

  The road rose and fell beneath the tires of her Volvo.

  Natasha and Dad had come to the decision to confess. Mom had been against it. Genevieve hadn’t provided her opinion, nor had anyone asked for it.

  Her opinion was torn down the middle between her mom’s stance and her dad’s. She understood her mother’s reaction because no part of her wanted the truth of Russell’s death to come to light. She’d prefer to continue on with her life as if everything were fine and normal. As if she didn’t know how Russell had died.

  However, she could acknowledge that Dad’s approach was the ethical approach.

  There’d been a time when her right vs. wrong meter had been almost as strong as her sister’s. Then her ministry had grown. The stakes of her actions had increased. Layers of silt covered her meter as it became more and more important to maintain the image of the funny, wry, girl-next-door Bible teacher with a flair for clothing and interior design and Instagram photos.

  Her old, neglected meter was telling her that Natasha and Dad were correct. Confessing to Russell’s family was the right thing to do.

  It was also the thing that would bring destruction down on herself, her sister, her mother, and her father.

  Luke

  The sisters and Ben keep praying out loud. Every time they do, my chest burns with anger. My parents have taken my brother and me to church all our lives. They sent us on this trip because they wanted us to follow the Bible and help others. They trusted God. They believed that we’d be safe.

  God reacted by sending an earthquake because He obviously doesn’t care anything about us.

  We’ve been down here for six days now. Either Ethan turned and escaped the building when it started to shake, the concrete crushed him, or he found a space like our space. We’ve survived in this room because we have water. Even if he was able to find space, he won’t have water.

  The only way he could be alive is if he turned and escaped.

  A small part of me won’t give up the hope that he turned and escaped. But in my bones, I know that he didn’t.

  I know that he’s dead.

  I keep trying to blame God for Ethan’s death, but I can’t.

  Because if Ethan’s dead, I know that I’m the one who killed him.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  How did it go with your parents? Sam texted Gen that afternoon. She’d told him that she and Natasha were planning to confront their parents today, and he’d seen her car at the guesthouse when he’d arrived home a few minutes ago.

  Scrolling dots appeared, letting him know that she was typing.

  Then the scrolling dots vanished without a reply.

  His mood darkening, he went to the orchard to continue pruning the apple trees of diseased and overcrowded growth. Why was Gen avoiding his question?

  Finally, a bing sounded to signal a new text. Ripping off one of his gloves, he reached for his phone.

  It’s not good, Sam, what happened all those years ago.

  His heart sank. I’ll be right there. He took off his other glove and set his boot on the rung below, then stopped as another text arrived.

  I think it’s best if you wait. I’m trying to adjust to what I learned, and I feel like I need a little time alone.

  She didn’t want to see him? Tension snaked across his shoulders.

  You told me once, she wrote, that if I wasn’t ready to tell you something, I should simply say that to you outright. Is that offer still open?

  Yes.

  Thank you, she texted. And I’m sorry to be so cryptic. I’m really sorry. See you tomorrow evening?

  Sure.

  He waited for another response from her. None came.

  After pocketing the phone, he interlaced his hands behind his head and tilted his face to the branches and the backdrop of sky.

  Since coming to Misty River, he’d given everyone space and expected everyone to give him space in return. That’s how he’d wanted things, so that’s how things had been.

  However, it was no longer in his nature to give Gen space. Clearly, she’d learned something terrible today. He wanted her to tell him about it. Not just for his sake, but for hers. If she was anxious or depressed, keeping quiet and shutting herself off from everyone was the worst thing she could do.

  She’d gone eighty-six days without Oxy. Eighty-six days.

  However, he knew from experience that no matter how much time had passed, when an addict was miserable, they were also susceptible. If she was in enough pain, she might sabotage herself by taking Oxy.

  His blood chilled at the thought.

  He could wait until she drove away, search her house, and make sure she didn’t have Oxy—

  No. If he wanted her trust, which he did, he’d have to earn it. He’d never earn it by standing in judgment of her, only by coming alongside in support.

  To gain her trust, he first needed to give his trust.

  She’d told him the last time he’d let himself into her guesthouse, back before they started dating, that it had hurt her to know he’d searched her things. It would hurt her much worse now, so he refused to do it.

  At ten o’clock that night, Genevieve sat cross-legged on the small patch of floor at the end of her bed, her back propped against the wall. Her candle flickered, and a mug of tea waited within arm’s reach. Her laptop sat on the floor before her, playing one of her fluffy romantic comedies.

  Unfortunately, all her bids at comforting herself were falling short.

  She felt both covered in a blanket of desolation and stripped naked. Her mind couldn’t focus on the movie, because it was too busy gnawing on fears over her family’s future.

  When it became known that her parents had framed the Shoal Creek Killer for Russell’s murder, the court of public opinion would be brutal. The fact that Mom and Dad had gone on to marry, have two daughters, and raise them as if Russell Atwell had been nothing more than a bump in the road would lead people to conclude that they were heartless and guilty.

  She could picture herself on camera saying, “I know them! That’s how I know they’re telling the truth about what happened. Neither of them could have planned to murder Russell.” Strangers from coast to coast would think her impossibly naïve.

  Even if, by some miracle, Dad was charged, tried, and acquitted because he’d acted in self-defense, his reputation and career could never, ever be salvaged. He was the county DA, for heaven’s sake. An elected official.

  The scandal would ruin her mother just as thoroughly. Mom was deeply proud of the family she’d raised. She bask
ed in the respect of her peers, her identity as a community volunteer, her daughters’ success, and her flourishing grandchildren.

  This time moving to a fresh city wouldn’t solve her parents’ problems the way it had when they’d moved to Savannah. This time they’d be known anywhere they tried to hide. The fallout would cage them as surely as rubble had once caged her and Natasha.

  As soon as she’d returned to the cottage today, she’d knelt and prayed over the situation. She’d pled with God, cried, bent her head low and begged.

  She hadn’t sensed His mercy. She hadn’t been able to grab hold of His unconditional love. Even that word, unconditional, had become head knowledge for her, not heart knowledge, because her mistakes and her parents’ mistakes were so close and enormous.

  Her failure to keep her relationship with the Lord vibrant, and her dependence on painkillers, and her secrecy concerning all of it rendered her a fake. She had absolutely no business serving the Lord as a Bible teacher.

  She shut her laptop, silencing the movie. Drawing her knees toward her torso, she banded her arms around them as if to hold herself together.

  She’d put Sam off by telling him that she’d see him tomorrow. The woman who’d had the courage to stand in front of thousands and preach the Gospel was now faltering at the prospect of having to speak to just one man. If she told Sam about her parents, she’d be giving him enormous power over them. He could go to the nearest police station and tell them everything.

  Which he’d never do!

  So then, why? Why couldn’t she bring herself to tell him?

  Was she really this full of stupid pride?

  No. She would tell him. It’s just that she hadn’t even begun to digest the truth about Russell’s death herself. Her thoughts were shooting in a million different directions.

  Closing her eyes, she pushed the heels of her hands against her forehead.

  God.

  God, please help me. Please lift this feeling of impending catastrophe off of me. Make yourself known and real to me again like you once were.

  Come in power, I beg you. Calm my mind. Help me to trust you wholly, so that I can face what’s coming for my family and for me. If it’s your will for disapproval to rain down on us, then you’ll make a way for us to bear up under it. And, ultimately, you’ll redeem the suffering you allow.