by Ellery Kane
“Fine. It must’ve been that sushi I ate last night.” At least she sounded normal. Or close enough.
“I told you.” Lizzie chuckled. “Raw fish is for sea lions. You are not a sea lion. Remember that time you had sushi before mid-terms?” Clare couldn’t hear Lizzie anymore. Through the thick stench of nausea, her brain rattled with dates. Thanksgiving, Christmas, and all the weeks in between. The encyclopedia told her morning sickness was common around week six. I had sex with Neal at Thanksgiving. That’s almost eight weeks. And Briggs? Decemberish. The other possibility—she didn’t let herself think it. But it squatted in the back of her mind like an unwelcome visitor.
She stared at herself in the mirror. Her right cheek flaming from her own vicious strike, she pinched the other to bring it back to life. This is what you deserve. She grabbed the packet of pills she’d been popping since Neal took her to Planned Parenthood in grad school—someday you won’t need those, he’d always said—and chucked it across the room. It landed in the shower, skittering across the tub’s bottom. How could you be so stupid? Those little white pills, smaller than a penny. That’s what you counted on?
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Not for the first time since Cullen had been arrested, Lizzie sounded a little afraid of her. Having sex with a serial killer does that to people, she’d realized. And Lizzie still hadn’t asked. Not one question. She’d taken the scraps Clare fed her and been satisfied.
“Remind me to never eat raw fish again.” Forcing a laugh, Clare opened the door. “Unless I come back as a sea lion.”
“Noted.” Lizzie flopped onto the sofa and sighed. “So I guess you’re officially unemployed now.” She gestured to the letter on the countertop. The envelope freshly stamped and addressed to the Board of Psychology.
Clare tried to hide her surprise at seeing a glimpse of the old, joking Lizzie. “Defrocked is more like it. It turns out crazy people shouldn’t be shrinks.”
“I guess so.” And just like that, the old Lizzie vanished. Clare wanted her back, needed her back. Something in her empty stomach moved, twisted. Like tiny fingers squeezing the very last drop, and she thought about bolting for the bathroom. But she inhaled slowly, and it passed.
“The FBI wants me to testify against Clive.” She called him that on purpose, trying to get a rise. “Fitzawhozit does too.” Or at least he’d said so in the message he’d left on her machine. Clare had been too afraid to pick up. Too afraid to face him now that he knew he’d been right about her.
“Hmph.”
“What do you think I should do?”
Clare watched Lizzie trying to decide what to say, how to say it. The same way Clare had measured her goodbye with Cullen. Eventually, Lizzie decided on saying nothing at all. Just a shrug of her shoulders.
“C’mon, Lizzie. I need your advice.”
“You’ll do whatever you want to anyway. So why don’t you just tell me? Save me the breath. What do you want to do?”
Her mouth gave the expected answer. Something about being wracked with confusion, not knowing which way to turn. But after Lizzie drove away, Clare pulled the atlas from her bookshelf and flipped it open. Texas. Then she closed her eyes and laid her finger on the map. Houston. Too big. She tried again. Bellwether. A small dot where nobody could find her. It would do. She laid her hand on her stomach, where the alien creature had quieted.
“It’s just you and me now.”
“It’s gonna hurt,” the man said, tentative, like she couldn’t handle it.
Clare nodded. Didn’t it always? She looked away from him and his Semper Fi tattoo, nearly hidden among all the others. It reminded her of Robocop. And that made her blood boil. McKinnon told her he’d been suspended for their control booth tryst, pending an investigation after those missing keys were recovered in Ramirez’s footlocker. But she hadn’t laid eyes on him since December. Since the morning after that shower when she’d left him clueless, asleep in her bed. Not that she cared one way or the other really—but him being ashamed of her, that rankled her like a pebble in her shoe. As if all of it came down to her. Her and her curse. Her and her demons. And maybe it did. Maybe Briggs was right to stay away from her.
That’s why she had to do this. To put the universe on notice. To remind herself. Clare was done with being a siren. Done with men altogether.
Leaning forward, she rested against the padded seat. The man shifted behind her, readying himself. Then, she felt his warm hand brush the hair from her neck, and she stifled a gasp. “The skin back here is real thin,” he said. “Sensitive. I just want you to be prepared for—”
“Just do it already.”
She closed her eyes and concentrated on the sound of the needle, but he kept talking. “Eye of Horus, huh?”
September 9, 1997
Clare felt bone tired, but she couldn’t sleep. Not yet. She was someone’s mother now. Again. The last nine months, she’d dreaded this day for more reasons than she could count. But it came down to one: She didn’t trust herself.
After the pain ripped her in two, and the baby cried for the first time—so loudly—Clare unraveled. She’d heard that sound before. Had silenced it with her own hands. A coldness spread through her, wilting her heart like the first frost. And when the nurse toweled the baby off and nestled her against Clare’s body, she’d thought, There’s been a mistake. This doesn’t belong to me. I don’t deserve her. But the nurse insisted, so Clare complied.
The baby squirmed against her, and Clare worried. She knows. She knows what I’ve done. I’m nobody’s mother. But the nurse told her the baby was just rooting for a warm place, so Clare held her tight, as snug as a thimble. She reminded herself she’d prepared for this. She’d done it right this time. Mostly.
It’s brave what you’re doing, Agent McKinnon had told Clare, when she’d called from a payphone at a roadside motel halfway to Texas. It doesn’t mean I agree, but our case is rock solid with or without you. And you’ve been punished enough. Clare hadn’t asked what she’d meant. There was plenty to choose from—the revoked license, the job termination, the personal humiliation, and the revelation McKinnon had uncovered, the link between Clare and Rodney. A few months after she’d left, Clare drove to Oklahoma just to mail McKinnon a sonogram photo, ignoring her warning to stay gone. No offense, Clare, but I don’t want to see your face again. Ever. She wouldn’t admit it to herself then, and even now she didn’t understand why, but she wanted Cullen to know.
“Samantha.” She tried out the name she’d picked. God heard. That’s what it meant. “Samantha Bronwyn.” They both had new names. The baby cried against her swollen breasts, and she soothed her with a soft pat, rocking her a little. “It’s okay.”
The nurse smiled at her, approving. And the edges of her heart began to thaw.
“Does she get those eyes from her father?”
Clare looked down at the baby’s face—so small and precious it made her worry. How could she ever keep her safe? “Her father died.”
As she expected, the nurse’s face crumpled, but Clare wondered if she saw right through her. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“In a plane crash.” So awful, no one could question it.
“What was his name?”
Samantha gazed up at her, eyes as blue as the sky after a Bellwether thunderstorm, and she couldn’t deny it. Not to herself. And, for now, that had to be enough. “Neal Barrington.”
30
CLEAN UP
“Some trip, Bronwyn.” Ginny laughed as she leaned against me, the buzz of the hospital droning just outside her room. “I guess we hit all the hot spots, huh?”
“That’s an understatement.” I hugged Levi’s jacket tight to me, the sterile cold seeping into my bones, my letterman probably well on its way to taking up space in some FBI evidence locker.
“Is your mom . . . okay?” she asked. I shrugged, not sure how to answer.
“They took her to the station for questioning, after she got checked out. Physically, she’s fine, but sh
e barely said two words in the ambulance ride over here. And she’s been acting like nothing has happened ever since.”
Ginny nodded, looking wiser than I’d ever seen her. Maybe it was the nineteen stitches in her cheek, five in her neck. “Go easy on her,” she said. “I can’t imagine what she went through with Cutthroat. That guy . . . what a sicko. You know, he told me how he knew about our trip.”
My stomach dropped, and I raised my eyebrows at her. “Apparently, his mother’s been keeping tabs on her granddaughter for years. And her granddaughter’s best friend. She saw my Facebook post.” Levi had been right. A serial killer and a mama’s boy. “Yep, the rotten apple doesn’t fall from the tree.” I knew Ginny didn’t mean it that way. Still, I flinched, and she deflected. I let her. “You know, I really hope some clueless professor asks me what I did this summer. Because, I’m gonna—”
“Didn’t I warn you about getting yourself in trouble?” Levi interrupted from the doorway. His face half-smiling, half-pained, he moved slower than usual, his body draped in a hospital gown, his arm wrapped and secured in a sling.
“I thought you were speaking abstractly. You should’ve told me to watch out for kidnappers in airport bathrooms.”
“Clearly. I’ll try to be more specific next time.”
Ginny nudged me with her elbow, her cheeks puffed with pride, and I blushed in anticipation. “But, you really should be thanking me.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I am the queen of the elaborate setup, am I not?”
Levi winked at me. “You mean Detective Bronwyn, here? I guess she’s not that bad for a civilian.” His good arm slipped around my shoulders, and I leaned in to his warmth. He turned his head toward me, eyes twinkling. “As long as you remember which one of us was spot-on about McKinnon.”
“Oh, I remember,” I teased. “That was right after I found the folder that blew the case wide open. The one you were going to leave behind.”
“Alright, alright. It was a team effort. Bronwyn and Beckett,” Levi said. “See? I even put your name first.” Ginny awwed.
“So what’s next, Officer Beckett?” I asked.
“Just Levi,” he said. “A civilian like you. I think it’s time to surrender the badge.”
“You’re not going to fight it? After everything you did, I’m sure they’d reconsider. You brought down a major drug operation.”
“Accidentally.” Levi shrugged. “Besides, I’ve been thinking a lot about Plan B.” The corner of his mouth hinted at a smile. “The police force may be a little too by-the-book for James Dumas’ son. How does Private Detective Beckett sound?”
“Hot,” Ginny blurted, before I could answer.
I nodded. “Perfect. It’s perfect.”
I sat up straight, eye to eye with Agent Brennan. He’d been sent to clean up this mess—his words. “As you know, we’ve already talked with your mother and Officer Beckett about what happened at Green River Trucking. It’s quite a story, and we’d like to hear your version.”
I offered him an obligatory nod and started at the beginning. He hardly looked up from his notes, his hand working furiously until the end. Setting his pad of paper aside, he produced his best intimidating stare. “What happened to Agent McKinnon, Samantha?”
I relived it in my head. My mother’s face as she pulled the trigger, the determination there. The blood already on her hands—Rodney Taylor’s probably—staining them with guilt. But I knew what had to be done, even with my fury at her tightening my chest. I’d practiced in my head just like Levi told me to, just like a free throw, so it came out effortless, smooth as butter. “Cullen shot Agent McKinnon right before he drove away.”
Brennan nodded. “I thought you might say that.”
Swish.
31
RUNNING
Eighty-eight miles to Austin. Eighty-eight miles to Levi. Eighty-eight miles between me and my mother.
“I’m not running away.” That’s what I’d told Levi on the phone last night, listening to my mother humming in the kitchen like nothing had changed. And it hadn’t. Not really. That was the unnerving part. Clare Bronwyn acted as if she hadn’t unzipped her small-town mom costume and emerged as someone entirely new—Clare Keely. Someone a little whacked and very broken. That much I knew.
“Are you sure about that?” he’d asked. “I want to see you, Sam—you know I do—but don’t you think you should work things out with your mom before you leave for college in September? You’ve only got a couple weeks left.” Less, really, since I had to report early for fall practice, but I kept that to myself.
“It’s gonna take more than a week, Levi. Or two. Or three. It’s a long-term project.” I joked, but it hurt. “And she’s sort of in denial about it all. I guess she always was. She wouldn’t let me watch the news—not even when they interviewed Ginny.” Of course Ginny emailed me a link to the video, evidence of her newfound stardom. With my mom asleep in the next room, I’d watched under the covers as Ginny fielded questions about her brush with death that started in an airport bathroom, when Marco rendered her unconscious with a mouthful of ether and wheeled her out with the trash to Cullen’s waiting arms. The camera loved Ginny, even with the scar on her cheek. And she loved it back.
Levi chuckled. “Leave it to Ginny to make kidnapping sound glamorous.”
But I didn’t laugh. “Cullen’s still out there, you know.” They’d found the big rig abandoned a few miles from Green River Trucking. Empty, of course.
“I know. But you can’t live your life looking over your shoulder. I learned that the hard way. It almost cost me my freedom . . . my sister’s freedom . . . everything.” With all his inadvertent heroics, Levi had gotten off with a slap on the wrist—community service, and his sister exchanged jail time for a drug diversion program.
“Exactly. It’s all about the windshield. No rearview.” I’d stolen the line from one of my graduation cards, and my delivery sounded pretty convincing. But Cutthroat knew how to tug at me, how to whisper in my ear. Time to meet dear old dad.
“Alright,” Levi relented. “Get your cute butt down here then.”
As I drove, I peeked at my reflection, reassuring myself. Still Samantha. I’d been doing that lately. Studying the blue in my eyes, the way it changed sometimes. From blue to gray, depending on the light. Those eyes were his. But what else?
Up ahead of me, the road laid out like a blank canvas, stretched to the horizon. Past it, turns and hills and dead ends I couldn’t see. Not from here. But I didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. I drove toward it.
August 24, 2016
* * *
Clare ran fast, kicking up dust behind her, relishing the breathlessness that came with the hard push up the hill just past their house. Her lungs burned, but she liked it. She felt alive. Strong. Maybe even fierce. Not bad for her mid-forties. She stopped at the top to watch the sun dip just below the horizon, the Texas summer dying its usual prolonged death. On the way back down, she let her tired mind wander. Like an old dog, it always stopped at the same places—Samantha, Rodney, Cullen—and sniffed around a little before coming back home.
Just after dawn that morning, Sam had hustled out the door, a backpack slung over her shoulder. A quick rendezvous with Levi before her big first day at Baylor. But Sam scoffed at that word. It’s not a rendezvous, Mom. Rendezvous happen in Paris, not Austin. And we’re not even officially dating. “Yet,” Clare added, and Sam laughed, overwhelming her with relief—her daughter still loved her in spite of all her colossal screw-ups—marveling as she watched her go. Of all the things she’d gotten wrong, this one thing, the most important one, she’d done right.
Then she thought of the last day at San Quentin. A well-worn memory from a lifetime ago. Outfitted in that army-green officer’s jumpsuit, his hand on the door, Cullen had turned to her with urgency. “There’s something I have to tell you,” he’d said. “It’s important.” Even now, her panic felt fresh, as if it only just happened. Like seeing him tied to the trac
ks while they shook with the weight of an oncoming train.
“I haven’t been totally honest with you about my family.” She could see the train now, hear it too. “And whatever comes after this, I don’t want to start it with a lie.”
She’d silenced him then with a finger to his lips. “Tell me after. Later.” Because it wouldn’t change anything. That train would come whether she liked it or not, severing him in two, and knowing would only make it harder to let him go.
Shaking off her regret, Clare slowed her stride, the house in view. Lit from within, the windows winked at her, inviting her back to the life she’d created from scratch. A good life. Hers. But another memory, a new memory flooded in. One she turned and turned like a stone in the garden. Underneath it, worms and rot and reckoning. But good things too. Signs of life.
Before Torres’ men had arrived, before the EME had unleashed the wrath of hell, before she’d fired the shot that ended McKinnon, Cullen had smirked at her. Yeah, well that’s obvious. She looks just like me, he’d said. Pushing the hair back from her face, he’d stopped being angry, twirling one tendril and setting her heart spinning like a child’s top. Lacing his fingers with hers. Red on red with the blood they’d spilled together. The cord to the past severed by her own hand, setting her loose in a world without Rodney Taylor.
She recounted the way Cullen leaned toward her and she to him, until the space between them had felt combustible. Until he’d threatened to reignite that ancient part of herself that went cold when she’d sworn off men, sworn off this feeling. So close she’d seen her own reflection in those gray-blue pools. And somewhere in the eyes that claimed her, she’d found a revelation to rival any of Doctor Keely’s mediocre insights. Love and murder. Two sides of the same bent penny, both a kind of possession. But Clare couldn’t let herself be possessed. Not anymore.
