Convergence
Page 28
I smile at him. “Now, who’s going to help me get back up?”
He laughs. “Aw, Mom. You can do it.”
I muss his hair. “Go play.”
He dances off across the rocky shore until he reaches the edge of the river, where he searches for flat stones to skip across the surface of the water.
I lower myself to sit on the bottom step where I can watch my son relish the joy of play. The American River, just beyond him, lazy now, glistens in the afternoon light.
My son is free.
We are free.
This is what I fought for.
This is what God provided for. What He spared me to enjoy.
“Thank You. Thank You.” I say again. And again. I’ve said little else since waking on that flat rock in the middle of the Kaweah, a helicopter hovering overhead, waiting to carry me out of that canyon, to carry me to safety.
“Whoa, Mom, did you see that one?” he yells.
I nod and smile.
I was battered and bruised, and sustained tears in the muscle fiber of my lower back, likely from the twisting and battering my body took as the Kaweah tossed me to and fro. But ultimately, that river, my ally, threw me up and out of its clutch. I landed on a large, flat boulder that jutted above the current.
That’s where I was found.
I woke in a hospital in Visalia sometime a day or two later, a man standing by my bed.
When I opened my eyes, he smiled. “Murder. You wanted attempted murder. You got attempted murder. Satisfied?”
I stared at him. “Phil?”
“Who else?”
“You… got him?”
“Well, not me personally, but they couldn’t have done it without me.”
“What took you so long?”
As he laughed, I closed my eyes and must have drifted off again, because that’s all I remember of our conversation then. We’ve spoken since, of course. And yes, Ryan was arrested and charged.
Without Willow, I don’t know where I’d be. It was her courage, her truth, that revealed what I’d missed for so long. After working as Ryan’s TA for two weeks, she ran into him one evening outside her dorm. The next evening she looked out her window and saw a man standing in the shadow of a tree. When she left the dorm a while later, he was still there. He called her name. She hesitated, then turned and kept walking. He followed her, eventually reaching her and grabbing her by the arm.
“It was like… he owned me or something,” she said as she told me the story. “Like he had a right to…” She’d trailed off, never finishing her sentence.
Another young woman may have ignored him or reported him. But Willow ran and then hid. She dropped his class. Avoided him. Just as she’d done with the stepfather who’d watched her, followed her, and eventually raped her.
Ryan’s actions touched shame so deep in Willow, all she knew to do was hide.
Jay recognized something in Willow’s story—something she’d seen in Ryan herself, or sensed in Ryan. That possessiveness or entitlement she’d spoken of. Willow’s story unlocked the truth and opened my eyes to a possibility I’d never considered.
Why Adelia? Why me? Why Willow? I’ll never know.
Now, along with the anger that still accosts me from time to time, there is also grief. Grief for the man whose illness wounded so many. Grief, again, for all that was lost.
Including Adelia…
But now there is also joy.
And freedom.
Oh, sweet freedom.
August 20, 2017
After my first class, I cross the campus, where students sprawl on the grass, sit at outdoor tables, and crowd the bookstore. The warm scent of dry grass wafts, and beyond the campus the late summer river meanders. Soon the leaves will begin to turn.
I enter the English building, glance at my watch, and then find the classroom I’m looking for. I peek inside and see Jon connecting his laptop to the projector. It appears he’s alone, just as I’d hoped.
As I come into the room, he looks up, stares at me a moment, then smiles. “Hi there. Wow, look at you.” I see the appreciation in his eyes as I approach. “I love your hair.” He raises his hand and looks at me, a question in his eyes. “Can I touch it?”
I laugh. “Go for it.”
He gently pats the short spikes of hair on top of my head. “What prompted that? It’s great, really, just… different.”
I run my hand over my hair. “It’s a long story.”
“Ah…”
“But… it’s one I’d like to tell you sometime.”
“I’m always up for a long story. Just give me a call. Anytime.”
I raise one eyebrow. “Anytime?”
The twinkle in his eyes assures me he’s understood my meaning. “Well, almost anytime. Just don’t call during the evening, at least not until after I’ve cleaned up the mac and cheese, made sure the girls are bathed, read them a rousing chapter or two of Harriet the Spy, and tucked them in for the night.” He leans against the table where the projector sits. “Come to think of it, I go to bed myself after that routine. And don’t call in the mornings, at least not until after I’ve dropped them off at school. I typically have ten minutes or so between my arrival in the parking lot here and the dash to my first class. You might catch me then.”
I laugh. “Weekends?”
“Sure, in between soccer and ballet. Just give me a call. Anytime. Really. By the way, did you know I make a mean mac and cheese?”
“I bet you do.”
He runs a hand through his thick hair.
“I’ll tell you what—how about we come over some evening and you can share your recipe with me.”
“We?” He looks puzzled.
Just a few months ago, I wouldn’t have mentioned Nicky. Wouldn’t have risked allowing someone into the prison I’d created for us. But now… “Yes, we. That’s part of the story. I… have a son. He’s seven. I’d love for you to meet him sometime.”
He nods as he takes in what I’ve said. “Is he a mac and cheese eater?”
“A connoisseur, actually.”
“Perfect.” He smiles, then grows serious as though contemplating something. “You’re different. Something’s changed. And it’s more than the hair, right?”
I nod. “Yes. I’ve changed. Everything’s changed.”
The door of the classroom swings open and students begin filtering in.
“Well, I’ll let you go.” I turn to leave.
“Deni…”
I turn back.
“I’ll look forward to hearing that story. Soon, I hope.”
I smile. “Yes, soon.”
I sit at my desk, my chair swiveled toward the window. Haunting memories no longer play on the glass; images don’t flash. The story Jon wants to hear, the one I will tell him, isn’t over yet, I know. There is work to do. Wounds to heal. And not just my own.
But now it’s a story I want to share.
I no longer want to hide in the shadows or look over my shoulder.
Fear will no longer rule me or my family.
I was made for more. We were made for more.
The sun filtering through the window shines bright, warming the office. I get up to close the blinds against the heat, but as I stand at the window, I change my mind.
The sun’s power hidden for so long—it’s time to let the sun shine…
God didn’t give me a spirit of fear, but rather a spirit of love, and a spirit of power…
It’s time to shine.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing Convergence was a challenge to which I looked forward but one for which I learned I was unprepared. Writing suspense is unlike writing any other genre, and I had a lot to learn. I extend my gratitude to author Brandilyn Collins for her generosity in sharing her insight and knowledge with me. Thank you to Erin Ambrose, PhD, therapist and professor, for the time she spent with me and the many questions she answered related to this story. Thank you to David Qualls, former California Highway Patrol offi
cer, for offering his expertise.
I am grateful for my critique partners who read as I wrote, right up to the last moments, and offered their insight and encouragement—Susan Basham, Brenda Bryant Anderson, and Laurie Breining—you’re each a gift. Thank you to C.J. Darlington who stepped in at the ninth hour and saved me and this story by helping me do additional research. Thank you to Frank Root of Kaweah White Water Adventures in Three Rivers, California, for the time he spent answering C.J.’s questions. Frank’s expertise was invaluable. I’m also so thankful for my son, Jared Yttrup, an employee of William Jessup University, who answered every text I sent. The information he provided related to a university setting made this story better.
As always, I am deeply grateful for the love and support of my family, Justin, Jared, and Stephanie, and my mom, Kathy, who understand when I “hibernate” toward the end of writing a book. My dear circle of friends offer the same grace and understanding as I disappear into the stories I write. Thank you.
Thank you to my editor, Annie Tipton, who suggested I give the suspense genre a try. I am grateful for Annie’s encouragement and belief in my abilities. Thank you to JoAnne Simmons, copy editor extraordinaire, for making me look good. To the fiction team at Barbour Publishing—thank you!
Thank you to my agent, Steve Laube, who enthusiastically brainstormed this story with me as I wrote my sample chapters.
While my name may appear on the cover of this book, writing a novel is a group endeavor. I could not have finished this story without the involvement of so many others.
And, as always, I am grateful to my wonderful readers who buy my books and spend their valuable time with my characters. Thank you for the words of encouragement offered through the reviews you post and the notes you send. You make this dream career a reality for me. Thank you!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ginny Yttrup is the award-winning author of Words, Lost and Found, Invisible, Flames, and Home. She writes contemporary women’s fiction and suspense. Publishers Weekly dubbed Ginny’s work “as inspiring as it is entertaining.” When not writing, Ginny coaches writers, critiques manuscripts, and makes vintage-style jewelry for her Etsy shop, Storied Jewelry (etsy.com/shop/StoriedJewelry). She loves dining with friends, hanging out with her adult sons and daughter-in-law, and walking her rescue pup, Henry. Ginny lives in Northern California. To learn more about Ginny and her work, visit www.ginnyyttrup.com.
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