by C. J. Zahner
Had he ever felt a morsel of mediocrity in his life? Was he really that unrelentingly sure of himself? What happened to that pimply-faced kid?
“I can’t remember the answers we rehearsed.” These games exhausted her. She leaned her head back, her blank stare rising to the ceiling, her thoughts drifting to the infinitesimal cracks fanning out from the upper corner of Giff’s conference room. Her concentration rested there on those tiny fractures. How had Giff’s contractor missed that? The problem could be cosmetic, like splintered dry wall, or structural, like a buckled stud.
That was the trouble. You couldn’t just slap a coat of paint on a surface and pretend everything beneath was fine.
Her eyes fell back to him. He was still talking.
“The case won’t go to trial. They’ll settle,” he said, chin raised and shoulders squared.
This had happened before in her life. Those times she couldn’t concentrate, didn’t eat, relied on Ally, her mom, or sweet Jesus to get her through. She knew the drill. Don’t think. Keep busy.
“They’ll settle. Just get through the deposition.” He leaned toward her, forearms on table, a slip of his starched white shirt separating suit sleeves and broad wrists, flawlessly.
She had accidentally fallen asleep in his arms last night, gotten up early, skipped her run, and went to morning Mass at St. Patrick’s Church. She liked St. Pat’s because the pastor there was forgiving. She said a rosary for strength during the service, but the prayers hadn’t helped. Although outwardly she appeared calm, inside she raged. Her stomach churned, and her hands perspired. The uncomfortableness brought her back into the room.
“I have to admit I thought they were my siblings,” she said, half to herself, half to him.
“Emma, how many times do I have to tell you? Don’t offer information. Only answer the questions.”
A tear slipped out the corner of her eye, but Giff offered no reaction. He had admitted a week ago that he’d seen the strongest of men breaking over cases but never someone he was close to. He said he hadn’t been doing her any favors by coddling her, and that she was going to have to get through this without him constantly reaching for her hand. “Tough love,” her mother called the tactic. She didn’t like it, and even though she knew Giff was keeping his feelings at bay for her sake, deep down inside, his emotional restraint hurt her, so she lashed out.
“I haven’t heard from Matt,” she said. “Not once in three months, and I don’t blame him. I didn’t even send him a sympathy card when Mary died.”
Bringing Matt’s name into the conversation was simply a defense mechanism meant to punish Giff for his coldness. A test, to see if he’d give in to her or make her stand alone. She tucked her chin and stared him in the eye, daring him to ignore her tears.
He hesitated briefly and responded coolly, “He knows your legal counsel will advise you not to contact him. You know he’s on your side.”
“Will they depose Matt?” She intentionally said his name again. “Call him in?”
Giff placed the thumb and middle finger of one hand on the corners of his glasses, adjusted them, and Emma knew he was trying again not to react. “If he does, Matt will protect you. Even under oath.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know that.” He stopped and tossed his glasses on top of his papers as if the game was over. “He will because—because he’s in love with you.”
She straightened in her seat. She hadn’t expected that—Giff coming right out and saying Matt loved her. She knew both he and Sharon suspected Matt did, but Giff had never uttered the “L” word—until now.
“Why does everyone keep insisting that?” My God, her thoughts seesawed. What did she feel inside? Remorse? Regret? Did she want Giff to be jealous of Matt—then what about Josh? Her head swirled in confusion. She cupped her hand and dropped her forehead into her palm. “I almost wish it was true.”
“Why would you say such a thing?”
“Because then maybe I could stop believing he is my brother.”
“Emma, still?”
The alarm on her cell buzzed. She tapped the icon off, squeezed her eyes shut, laid her head on the table, and cried sincerely. Giff leaned back in his seat. She heard him sigh, move his chair back, and slowly stand. He circled the conference table at a snail’s pace, hesitated, and finally put his arms around her. He held her until her alarm sounded a second time.
“You go.” He released her, fingering a lock of her hair until he stood and the strand slipped from his hand. “We’ve gone over this too much.”
She sat up and pulled a tissue from her purse. “I do have to go. They’re going to let us know when Mom can go home.”
She wiped her eyes, stood, and collapsed into him, letting his arms engulf her one last time. She felt so safe in his embrace, so secure, so sane. Yet—
She wanted to talk to him about something important. Lately, all conversations devolved into mitigation, insurance carriers, lawyers, and legality. Every time she got up the courage to talk to Giff about Josh, the dialogue turned, and she found herself sliding down a chute toward the slippery McKinney lawsuit.
Now she was too weak to talk, her strength diminished. How could she explain her guilt over ending her marriage? That she was wondering, when it came right down to it, whether she could walk away?
When she left and fell into the hot upholstery of a car that had long been baking in the sun, she began sobbing so hard she had to force herself to call and cancel her mother’s appointment.
Giff knew. He watched her make the call from his window.
He was pretty good at figuring people out—years of watching men from behind poker cards helped. Emma wore her emotions on her sleeve. He was fairly certain he could get her through this lawsuit ordeal and even steer her clear of Josh. Undeniably, Josh wanted her back. Yet, Josh was no match for him. He felt confident he could dissuade that relationship—but this Matt McKinney both baffled and worried him.
Giff wasn’t the jealous type, but if he was, he might be threatened by a guy like Matt.
His gaze reached through the window and out into the street, to Emma’s car. He watched her place her cell phone aside, glance into the rearview mirror to fix her makeup, and start the engine. He studied her profile. Considered her character. How her brilliance, beauty, and humbleness made her dangerously attractive. Matt McKinney would surely place his hand on a Bible and lie for Emma if forced to. Did that make Matt the better man for her?
As she drove away, Giff stood helpless. He hoped she wasn’t headed toward Josh, wished Mathew McKinney really was her brother.
And prayed he wasn’t losing her.
Chapter 41
Monday, July 27, 2015
Pseudo.
A copy of a suicide letter, sent anonymously, hid near the bottom of the weekend stack of mail for more than an hour before Sharon opened it. She told Giff the note was clearly signed by Mary McKinney and emphatically stated no one was to blame. Sharon texted Emma immediately after she spoke with Giff.
Giff arrived first. Sharon’s silhouette, stiff and straight as a queen’s guard, stood in the front door as he crossed the street. Within seconds, Emma’s car came into view. He watched her speed down the road and into the driveway. She pulled into her parking space crookedly, and stepped one foot out the door before realizing she had only shifted to reverse. She jerked her foot back in, threw the car into park, and turned the ignition off.
Giff headed for the office and held the door for Emma. She nodded as she passed but didn’t speak. She lowered her eyes to the ground and he followed her inside, where Ally and Rebekka stood behind Sharon like soldiers in muster, ramrod straight and tongues stilled. Sharon handed Emma the letter, and Giff listened as she read.
I’m tired. I don’t know how much longer I can go on pretending. I don’t belong here.
This will come as a shock to many of you, and first I’d like to say I’m sorry. This is no one’s fault. Taking my life is a decision I hav
e struggled with for years. Please know—all who read this—you did everything you could to help me. My own weakness failed me in the end, not you.
Since I was thirteen years old, I have stood on street corners, close to the curb, waiting for trucks to come. When I see a shiny grill ambling toward me, big wheels spinning, exhaust stack puffing smoke into the blue and white sky, I close my eyes and wait. I listen for the noise of the engine breaking, its hissing, the driver frantically downshifting, all of it coming closer and closer. I say to myself, “Just take one step, and you will never hurt again.” But then I open my eyes, the truck rumbles by, and I think, “It would have been over by now.”
Often I’m glad I didn’t do it—ruin the driver’s life. So I consider ways to hurt no one but myself. Falling asleep in the cold, hanging, drowning, slitting my wrists and feeling the slow weakening sensation of death coming on as my heart pumps faster and my lungs expand slower, and I mercifully slip into oblivion.
This is my world. How I think. What it is like to live in my body where forty-six diabolic chromosomes house thousands of ill-reputed genes.
If you are reading this, then I am gone. Please know you are not to blame. I was never able to reveal my affliction. Never admitted it to another soul.
May God forgive me,
Mary
Giff walked up behind her and as he peered down and fingered the edge of the paper, she slowly relinquished the letter.
“Why would someone send us this?” Sharon’s face wrinkled and her voice raced. “Maybe we should contact Matt or Mel.”
“Absolutely not.” Giff gave Sharon a stern headshake. “You can’t have any contact with them. We’ll relinquish the letter to the police.”
“Don’t bother,” Sharon replied. “They left a message. It seems everyone received a copy, the police, our insurance carrier. Even Minnie’s attorney.”
“Make two copies for us. Hopefully the case will be dropped. I spoke with Minnie’s attorney last night. He said she’s falling apart.”
He had spoken to her attorney at length but hadn’t informed Emma. She wouldn’t return his call last night. He thought an evening rest from the case might be best. Now he wasn’t sure. She had barely acknowledged his presence this morning, and that cold-shoulder treatment she thrust toward him reminded him of something. He had to think. What was it? The way she treated Josh?
Some odd sensation in his belly rose to his throat.
And there was something else. Another feeling he couldn’t quite manage. A turbid backlash from the chromosome and gene phrase in the letter. He glanced down to read again.
“Even more reason to believe she sent it. She’s coming unglued.” Sharon tugged the letter from Giff’s hand and hurried toward the copier machine.
“Minnie didn’t send that letter,” Emma said softly. “Matt did.”
“No, it had to come from Minnie.” Sharon raised her voice to be heard above the copier’s droning. “It’s a cry for help.”
“She wouldn’t send that letter,” Ally said, thoughtfully. “It hurts her case.”
Giff’s eyes danced from Sharon to Ally to Emma and he watched her. Observed her aloof stare, indifference, lack of empathy. The forty-six chromosomes phrase still echoed in his head.
“Emma’s right,” he said, his words slow and aching. For the first time, he thought Emma might be right. Maybe he didn’t know her. She’d told him that so many times—in his arms when she cried, in the night when he held her, in her sleep when she dreamed. All those times he hadn’t believed her—until now. “Matt sent it.”
He backed away slowly in a weary shuffle. His stare never left her. His feet only stopped when he felt his back against the wall.
Emma’s gaze fell to the floor.
“Are you sure?” Sharon tossed a petulant glance first at Giff and then Emma.
Emma shirked her, crossed the room and sat slowly down in a waiting-area chair.
“It was Matt. I’m sure.” She said, her voice a near whisper.
“You can’t be sure.” Sharon’s voice plummeted with doubt.
“I am.”
“How?”
“I know because…”—Emma leaned on her elbows and placed her hands at her temples—“because Mary didn’t write that letter.”
“Oh, dear Lord in heaven.” Ally closed her eyes. Immediately, tears slipped down her face.
“Well, if Mary didn’t write that letter then Minnie had to.” Sharon glanced at Ally and back at Emma, strode toward her, attempted to hand her the copy. When Emma made no motion to accept it, Sharon set the letter on the arm of her chair. “We should call Matt or Mel! What if Minnie kills herself?”
“Minnie didn’t write the letter.”
“Emma!” Sharon stomped a foot on the ground. “You can’t know that.”
“I do, Sharon.”
“No, you can’t know who wrote that letter,” she said, stepping back, away from her.
But Emma did know. She knew the police would be called in, and they would trace that letter to Mary’s computer. That Matt had found it on a different computer written by a different author. He copied the words into Mary’s computer, took the name of the real author off, placed Mary’s signature at the bottom, and erased the original letter. And no one—not a detective, investigator, or the best IT expert in the country—would find a trace of it anywhere but on Mary’s computer. All other evidence would vanish.
Emma understood. He had done that for her.
“I know,” she said, swallowing hard, “because I wrote that letter myself.”
“Emma.” Sharon whispered, gasped, and signed a cross in the air below her chin.
The only thing Emma didn’t know was why Matt was protecting her.
Chapter 42
Tuesday, July 28, 2015
Plot.
“The only information I could get out of Carol was Matt McKinney broke off the relationship. Heather was devastated,” Ally told him.
“Nobody knows why he broke up with her?” Giff asked.
“No.” Ally sipped her coffee and looked in both directions. The remote little downtown CoffeeHut was never busy in the evening. During the day, people were packed in like sardines. By five-thirty, Giff and Emma sat alone in front of the conspicuously big window feeling like two fish in a fishbowl.
Self-consciously, Giff shifted his position so his back paralleled the window.
“I’m worried about Emma.” Ally inched her chair to the side, aligning herself with Giff, so his big shoulders blocked her face to outsiders passing by. Her eyes fell, and she focused on the coffee inside her cup. She screwed up her lips.
Their running friend, Carol Crandall, knew Heather Richards well. Carol and Heather cycled together. Met once or twice a month, spring through summer, for a ride. Occasionally, they did breakfast afterward. Carol was a good listener, grounded. The sort everyone consulted when they had problems. Heather Richards included.
Giff asked Ally to talk to Carol for him, and Ally happily obliged. But now he got the impression remorse had set in, and Ally was sorry she’d done it.
“Carol swore me to absolute secrecy because of Heather’s high community profile.” Ally’s expression turned sheepish. “I don’t like betraying her confidence.”
“But, Ally, this is me, Giff. I won’t say a word.”
“I know you won’t,” Ally said, tapping the bottom of her cup on the table repeatedly.
“What else did she say?”
She stopped tapping, wiped the spill beside her cup with a napkin, watched the barista disappear into the back room, lifted her cup to her lips, and drank slowly. Her eyes surveyed the empty room.
Giff’s patience wore thin. “Ally, tell me.”
“You have to promise not to tell anyone.”
“Only if I can.” He shook his head. “If Emma’s in trouble, all promises are off.”
She looked away, then back, nodding. “Of course, Emma comes first.”
She glanced around the coffee
shop again, swirled the coffee in her cup as if still debating whether she should say more. He waited patiently because he thought if he pressed her, she might get up and leave. Finally, she spoke.
“Heather told Carol Matt was intercepting her texts and emails.”
He sat back calmly. “That confirms what I pretty much expected. Was Heather afraid of him?”
“That’s the odd thing. Carol said no, not at all. She wasn’t overly concerned. Carol was, but Heather assured her he was nothing but good to her. Said she loved him and felt she could live with overprotectiveness, just didn’t like his flirting.”
“Flirting?”
“Yeah, evidently, despite her beauty, Carol said Heather was insecure.”
Ally stopped and finished her coffee, tossed the empty cup in the trash and folded her hands on the table.
“What confused Heather was Matt was the one who sent her videotapes to the producers in Atlanta,” she finally told him.
“Matt sent them?”
“Yes. He got her the job. Heather thought he was trying to get rid of her, gently. Suspected he was seeing another woman.”
“What made her think that?”
“Something he said one night. While half asleep.”
Giff looked away and then back, not sure he wanted to hear. “What?” he finally asked.
“Heather told Carol he said, ‘No one will ever lay a hand on you, Emma.’ ”
Giff lowered his eyes, thoughtfully. It could have been worse.
“Giff, Carol put her hand on my arm and asked me if he was talking about our Emma. I had to outright lie to her. I don’t know if she believed me, but Carol would never say anything to anyone and neither can you. You can’t tell Emma.”
As if he would. He edged back in his chair and said nothing.
Ally unfolded her hands and reached into her purse for her keys. “Tell me the truth. Do you think he’s in love with her? Why in God’s name did he send that suicide letter to everyone? It’s strange. As if, well, why did he really send it?”