by Ann Aguirre
“Yes, I was fifteen. Yes, it was consensual.”
As it turns out, Morgan wasn’t old enough to consent. Even if she said yes, it doesn’t count. The two cops talk in hushed tones, supposedly out of my earshot, about statutory rape and child enticement charges. Since I agree that Creepy Jack needs to be punished, I let the words wash over me like vindication. If I suffer, so will he.
More questions follow. I answer everything. I can’t always give them dates but sometimes I can. This is normal, the social worker says. She tries to show empathy with a kind expression, but the throbbing between my eyes makes it impossible for me to appreciate her efforts. We break for lunch, which I can’t eat for an encyclopedia of reasons, then they resume the interrogation.
“Are you willing to testify?” Officer Gutierrez finally asks.
“It may be difficult,” the social worker adds.
I nod.
Whatever Morgan intended initially, this is what I’m doing with her plan. She was too tired to see this through, so I’ll carry it for her and for every girl who ever got her head screwed up by a distant father and then went looking for some man, any man, to fill the silence.
Everything passes. I can do this.
“That’s all we need for now, Miss Frost.” Officer Gutierrez tells me a bunch of legal stuff about how the case will proceed and what I can expect next, but I just want to leave.
“We’ll take you home now.”
I take that as my cue and stand. “My car’s still at school. If you could drive me there, that would be great.”
It’s so late that there shouldn’t be anyone around. Even the extracurricular activities will be over. The cops agree to do that, but they want to escort me home. I’m not sure why, maybe to protect me in case Creepy Jack tries something or maybe if the paparazzi descends on Renton. This is a pretty juicy scandal, since I’m underage. I don’t argue; it’s taking all my energy to stay calm and to pretend I don’t feel violated by all those questions. I saw judgment in their faces as I admitted to motel meetings and sneaking out late at night.
My daughter would never, they’re thinking. She’s a good girl. Shit like this doesn’t happen to good girls.
Except it does, and they don’t want us to talk about it. We’re supposed to sweep it under the rug and take prescription medication and make eye contact with people who silently, secretly hurt us. How many dinners have I eaten with my father and Jack Patterson? How many? Nobody ever looks directly at the woman sobbing hysterically on the sidewalk, right? People circle wide and pretend it’s not happening.
I can do this. One breath at a time.
53
I ride in silence back to my car. The cops don’t talk either. They may be worried about going up against Jack Patterson, who’s associated with the most powerful people in the state, but maybe his connections will desert him now that the shit has hit the fan. Maybe he’s sweating alone in his office because nobody will take his calls. Then I think of his wife and children and now I truly am ashamed because they didn’t do anything, but they must be suffering, too.
My phone shows me more awful. A conservative pundit is calling me the Lolita Peach who tempted a good man to his downfall and his chorus is gaining support online. On the site, they’ve posted shots of me in a short skirt, revealing long legs and smooth skin. I don’t even know where this picture came from, but it makes me look like sex on a stick.
What red-blooded man would refuse her? Pyro99 asks.
I’d bone her, TedHead adds.
Way to go, JP! If there’s grass on the field, play ball. From Anonymouse.
Okay, I’m done with the Internet. I switch my phone off. Part of me hoped there would be something from my dad, but his silence is … ominous, like I’m being silently disinherited. Of course, even if that’s true, I have enough in my accounts to pay for college, which is way more than most people have when they’re kicked out.
It will be okay.
When the police car pulls into the school lot, my blue Bug looks lonely. My heart thaws a little when I see Clay propped against the hood. The officers cut me nervous looks as I climb out of the back, once the older one opens the door.
“Do you know him?” Gutierrez asks.
Clay takes two steps forward. “I’m her boyfriend.”
The joy rocket takes flight, dulling my headache. But maybe he’s just saying that because otherwise our relationship is impossible to explain.
“Will you make sure she gets home all right?” Danby, this time.
“Of course.” Clay takes the keys from my nerveless hands and tucks me into the passenger side.
“We’ll be in touch.”
I shut the door, forestalling whatever else they might have said. For now I’ve given all I can to law and order. Clay starts the car and drives, but not toward my house.
“Your place?” I ask.
“When I saw the news and you didn’t answer me, I drove by your house. It’s insane out there. Like, four deputies are on scene trying to keep reporters away from the gate.”
“We’ll probably have to contract some private security,” I say.
But maybe not. There’s always that school in Austria. If I’m gone, I doubt the reporters will bother my dad. They want more shots of the Lolita Peach, not a middle-aged man. Or maybe they want my side of the story, so they can cut and paste the most salacious bits.
“I don’t care what you did,” he says. “Or why you did it. Just know, you don’t deserve any of this.”
Those words feel like balm on a sunburn that was about to cook me alive. I take my first deep breath all day and let them sink in. But I still feel different than I did yesterday, as if strangers are gnawing at pieces of me, leaving … less, somehow. As if sensing I need a distraction, Clay touches my cheek.
I glance over at him. “What you said back there … did you mean it? Or was that just so I could get away?”
He hesitates a fraction too long. “Right now you need me more than Nathan.”
“Screw that,” I growl. “And you. I’m not a bird with a broken wing. Let me be crystal clear—if you’re here because you feel sorry for me, then stop the car and get out.”
He doesn’t. Ignoring me, he drives all the way to his house. But that only makes me madder. I want to fight with him, and that’s probably not fair because I know damn well that I have a day of feeling powerless to work off; Clay is just here.
He’s the only one who is.
That deflates me as he pulls down the alley and parks by the back porch. Then he unfolds the tarp he used to coddle his Corvair with and covers my VW. I realize he’s worried about someone spotting the car. Even after I yelled at him, he’s still trying to protect me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He smiles then. “It would be weird if you were all sunshine today.”
I understand then why he was hesitant to define things between us. Not because of pity or whatever, but … this just isn’t the time. Things are messed up, both because of Nathan and Creepy Jack, and my emotions won’t let me think straight.
“Let’s go inside.” Maybe I’m paranoid, but standing between the two small houses in Renton’s low-rent district is making me feel exposed. My entire body is a raw nerve.
“I’ll make you something to eat.”
“Thanks.”
He fixes scrambled eggs and beans, more than I’ve had all day. I love that my allergies are second nature to him now; he never offers me stuff I can’t eat. The shakes subside as I devour the food. Processing the proteins takes longer but I’ll feel better than if I’d just slammed some candy instead.
“No problem.”
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” I realize aloud.
“I called in. The shop can manage without me for a day.” Clay piles my plate and cup in the sink and then leads me to his room. Due to the shotgun design, there’s only one window and he draws the curtain. “Better?”
“For now. I’m trying not to think of tomorrow o
r the day after. Or the trial. When I turned over the photos, I said I knew what I was in for … but maybe I didn’t. Maybe you can’t really understand until you’re swinging on the meat hook.”
What I love most about Clay is that his eyes are still steady. He doesn’t veer away from my face, and he reaches out to touch me like he’s sure it’s still okay, and I won’t come apart in his hands like a china doll that broke in shipping. I’m not all glass dust and shards of regret; I’m hurting, but I’m not ruined. Things get ruined, not people.
“Sometimes shit is worse than we expect. Sometimes it’s better. And sometimes when you’re trekking through a muddy field, you find wildflowers.” From the sweetness of his smile, I get that’s a metaphor for his life … and meeting me.
I’ve never been anyone’s sudden, secret beauty before. The barbed wire in my chest relaxes, so I can breathe a little better. When he pulls me into his lap, I know this isn’t a sex moment. This is simple human contact, and I’ve never needed it more. No matter what happens from here on out, I will always, always treasure the fact that Clay loved me even for a minute.
He kisses my temples, my brows, my chin. I don’t offer my mouth, but it’s impossible not to snuggle closer. Our bodies were made for this. I touch him like my license for it is about to expire, tracing the lines of his jaw, cheekbones, feathering across his forehead. Clay closes his eyes, but the peace doesn’t last long enough.
Nathan breaks the silence with a scornful laugh. “Oh look, it’s the Lolita Peach. How much do you think they’d pay for my personal encounter?”
Clay is on his feet in an instant, one arm around me protectively. “Nathan.” The name sounds like shots fired.
I step away because I’m not doing this. Whatever’s eating Nathan, I no longer care, nor do I have the energy to fight with him or plead for mercy, which might be what he wants, especially after the shit I said about our hook-up.
“Do what you want,” I say, turning to Clay. “Thanks for being there for me.”
For me, there’s no escape from Morgan’s life. Randall Frost will not discuss my scandal in a police station; it will happen behind closed doors. Considering what surely awaits, I don’t want to leave, but I can’t put it off forever.
It’s time to go home.
54
When I arrive, the estate entrance is miraculously free of reporters. I wonder if the deputies threatened to write them all tickets for blocking the public road or maybe my father used his connections to get them removed. It wouldn’t surprise me if he could mobilize the National Guard. Quaking, I press a button and the iron gates swing open. Part of me suspected they might already be reprogrammed.
As usual, I drive up slowly and park in the garage but nothing about this homecoming feels normal. All the cars are present, so I know my father is home. My unease grows. The strangeness is only exacerbated when I step into the dark house and call out, but nobody answers. Usually Mrs. Rhodes comes looking for me, and dinner should be cooking by now. It’s past six.
Exploring the downstairs, I feel like an intruder. Each room is pristine, but all the lights are off. Finally I tap on the door to the study and receive a quiet, “Come in.”
Shit. He’s in here.
After a steadying breath, I open the door. No lamps have been switched on, so the room is all shadows. With the last glimmers of the sunset shining through the windows, I can make out my father at his desk. His laptop is closed, however, and he doesn’t seem to be working. It’s probably not a good sign that he’s just sitting in the dark.
What am I even supposed to say?
“I’m sorry,” is what comes out.
Though if he asked me, I couldn’t say for what. For shaming him, making bad choices, or sullying my own good name? For at least a minute, though it seems like ten times longer, he nurses the silence like a strong drink.
“I gave Wanda the night off,” he tells me.
Really, it feels more like a warning. No one will be coming to save you.
“Oh.” The silence is deep and wide, a chasm I can’t cross, even with climbing equipment.
“You. And Jack,” he finally grits out.
His teeth are metal gears and his mouth is a machine that wants to grind my flesh to meat and my bones to splinters and dust. There are no words for the anger and disappointment and downright revulsion that slam into me. From head to toe, I tremble because I think I knew this was coming. Morgan had so many secrets, and she hugged them to her chest like body armor.
Why didn’t you tell me?
He should care if I’m all right. Why doesn’t he?
But he’s staring at me like I’m something he found on the bottom of his shoe. No, that’s not quite right. There’s also raw anguish and confusion, but I can’t understand that expression. This is … I don’t know. I can’t make sense of it. If he comes toward me, I’ll run. This doesn’t feel right. Everything about it echoes with wrongness.
“Anyone but him,” he says in a monotone. “It could be anyone but him. Even that worthless Claymore boy. I tolerated him, didn’t I? So why Jack?” But it’s a rhetorical question, I can see he doesn’t want an answer. “It’s always Jack. Just like your mother.”
My mother is dead.
Randall Frost should be angry at Patterson for betraying their friendship and taking advantage of me. He should be shocked. But there never was a bond between them; I see that now. Their association was more a matter of “keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
“It was a mistake,” I whisper.
But that doesn’t appease him. “He’s a monster. I tried so hard to keep this from you, but I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”
“Why doesn’t it?”
You should run now. Morgan’s voice echoes in my head. Run.
Perfume fills the room, that overwhelming scent of citrus and flowers, and by the wild look in his eyes, he smells it too. “Get out,” he snarls, but I don’t know if he’s talking to me, or the ghosts. I’m afraid to find out.
The mansion is huge, so maybe I can hide long enough for help to arrive. The conviction rises that there will be terrible consequences for the way I’ve dishonored the family name, some attempt to cleanse the stain I’ve become. Any moment he’ll say, I’d rather not have a daughter like you. I need to call the nice officers, who would be so surprised that the greatest threat to me is already inside the house.
“She was leaving us,” he tells me in a broken voice. “Running to Jack … because of the baby. I begged her to stay. I said I’d do anything. I offered to acknowledge the child as mine, if she only promised not to see him again.”
Oh shit. He knew. About the affair, about the baby that wasn’t his.
All of my calculations tip over, spread sideways like spilled wine. My heart hammers so loud I can hear the tympanic echo in my eardrums. It nearly deafens me, though not enough to drown out what he’s saying. His voice is relentless.
“But she still packed a bag. She said I didn’t know how to love—that all I cared about was the company and my image. I didn’t mean to hurt her.” His voice drops to a whisper, tempting me to move closer.
But I don’t. I can’t. Fear has frozen my feet to the marble tiles. Hearing his final confession probably doesn’t promise me a bright future. But he doesn’t need me to contribute to this conversation; he’s been waiting ten years to tell someone.
“I only wanted to stop her from leaving. That’s all. My car scraped hers and she veered off the road. Morgan, when she realized I wouldn’t let her go, she sped up. She chose death over staying with me. With us.”
“Ten years ago, you were driving a silver BMW,” I whisper.
He doesn’t acknowledge that, but I remember the damage note from the body shop. I did find evidence, but I didn’t realize it. And maybe what he’s saying is true, or she panicked when the tree came hurtling at her, hitting the gas instead of the brake. Or possibly, he’s twisted everything in his head so he’s not responsible for her death.
I’ll never be sure what happened on that deserted road, if he murdered her or if it was an accident.
I only know he did his best to cover it up all these years. That doesn’t speak of innocence.
“I could’ve lived with anything else,” he says. “But not you and Jack. Not Jack and my daughter.”
Once more I’m reduced to property. Jack’s lover. Randall’s daughter. It’s like it doesn’t even occur to him that I’m a person.
As he stares at me, something crystalizes in his gaze and then he unlocks the drawer I failed to get into when I searched his office. Out comes a small box. He opens it and produces a gun. I don’t know what kind because it’s dark and weapons aren’t my thing. I turn to run then, but the click of the safety being removed stops me in my tracks.
I’m afraid to face him. So I don’t see what happens next.
I only hear him whisper, “Don’t tell, Morgan. You can never tell.”
The gun goes off.
I scream then, and life floods back into my locked arms and legs. I stumble toward the desk and find my father slumped over. There’s not as much blood as the movies lead you to believe when a man shoots himself in the head with a small-caliber pistol. Before I touch him, I know he’s dead.
My knees collapse, dumping me on the floor nearby. There are pictures in my head now, things I didn’t want to remember. Morgan sensed how her father found it hard to look at her after her mother died. There were no hugs, no tenderness. Despite what I read, I’m sure—the situation with Creepy Jack wasn’t how she tried to frame it. That wasn’t her plan, only what happened to her. Lonely girl, disturbed man, plus the slow, awful seduction of it, and her love-hate relationship with him, the sense of never being able to fill her mother’s shoes—I understand why she couldn’t hold on, why it was too much. Her whole life was an open wound, wrapped in red cellophane so nobody could ever see her bleed.
Not even me.
She was so, so alone. And I failed her. That message from beyond I found on her computer? It was a sign she was thinking about the end, and that she wanted people to hate instead of pity her if they read how cold she was in her own words. But she wasn’t.