“I could have died,” I say.
“Yes. You could have.”
I rise, and as I stand over him, he doesn’t seem so big anymore. He’s more pitiful than evil.
“You can’t protect me,” I say. “You never could. Safety is an illusion.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“There’s no getting out of this. I don’t even know what you did last night…where you…where she is. But Peter and Willow must be missing her. They must have called.”
“Peter called,” my father says. “I told him she left here angry, but I assumed she drove back home.” He looks up at me, fatigue wearing heavy on his face. “And you’re right, there may be no getting out of this one.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
There’re things I want to ask him. I want to ask what he did with Cora, if she’s buried in the same place as Caleb. I want to know why Cora became who she became and if he had anything to do with it.
But my need to understand is overpowered by my burning desire to remove Max and me from this family forever. I don’t want to run from the law. I want to run from my name.
“I’m done with this family,” I say. “Forever.”
The squint, the perpetual squint, for once softens and his eyes widen, like a baby taking in the world for the first time. His pupils are dark, nearly charcoal. But there is an ounce of emotion in my father’s face. Maybe it’s a mirage induced by all the stress heaped on my system, but I think I see emotion.
Sadness.
A soft, poignant, painful sadness, one unable to hide behind his usual mask of resolve. The look of a man who’s fought for everything all his life, only to find death still ultimately comes. And comes hard.
“Is that really what you want, Rosie?”
I don’t hesitate with my answer. “So bad I can taste it.”
“Do you dream of disappearing?”
A strange question, but easy to answer. “Like I dream of selling a million books.”
“You can’t have both,” he says. “You can’t be a famous author and be off the grid.”
“I’m not selling a million books anytime soon.”
He stands, using obvious effort. Takes a step, leans into me. I don’t pull away. He kisses my forehead. Once. Then pulls back.
I think, just maybe, that’s the only kiss he’s ever given me.
“If that’s the case,” he says, “then I want you to run. Take your boy and run.”
“What?”
“I haven’t led the cleanest life, Rose. Obviously you know some substantial reasons why, others you don’t. But I always had a plan for us. A way to get out.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You, me, Cora. A parachute cord set up for each of us.”
“What the hell is a parachute cord?”
“A phone number,” he says. “Actually, three phone numbers. One for each of us. Three different agents, each unrelated to the other.”
“Agents for what?”
He shrugs. “A new life.”
Sixty-One
My father walks over to the bookshelves, pulls out a volume that sits at eye level. A hardcover of Gone with the Wind. He opens it and removes three slips of paper, looks at them, puts two slips back, then shelves the book.
“I’ve had these numbers for twenty-two years and pay annual retainers to keep them active. There was always something…comforting about knowing I could up and disappear without a trace if I wanted. A complete sense of freedom.” He turns, walks over, stands eye to eye with me. “Funny thing is, whenever I think there might be a need to use these numbers, I don’t want to go anywhere. I always want to stay and fight whatever threat I’m facing.”
He hands me the slip of paper. There’s a phone number typed on it. Long number, international. Above the number is a single word, written in my father’s hand.
Rosie.
“If you stay and everything comes out,” I say, “you’ll go to prison.”
He smiles, such a rare and unsettling thing. “No, no. I won’t be going to prison. Even if I get arrested, I can afford a lawyer who will get me out on bail. I’ll put a gun in my mouth long before I do any jail time. Maybe in my favorite chair.”
My father isn’t prone to hyperbole. I believe everything he’s telling me, and I can’t find the empathy to argue against his plan.
“And who knows?” he continues. “Maybe I’ll use my phone number. Maybe I’ll end up running after all.”
I shake the slip of paper. “So you expect me to call this number and disappear?”
He nods. “I do. You and Max. I have no actual idea what happens when you call, but whoever answers that phone will tell you everything you need to do. Their job is to make sure your history as Rose Yates will end, and no one will ever find you unless you want them to. You’ll be set up with enough money to be comfortable for at least twenty years, if you’re sensible about it.”
“I don’t want to disappear,” I say. “And I don’t even have a phone to call with if I wanted to.”
“Get a burner phone,” he says. “Then make the call.”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong.”
He sees right through my naivete. “We’ve all done something wrong.”
“I didn’t kill Caleb. And Cora…that was self-defense. That’s not how I wanted that to end.” I believe my words, so why does it feel like I’m lying?
“I know. But there are other wrongs. There’s Riley.”
He catches my gaze, daring me to look away. I don’t. What does he see? Guilt or innocence? The truth or obfuscation?
He doesn’t even bother to wait for an answer. “I suppose only you know the truth about your husband. Still, Rosie, you stayed silent about a lot of things, and that’s conspiracy. With the storm that’s going to be coming over your sister’s disappearance, I imagine it’s only a matter of time before all your excuses add up to jack shit in the eyes of the law.”
“I’m not disappearing.”
“Oh, no one ever wants to disappear. Everyone wants to be in control of their own fate. It’s very difficult to concede the innate powerlessness we all have. It’s far better to manage your lack of control rather than to deny it exists.”
This is Logan Yates, Art of War, talking now.
“Tell me something,” he continues. “Back after the Caleb incident.”
“It was more than a fucking incident, Dad.”
He waves this off. “The day after the incident, your sister was questioned. Here. In this house. What do you remember?”
I think back, but it’s like trying to discern shapes through foot-thick glass. “It’s blurry.”
“You were nearly catatonic. I cut Cora’s interview off before it was over, and I thanked god the cop didn’t talk to you. At one point, you ran off to the bathroom and vomited.”
That I remember.
“I yelled at the detective,” he says, “complaining he was harassing my daughter after she was already upset about the disappearance of a classmate. He backed off because, well, let’s face it, I’ve always been good at intimidation. But I thought he’d be back, which is the reason I set up those three phone numbers to begin with.”
“But the cops didn’t come back.”
He shrugs his shoulders. “I think I overestimated how guilty your sister looked during her interview. No, he didn’t come back. But murder never goes away. Not ever.”
The word murder crawls all over my skin, looking for an opening to get deeper inside.
“But now I think we have run out of time and luck,” he says. “If you want a chance to be free, you need to make that call.”
Silence settles. Here we are, looking at each other, daughter and father, and I feel a profound certainty I’m never going to see him ag
ain. I can see it in his eyes, and I’m sure he sees it in mine.
“Pack a bag,” he says. “One for you, one for Max, no more than that. Then take the car. I put some cash in the glove compartment. Get Max, drive to Boston, and park in the Central Parking Garage at Logan Airport. Those are the only instructions I have. Once you’re parked, call the number. Do what they instruct you to do.”
I don’t tell him again I have no intention of disappearing. I don’t think my father can comprehend a person’s willingness to face the consequences for things they’ve done. It’s taken me twenty-two years to understand it myself, but this is where I am. However I think I can justify my past, I have done things. Bad things. Worse than some people, not as awful as others. Yet I see a future for myself. A future where I’ve paid for my wrongs and live life free from prolonged guilt.
Like Clara Tomson, I think.
Free from thoughts of the suicide rainbow. Maybe even free from the dreams that haunt me.
And maybe this is some chemical in my brain, some compound the body generates to battle extreme anxiety, but standing here in this room of death, staring at the man who raised me and now wants me to disappear forever, I have a sudden, irrational, and blissful belief everything will be fine. The truth about Caleb and Cora will come out, and it will be months or even years of stressful legal and emotional struggles, but in the end, I’ll be fine. Cora will be revealed for the person she was, and maybe even more of her crimes will be unearthed. I won’t be taken away from Max. We’ll be the people we’ve always wanted to be.
I’m not even worried about Detective Pearson and his quixotic obsession with Riley’s death. There’s nothing they can prove. If there were, I’d be arrested by now.
I could be completely delusional, but I cling to this fantasy for as long as it agrees to swirl inside my head.
“So what are you going to do?” I ask my father. “Right now. Today.”
He looks around, as if the answer is supposed to be written on the wall for him. Then he turns and says, “You know what? I think I’m going to sleep. I’m going to have a drink and then go to bed. Fuck work.”
“Good for you,” I say.
As he turns and reaches for the bottle of single-malt whiskey and pours a splash into the shimmering crystal glass, a little of Logan Yates crumbles away, like a once-impenetrable fortress eroding with time and neglect.
“Pretty early in the morning,” I say.
“I never slept,” he answers. “Far as I’m concerned, it’s still night.”
He walks back and sits in his chair, this time fully upright. In command. He takes a sip of his drink, closes his eyes for a moment, and a faint rush of color comes to his cheeks.
“Mmm,” he says.
“Don’t leave this room until I’m gone,” I say.
“Why?”
I look him up and down. Logan Yates. My father. Drink in hand, in his favorite chair, surrounded by books he’s never read but desperately wants people to think he has.
“Because this is how I want to remember you. Just like this.”
“Rosie, I’m not going anywhere.” With that, he raises his glass to me. I hate him but want to tell him I love him. But there are no I love you’s in this house. Not even if it might be the last thing you ever say to each other.
Petrified wood, this Yates family tree.
I turn and walk away.
Once I’m out of the study, I have a sudden and altogether different energy. Frantic, mixed with a bit of excitement. Freedom.
I’m getting the hell out of here.
Sixty-Two
Up the stairs, first to Max’s room, then to mine. I throw things into our suitcases, packing them tight. Rush back to the kitchen to grab a couple of Hefty bags for the overflow, the things we’ve acquired since being back in Bury. There’s no order to anything, and it doesn’t bother me in the least.
Finished.
I take everything to the garage, load up the black Suburban. The keys are already in the ignition. I go to the passenger side and open the glove compartment.
There’s not just a little money inside. There are four rubber-banded stacks, each at least an inch and a half thick. I take the top one and flip through them. All hundreds.
Christ. I don’t know how much is here, but more than I’ve ever held.
In the driver’s seat, I place my hands on the steering wheel and take a few deep breaths. Do I have everything? Purse, keys, and all our bags thrown in the back. And money. Lots of money.
My pulse pounds like I’m running away, but I’m not. I just want to get away from this house. I’ll go pick up Max, and then we’ll start the long drive to Milwaukee. What happens from there? The only certainty I have is I’ll finally be done running away.
I back out over the soft padding of snow in the driveway and into the street.
One last look at 1734 Rum Hill Road. The place I grew up too fast.
Good riddance.
I shift into drive and lurch forward, and as I roll along the blanketed street, I don’t even look in the mirror.
The driving is slow; the quiet residential streets haven’t yet been plowed. All the rooftops breathe steam into the freezing morning air. I want to push the pedal down, race as fast as I can to Max, but I’ll do my son little good if I kill myself trying to reach him.
I make it to Alec’s house in one piece, park in the street next to the patch of grass where three months ago I tripped and fell in front of him. The grass is now dormant, covered in snow, and the tree Alec was pruning that day has only a few remaining leaves, holdouts that will lose their grips before too long.
I ring the bell, my stomach doing flips.
Alec opens the door, flannel pants and a baby-blue V-neck T-shirt, the picture of softness and warmth. We all live our own inner turmoil, but if Alec has any, I cannot see it, not now, not here. I see a man who has a snow day, just like his boy. I picture them playing board games by the fire after downing a stack of pancakes and, when they get the energy, donning layers to venture out and make a snow fort. I see a man who’s my friend and maybe could have been my lover. I see a human being with whom I could share the truth.
For once, I just want to tell the truth.
But I won’t, not now, not yet, so I don’t, and the weight of that must show on my face, for he looks at me with questioning eyes and asks if I’m okay.
No, I tell him. I’m not. Not now, not yet.
I walk inside, making no small talk because the idea of wasted words is unbearable in the moment. If I can’t confide in him, I at least won’t diminish whatever relationship we have with idle chatter. He lets the silence last, and I’m awash with a belief that this is a man with whom I could have shared a forever love.
The beauty and the sadness of it all.
Max races from the living room and hugs me.
“I called last night,” he says. “You didn’t answer.”
Because Cora shattered my phone before I shattered her. Another torch of bile rises in my throat, and I swallow it down.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I was scared.”
I don’t console him as I normally would because I’m already holding enough fear for both of us. “I’m sure there was nothing to be scared of,” I say.
“I…I just don’t like it when you’re away.”
“I’m here now, and we need to get going.”
Winter jacket zipped up over pajamas. Boots pulled over bare feet. Max thinks we’re going back to Rum Hill Road, and I say nothing to him yet. A fresh outfit waits for him in the Suburban.
I tell him to go out and get into the car, that I’ll be there in just a moment. He doesn’t argue.
At the front doorway of Alec’s house, I hear cartoons from the other room, knowing Micah must be plopped in front of a screen, zoned out, happy and safe.
I have one foot inside the house and one foot out, and if that’s not some kind of metaphor for my life, then I don’t know what is. Alec stands a few feet inside the foyer, smiling, though his eyes betray concern. He asks me if his promise held. That things would turn out okay for me.
I tell him I don’t yet know the answer to that, but I hope so.
He asks if I want to talk about anything.
Yes, I tell him. But I can’t. Not right now.
I step back in and kiss him, lightly, a brush of the lips, for if I pressed any harder, I might not ever leave. I thank him for letting Max stay here.
No worries, he says.
I almost laugh. Every molecule of my being is some kind of worry. I struggle to remind myself that just before coming here, I was convinced everything would be okay.
I stare at Alec a moment longer, reach out, and grab his hand. He grabs me back.
I take a deep breath, and when I let it out, I tell Alec I’m leaving and never coming back.
If this surprises him, I don’t see it.
I ask him if he’d ever think about getting into a car and driving west. The Midwest, specifically. Maybe to visit me, or if he could ever figure out some kind of custody plan, maybe to move there with Micah. I say I know it’s a selfish thing to ask, but all I’m looking for is an answer, not a promise. I just want to know if I’m allowed to hold on to that little bit of hope, something to cling to during the upcoming time of struggle.
He answers with just two words, and ones that don’t form an empty promise.
Anything’s possible.
I soak in his response for a few seconds, letting it warm me.
Then I say goodbye and leave, because I simply have to.
The Dead Husband Page 26