I couldn’t read it this morning. All I could do was watch, anxious, biting my nonexistent fingernails past the quick, checking my watch every five minutes because I had to get to the grand jury. But I’d spent the last two months doing everything I could to avoid being seen by any of them, particularly after Chris was arrested. Today, of all days, I didn’t want to break that streak.
It wasn’t easy to avoid being seen, living across a narrow street with kids who needed to be taken to school, and groceries that needed to be purchased, and the outside that needed to be visited so I didn’t lose my mind. The journalists made it easier. Their constant presence gave me the excuse I needed to lay low, depending on Daniel and Susan and delivery services. I’d leave to run with Sandy under the cover of darkness, once they’d gone home for the night. Daniel didn’t want me to run alone, so I hired a trainer who met me two blocks away and ran with me up the path along the embankment.
When I got back from my nightly runs, I read everything I could about the case. I had to remove my MySanity settings to do it, but I felt compelled to understand everything I could about how the penal system worked in Cincinnati.
I learned a lot of things in those hours between ten and midnight, when I’d finally drag myself to bed and into Daniel’s waiting arms. For instance, it was the detectives who decided to charge Chris, kindly Detective Grey and his sidekick. They thought Chris ran Ashley down deliberately, upset over the fact that they’d broken up again and that Ashley was keeping time with an older kid, one who’d been a few years ahead of them at school. Their text history told quite a tale, apparently, of manipulation and hurt and some veiled threats from Chris about what he’d do to her one day if she kept pushing his buttons.
Because he wasn’t yet sixteen when the accident happened, he was originally put through juvenile court, but the judge, a newly appointed law-and-order type, decided Chris should be tried as an adult. He was released under the care of his parents, with strict instructions regarding where he could go and when.
The grand jury should’ve been a simple affair. It usually took only an hour or two, a few witnesses and a quick yes or no. When I’d received the summons to testify, I was surprised. I expected to testify at the trial if there was one, but what did they need with me now? I called the prosecutor’s office, and the chief was nice enough to answer my questions.
Because Heather was one of the potential witnesses, they agreed to let me arrive at a specific time and come in the back way. My gut might be telling me that Heather had let me go, but my brain—and Daniel’s—didn’t want to take a risk. An assistant met me at the side door, her hair twisted on top of her head with a pencil through it, and we went up in the elevator with a man in a striped jumpsuit who had the craziest look in his eyes. I squeezed over to the farthest corner and tried not to smell the prison odor that was filling up the small space.
I went into the grand jury room the back way, too, through the employee entrance. I did the best I could recounting the jumble of that day. I’m not entirely sure what I said, whether it made sense, whether it matched up with the others or was its own bizarre tale.
But I was clear about one thing: there was no way this was anything but an accident.
I was unwavering in that belief, even after I was asked, like Detective Grey had asked a few weeks ago, whether I’d seen Chris that day as I ran along Church Street and turned onto Pine. The prosecutor explained why he was asking: they thought Chris had parked his mother’s car at the top of the street and waited. Someone had seen him there, but they wouldn’t tell me who. So, he hadn’t rounded the corner and been blinded by the sun and come unexpectedly up against Ashley; he’d been waiting for her, and then put the car into drive when he saw her in the street.
That was their theory, anyway.
I had another one I didn’t share with the grand jury.
Chris hadn’t been aiming for Ashley.
He’d been aiming for me.
I’d scarred his face and gotten too close to his father and brought out the worst in Chris, and in Ashley. They were the only candidates for the shit left on my doorstep, and the headless doll and the hang-ups. Perhaps he’d seen some of the e-mails or texts between John and me and assumed the worst. That would explain why he was so upset in the park when he saw us together. Why he’d chosen to run away from Ashley—whom he certainly hadn’t been broken up with, not that day—rather than be anywhere near me.
I don’t think he thought about what he was doing. I don’t think he intended for me to die. I think he was sitting in that car, a half block from his house, because he didn’t know what to do. But when he saw me there, trying to comfort Ashley, with his father again, without his mother around, I can understand why he might have slipped the car into gear, wanting it all to stop. And then, an inexperienced driver, he lost control as he struck first one speed bump and then another, hitting the gas instead of the brake, as John had told me, once, that he was prone to do.
That I could believe.
But those detectives, they’d seen so much grief. They’d seen so much hurt inflicted by ones who claimed to love their victims. It was their job to imagine all the possibilities, and to put together a picture from what people admitted and what they did not.
I’m sure Chris hadn’t helped himself. That kid was a bundle of secrets, keeping in almost more than he could hold. And while everyone has something to hide, he was driving the car, and a girl was dead, and Cindy, when she came out of a medication fog I had nothing but sympathy for, was out for blood.
I couldn’t say all of that to the grand jury, but I did what I could. I told them I’d seen love between Ashley and Chris in the park that day, that he’d run away because he was in trouble, not because they were fighting, that he was a good kid who’d suffered enough. That I hadn’t seen him waiting in his car at the top of the street, though I’d been right there, and I would’ve noticed him. That if they’d been there, if they knew the players involved, they couldn’t think anything other than that it was all a horrible mistake. So, please, I said, don’t make him suffer any more.
I put all the skill I learned in my year doing jury trials into those last statements, my closing argument, if you will. There’s a tie that binds a speaker to the listeners, a thread you can tug if you want to. I turned my head a fraction with every phrase, making eye contact with each member of the jury, and felt that old pull of conviction.
My words might’ve been simple, but the message underneath was clear: when you’re left alone later today to decide the fate of a sixteen-year-old kid, remember my voice, remember my certainty, make it your own.
It was the most I could do, and then I was whisked out the back way and brought to my car. I turned on the GPS and let the robotic voice direct me home. Daniel was there with the twins when I got back, a welcome distraction. And then he gave me one more thing to think about, a proposal of how to change things, a choice he wanted me to make.
I resisted for a moment, but then I agreed. What Daniel was saying made sense, and we have enough money so that it can all be taken care of easily, painlessly even, by others.
At least on the outside.
Now I sit on the window seat while Daniel makes calls. Soon I’ll have to get up and help him, which I’ll be able to do, wholly and completely, when I know that everything is right. That everything is as it should be.
Headlights cut up the street.
I come up on my knees, watching the scene as if I’m a child seeing Santa appear with his reindeer-driven sleigh.
John’s Prius slows and turns into their driveway. He cuts the engine, but there’s no sound anyway. They don’t immediately exit the car, but their front door bursts open and Becky runs out, tripping down the stairs and ripping open the back door. She’s bouncing up and down with excitement, so I know the news must be good. My heart fills with gladness as my hands touch the glass. It’s cold, although the room is warm. I shiver.
Becky pulls Chris from the car and hugs him. John and
Hanna get out, and they’re all hugging. Hanna’s crying, Becky’s crying, Chris looks bewildered and terribly sad. John looks relieved, and something else I think I recognize because I feel the same way.
Ashamed.
We did this, him and me. From a conversation that went on too long on our cracked street a year ago, all the way up to that horrible morning. If we’d pulled back, kept a neighborly distance, none of this would have come to pass.
None of these lives would have been fractured.
I will have to try to make up for that for the rest of my life.
But at least there’s this: Chris is free. The grand jury saw sense and decided to let him go and move on with his life, if he can after what’s happened. Across the street, the Dunbars are having, as far as circumstances can allow, a beautiful moment as a family.
And yet, a small part of me is waiting until they all go inside and then trying to find some excuse, some way, to speak to John. To let him know I did my part. To be, perhaps, forgiven.
I want to do this, but I will not.
Instead, I will peel my hands away from the glass and let the curtain fall back into place.
I will turn back to my family and help Daniel start to pack the things we’ll need in our new life, far away from here.
I resolve that things will be different next time. Wherever we end up, I’ll be more careful, more cautious, about whom I place my faith in. Or I will open my arms to those around me, but I’ll make sure my welcoming self is open to those who cannot tear my life apart, who do not pose a threat to my peace, and whose peace I cannot threaten.
Tomorrow, I’ll leave John an explanation for all of this. I’ll leave him a printout of the novel I’m finishing even now. And he’ll read it and understand, or he’ll ignore it and forget.
And that will be okay. That will be fine, because he has his family back, and I have mine.
In the end, we were a hurricane wind in each other’s lives. But a year from now, we’ll already have forgotten each other, life rubbing away at our memories until they fit whatever narrative we need them to.
Only you will be left to judge.
Were we innocent?
Were we guilty?
You tell me . . .
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Each novel is its own journey. Some take a long time to come to life; others happen more quickly. I cannot truthfully say that, even after six novels, I know when I start writing a book that it will all turn out okay, or how long it will take. Each day is an adventure, and that keeps things interesting.
One thing that is constant, though, is the circle of support around me. My friends—with a special shout-out to Tasha, Tanya, and particularly Sara, who both supported and taught me much this last year—my family, the wonderful writing community I’ve become a part of, and you, dear reader.
For the baking of this cake, special thanks go out to:
My sister, Cam, for reading it as I wrote it, and for the last-minute trip to Cincinnati to help make sure I had as many details right as possible. Any errors as to geography, or anything else, are mine alone, a product of my imagination, or I meant to get it wrong. Ahem.
Kathleen McLeary, Lisa Blackmann, Jamie Mason, and Mary Kubica for reading early drafts and providing encouragement. Therese Walsh for constant moral support, and texts that make me laugh. Shawn Klomparens, Wilma Ring, and my brother-in-law, Scott, for their Ohio knowledge. The members of the Fiction Writers Co-Op for being my watercooler. My mother for checking for typos. And all the writers who’ve been kind enough to blurb this book—your generosity is humbling.
My agent, Abigail Koons, to whom this book is dedicated, for making it possible for me to have this amazing career. Thank you.
Tara Parsons for acquiring this book, and her general enthusiasm about my writing. Jodi Warshaw for her excellent editorial guidance. The amazing team at Lake Union for continuing to put my books front and center and help me find new readers, including Dennelle Catlette in publicity, and the Lake Union author team. And a special shout-out to Jeff Umbro and Kathleen Zrelack at Goldberg McDuffie for helping get the word out.
My assistant, Carolyn, who clears the decks so I have time to write.
To my amazing grandmother, Dorothy Lillian Delay, who turned one hundred this past January, and who, in the year since my grandfather’s death (at age ninety-six, and after almost seventy-five years of marriage), has shown me—again—what real courage and strength of character are. I hope you keep kicking ass for as long as possible.
To Steven Tolbert at the Cincinnati Prosecutor’s Office, who was kind enough to take my questions and show me a real grand jury room. Any deviance from real grand jury procedure is either my mistake or a victim of the requirements of plot.
And to my husband, David, who has stuck by me through thick and thin.
I’m writing this note on January 1, 2016. Ten years ago today—on January 1, 2006—I opened a Word file and started writing . . . I didn’t know what. Six months later, I had a book, of sorts, something I’d never set out to write, but I’d had a tremendous time doing. That book wasn’t good enough to publish, but it opened a door to one that was. Ten years—and six novels later—I’m grateful I listened to myself that day and wrote down what was in my head. Because I did, I’ve met many people who’ve become close friends, traveled to places I never would’ve been, and learned things about myself that might otherwise have been locked away forever.
I can’t imagine what the next ten years will bring, and for that I am immensely grateful.
BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS
Fractured begins with John at his front window, spying on the house across the street. What is it about living in close proximity to someone else that gives people the need to know what is going on in their lives? Have you ever been “caught looking”?
Julie and her family initially tried to fit in to their new neighborhood in Cincinnati but were not very successful. Why do you think that is? Was there really something about Julie that was just “off”?
What did you think of Cindy? Why does everyone in the neighborhood seem to kowtow to her? What power does she hold over them?
When famous people have stalkers, the public sometimes lacks compassion or treats it as a normal side effect of celebrity. Did you feel bad for Julie? Did she “deserve” all that unwanted attention just because she wrote a bestselling novel?
Julie began to experience more “stalking” behaviors once she moved to Cincinnati, including prank phone calls, and the mutilation of her daughter’s doll. At one point, Daniel thought that Julie was doing these things herself—a sort of Munchausen syndrome with phone pranks instead of faked physical ailments. Did you think Julie was faking it? What do you think of Daniel hiring a private investigator to look into his wife’s behavior?
What did you think of John’s character? He calls himself an “asshole” for having feelings for Julie, and does some questionable things throughout the novel, including coming on to Julie and giving alcohol to a recovering alcoholic. Yet we also see him as a caring father and husband. Is it rare to find characters in novels who are similar to how we are in real life—not all good, but not all bad, either?
Throughout the novel we know something tragic has happened, but not to whom or how. What did you think happened prior to the final reveal? What tricks did the author use to make you think that?
When Julie’s book became successful, she started a secret bank account so that her husband wouldn’t feel emasculated by how much money she was making. He was clearly uncomfortable on the vacation they took to Mexico, knowing that he couldn’t have afforded to bring his family there on his own income. Why do you think this double standard persists?
Do you think Chris intended to run over Julie that morning? Ashley? Or was it truly an accident? If he had intended to run over Julie, should he still be punished for killing Ashley?
People assumed that the main character in Julie’s book was based on her, and/or that she had some involvement in K
athryn’s death because she wrote a book about something similar. While the old admonition to “write what you know” often holds true, why do we jump to the conclusion that what an author writes about is autobiographical? Is there anything in Fractured that you think might have really happened in Catherine McKenzie’s life?
Q&A WITH MARY KUBICA
Mary Kubica is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of The Good Girl and Pretty Baby. She holds a bachelor of arts degree in history and American literature from Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, and lives outside Chicago with her husband and two children.
Julie and John are both the perfect characters to spearhead the novel Fractured, though many others play a prominent role. Why did you choose Julie and John to narrate this tale?
I liked the idea of showing the same events from two different perspectives, one an insider and one a newcomer. John’s voice came to me quickly—the first chapter is the first thing I wrote basically intact, but I always knew that Julie would be the central figure in the book.
Julie is an author, and your inclusion of the fine points of an author’s life (meeting daily word counts or stumbling upon a stranger with her book in hand, for example) is spot-on. Is Julie purely a fictional character, or do you find any of your own tendencies in her?
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