The Secret Between Us

by Barbara Delinsky

  Deborah nodded, but didn’t want to discuss it in front of her daughter. Once in the car, Grace put her head back and closed her eyes.

  Deborah started driving. “Was the test bad?”

  “The test wasn’t the problem.”

  “How’d they find out about the accident?”

  “There was an announcement in homeroom.”

  “Saying that it was our car that hit him?”

  Grace said nothing, but Deborah could piece together the answer. The school wouldn’t have said it, but Mack Tully would have told Marty Stevens, who told his kids, who told the kids on their school bus, who told all the kids on the steps of the school. And that wasn’t counting the phone calls Shelley Wyeth would have made en route from the bakery to work. Even Darcy LeMay, who lived in another town, had heard about the accident. Gossip was that way, spreading with the frightening speed of a virulent flu.

  “Are they asking you questions?”

  “They don’t have to. I hear them anyway.”

  “It was an accident,” Deborah said, as much to herself as to Grace.

  The girl opened her eyes. “What if they take your license away?”

  “They won’t.”

  “What if they charge you with something?”

  “They won’t.”

  “Did they tell you that at the police station?”

  “I haven’t been yet. I’m going there after I drop you home.” Her daughter’s expression flickered. “And no, you can’t come.”

  Grace closed her eyes again. This time, Deborah let her be.

  The Leyland police department was housed next to Town Hall in a small brick structure that held three large offices and a single cell. There were twelve men on the force, eight of them full-time, which was all that the town of ten thousand needed. Domestic quarrels, drunk driving, the occasional petty theft—that was the extent of its crime.

  As she came in, Deborah was greeted warmly by people she had known most of her life. There were brief mentions of kids, aging parents, and a ballot initiative concerning the sale of wine in supermarkets, but there was also an averted look or two.

  John Colby led her to his office. Bright as he was, physically imposing as he could be, John was a shy man, more prone to seeking insight than to attacking investigations head-on. He was also modest, happier to be taping off an accident scene than to be hanging official commendations on his wall. Other than a large clock and some framed photographs of police outings, the office was unadorned.

  John closed the door, took some forms from the desk, and passed them to her. “It’s pretty straightforward,” he said. “Take it home, fill it out, return it when you’re done.”

  “I don’t have to do it here?”

  He waved his hand. “Nah. We know you won’t be skipping town.”

  “Not quite,” Deborah murmured, glancing through the form. There were three pages, all requiring details. Time and privacy would help. “Do you have the results of any of the tests yet?”

  “Only the ones on your car. It looks like everything was in good working order. No cause for negligence there.”

  So much for the local garage, but Deborah’s real concern was with the state’s report. “When will you hear about the rest?”

  “A week, maybe two if the lab is backed up. Some of the analysis involves mathematical calculations. They can be pretty complex.”

  “It was only an accident,” she said.

  He leaned against the desk. “This is just a formality. We’re mandated to investigate, so we investigate.”

  “I’ve dedicated my life to helping people, not hurting them. I feel responsible for Calvin McKenna.” That was the truth, though it did nothing to change John’s assumption that Deborah was driving—and even here, with a man she knew and trusted, she couldn’t mention Grace’s name. Instead, frustrated, she said, “What in the world was he doing out there?”

  “We haven’t been able to ask him that, yet,” John said. “But we will. In the meanwhile, you fill out that form. You have to file three copies.”

  “Three?” she asked in dismay.

  “One with us, one with your insurance company, one with the Registry of Motor Vehicles. It’s the law.”

  “Does this go on my driving record?”

  “RMV keeps your report on file.”

  “I’ve never had an accident before. You saw the damage to the car. It isn’t much. I doubt I’ll even exceed my deductible.”

  “You still have to file a copy with the insurance company. When personal injury is involved, you’re required to do it. If Cal McKenna isn’t insured, he may go after you for medical costs, and if he sues, your insurance company will have to pay.”

  Deborah had thought her father an alarmist when he mentioned a possible lawsuit. John Colby’s mentioning it was something else. “Do you really think he’ll sue?” she asked. “What with the rain? His lack of reflective gear? What kind of case could he have?”

  “That depends on what the reconstruction team finds,” the police chief said with a glance at the phone. “I’ll let you know when the report comes in.” His round face softened. “How’s your daughter handling things?”

  “Not well,” Deborah said, able to be honest about this at least. “I had to pick her up from school a little while ago. She’s traumatized, and the talk there doesn’t help.”

  “What are the other kids saying?”

  “I don’t know. She won’t tell me much.”

  “She’s at that age,” John said, head bowed. “It’s hard. They want responsibility until they have it. By the way,” he added, scratching his upper lip, then looking at her, “I should warn you. McKenna’s wife called me this morning. She could be a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “She’s pretty upset. She wants to make sure we’re not letting you off easy just because you’re so well regarded in town. She’s the reason you need to get your insurance company up to speed. She’s angry.”

  “So am I,” Deborah burst out. “He shouldn’t have been running in the dark. Did she say what he was doing?”

  “No. Apparently she wasn’t home when he left the house. But don’t worry. We’ll do our investigation, and no one’ll ever say we favored one side or the other.” He tapped the desk and stood. “If I keep you much longer, I’ll get flack from my men. You’re seeing Officer Bowdoin’s new baby this afternoon. He’s pretty excited about the kid.”

  Deborah managed a smile. “So am I. I love newborn visits.”

  “You’re good to do it.”

  “It’ll be the highlight of my day.” She rose with the accident report in hand. “When do you need this back?”

  She had five days from the time of the crash to file a report, but from the minute she left the police station, she wanted to get it done. She made copies and spent several hours that night filling it out. She went through several drafts before she felt she had it right. Then she copied the final result, one for the police, one for the Registry, one for her insurance company. She put the latter two in envelopes, addressed and stamped them, and tucked them in her bag, but out of sight wasn’t out of mind. Waking early the next morning, the report was the first thing she thought of.

  Dylan was the second. She had barely left her room, when she was drawn to his by the soft sound of his keyboard. He was playing “Blowin’ in the Wind” with such soulful simplicity that it brought a lump to her throat. It wasn’t the song that got to her but her son. His eyes were closed, glasses not yet on. He had been playing by ear since he was four, picking out tunes on the grand piano in the living room long before he’d had a formal lesson. Even now, when his teacher was trying to get him to read music, he was far more interested in the tunes his dad had liked.

  Deborah didn’t have to be a psychologist to know that Dylan loved music precisely because he could do it without using his eyes. He had been severely farsighted by the time he was three, and by seven had developed corneal dystrophy. Eyeglasses corrected the hypero
pia, but the dystrophy meant that the vision in his right eye would be gauzy until the time when he was old enough for a corneal transplant.

  Going into his room, she gave him a good-morning hug. “Why so sad?”

  He took his hands from the keyboard and carefully fitted his glasses to his nose.

  “Missing Dad?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “You’ll be seeing him the weekend after next.”

  “It’s not the same,” he said quietly.

  She knew that. One weekend a month didn’t make up for four weeks of no father. She and Greg had always known that they would have to work hard to juggle family time and their careers, but divorce hadn’t been in the mix.

  Sadly, she took a Red Sox T-shirt from the drawer, but Dylan’s voice rose in dismay. “Where’s my Dylan one?”

  “In the hamper. You wore it yesterday.”

  “I can wear it today, too.”

  “Honey, it has Lívia’s spaghetti sauce all over it.”

  “But it’s my good-luck shirt.”

  His father had given him the shirt for his last birthday, along with an iPod loaded with songs sung by his namesake, hence “Blowin’ in the Wind” moments before. Deborah understood that it was Greg’s attempt to involve his son in something he loved himself. But the shirt had to be washed.

  “What does Dad think of Lívia’s spaghetti sauce?” she asked.

  “He hates it.”

  Totally. “Think he’d like it on your shirt?”

  “No, but she’s washing it too much. It’s getting faded.”

  Deborah improvised. “Faded is good. Dad would agree with me on this,” she added to clinch it, sounding more sure than she was. Though not much taller than Deborah, Greg had cut an impressive figure with his thick sandy hair and designer clothes. But all that was gone. She didn’t know the man he was today—didn’t know what kind of man could leave his wife and children on a day’s notice.

  “Can I call him now?” Dylan asked.

  “Nuh-uh. Too early. You can call this afternoon.” She tussled the thick silk of his hair. “Put on the Red Sox shirt for now, and we’ll wash the other so it’ll bring you luck tomorrow.”

  His eyes were sad. “Is Dad ever coming to one of my games?”

  “He said he would.”

  “I know why he isn’t. He hates baseball. He never played it with me. I hate it, too. I can’t see the ball.”

  Deborah’s heart ached. “Even with the new glasses?”

  “Well, I guess. But anyway, I sit on the bench most of the time.”

  “Coach Duffy says you’ll play more next year. He’s counting on your being his right fielder once Rory Mayhan moves up a league. Honey? We need to get going or we’ll be late.”

  Deborah was in the shower when the phone rang. Grace came into the bathroom and held the cordless up so her mother could see it. “You need to take this,” she cried shrilly.

  Turning off the shower, Deborah grabbed the phone. It was the hospital calling to tell her that Cal McKenna had died.

  Chapter 4

  Deborah felt her heart stop. When she could finally speak, her voice held panic. “Died? How?”

  “A cerebral hemorrhage,” the nurse reported.

  “But he had a brain scan when he was admitted. Why wasn’t it seen?”

  “He wasn’t hemorrhaging then. We’re guessing it started yesterday. By the time the vital signs tipped us off, it was too late.”

  Deborah didn’t understand what could have happened. She had checked the man herself on the road—no vital injuries, solid pulse. He had sailed through an initial surgery and regained consciousness. Dead didn’t make sense.

  Clutching the towel around her, she asked, “Are you sure it’s Calvin McKenna?”

  “Yes. They’ll be doing an autopsy later.”

  Deborah couldn’t wait. “Who was on duty when this happened?”

  “Drs. Reid and McCall.”

  “Can I talk with one of them?”

  “They’ll have to call you back. A multiple-car accident just came in. Can I give them the message?”

  “Yes. Please.” She thanked the woman and disconnected.

  Grace was in tears. “You said he wouldn’t die.”

  Bewildered, Deborah handed her the phone and, wanting to cry herself, said, “I don’t know what went wrong.”

  “You said his injuries weren’t life threatening.”

  “They weren’t. Grace, this is a mystery to me.” She was badly shaken, struggling to make sense of it. “He was in stable condition. They saw nothing on the tests. I have no idea how it happened.”

  “I don’t care how it happened,” the girl sobbed. “It was bad enough when I thought about seeing him in class, knowing I was the one who hit him, but now there won’t be any class. I killed him.”

  “You didn’t kill him. Killing implies intent. It was an accident.”

  “He’s still dead,” Grace wailed.

  Death was a sidebar to Deborah’s job. She saw it often—fought it often. Calvin McKenna’s death was different.

  She couldn’t think of a single useful thing to say. For her own comfort as much as her daughter’s, she simply wrapped her arms around Grace.

  Deborah didn’t have the heart to make Grace go to school. The girl argued—rightly—that word would spread, and it seemed unfair to subject her to all that attention until they knew more. But neither of the doctors on call phoned back, which meant that there was little she could say to make Grace feel better.

  There was no explanation for why the teacher had died—which was what she told Mara Walsh, the school psychologist, as soon as she came in. She and Mara often worked together with students struggling with anorexia or drug abuse, and, when a student had died of leukemia the year before, they jointly gathered a team of grief counselors.

  Mara was shocked by today’s news. She asked questions Deborah couldn’t answer and shed little light on Calvin McKenna, other than to say that he had a Ph.D. in history—a surprise to Deborah, since he neither used the title nor listed the degree on the school website.

  When Deborah hung up, she found Dylan listening. “Died?” he asked, his skin pale, eyes huge behind his glasses. Since his grandmother’s death three years before, he had known what death meant.

  Deborah nodded. “I’m waiting for a call from his doctor to explain why.”

  “Was he old?”

  “Not very.”

  “Older than Dad?”

  She knew where he was headed. The divorce, coming only a year after Ruth Barr’s death, had compounded his sense of loss. “No. Not older than Dad.”

  “But Dad’s older than you.”

  “Some.”

  “A lot,” the boy said, sounding nearly as upset as her parents when Deborah, at twenty-one, had married a man seventeen years her senior. But Deborah had never felt the difference in age. Greg had always been energetic and young. A free spirit through his teens and twenties, he hadn’t grown up until his thirties—this, by his own admission—which meant that he and Deborah felt much closer in age than they really were.

  “Dad is fifty-five,” she said now, “which is not old, and he isn’t dying. Mr. McKenna was hit by a car. If that hadn’t happened, he’d be alive.”

  “Are they gonna arrest you for killing him?”

  “Absolutely not. It was a terrible accident in the pouring rain.”

  “Like the night Nana Ruth died?”

  “Nana Ruth wasn’t in an accident, but yes, the weather was bad.” The rain had been driven by near-hurricane winds the night Ruth had died. Deborah would never forget the drive into town to be with her for those last hours.

  “Are they gonna bury him?”

  “I’m sure they will.” There would definitely be a funeral, plus headlines in the local paper. She could see it—a big front page piece, along with a description of the accident naming those in the car.

  “Will they bury him near Nana Ruth?”

  She pulled
herself together. “That’s a good question. Mr. McKenna didn’t live here very long. He may be buried somewhere else.”

  “Why isn’t Grace dressed?”

  Grace was on a stool at the kitchen counter. Shoulders slouched, she wore the T-shirt and boxer shorts she had slept in. She was nibbling on her thumbnail.

  “Grace?” Deborah begged and, when the thumb fell away, said to Dylan, “She’s not going to school. She’s staying home while we try to learn something more.” Deborah tapped her laptop. Patients would be e-mailing. Taking care of their problems would ground her.

  “I want to stay here, too,” Dylan said.

  Deborah typed in her password. “There’s no need for that.”

  “But what if they arrest you?”

  “They won’t arrest me,” she scolded gently.

  “They could. Isn’t that what police do? What if I come home and find out you’re in jail. Who’ll take care of us then? Will Dad come back?”

  Deborah grasped his shoulders and bent down so that their eyes were level. “Sweetie, I am not going to jail. Our chief of police, no less, said that there was no cause for worry.”

  “That was before the guy died,” said the boy.

  “But the facts of the accident haven’t changed. No one is going to jail, Dylan. You have my word on that.”

  She had no sooner given her word, though, when she began to worry. She had to force herself to reply to her patients: No need to be anxious, Kim, your daughter hasn’t even been on antibiotics for a full day; Yes, Joseph, we’ll call in a refill for the inhaler; Thanks for the update, Mrs. Warren, I’m pleased you’re feeling better.

  The day before, when her father had suggested she call Hal Trutter, she resisted. Even now, she wasn’t sure if she needed legal advice, but she did need reassurance.

  “Karen,” she said when her friend answered the phone. “It’s me.”

  “Who’s me?” Karen replied in a hurt tone. “My friend Deborah, who didn’t bother to call yesterday, not even to say she wouldn’t be at the gym, and left me to hear about the accident from my daughter, who keeps trying to call Grace and can’t get through?”