Sister Dear

by Laura McNeill

  She checked her hair for the fifth time, rubbed her lips together, and took a sip of water. On tiptoes, she raised up to glance out at the back parking lot. Empty.

  Emma listened for his truck. No hum of an engine, no crunch of tires on gravel. She turned away from the window and slumped down, sliding against the painted cement block wall.

  He was ready to leave his wife, he’d told Emma.

  Just a few more days. Just another week. Before she knew it, they’d been together an entire month. The relationship consumed her, like an addiction.

  Emma stopped eating, couldn’t sleep, and began to make mistakes at her father’s office. The occasional morning she missed work or forgot to place an order for paper towels, exhausted from midnight phone calls, hurried liaisons in back parking lots, and daydreaming about the future.

  Best—or worst—of all, there was no cure, no antidote, no test to run or medicine to take. Time was the release. Only being together would set her free. She couldn’t believe her life could change so completely in just a month.

  The security keypad beeped four times, numbers punched into the system. Another ding signaled the code was correct, and Emma heard the sound of metal, the back door, scraping against the linoleum floor.

  “Hey, babe.” He clutched his ball cap in one hand. “You missed the best part of the game.” He pulled off his windbreaker and laid it over the closest chair. “Two-point conversion in the last fifteen seconds of the quarter. Put us up by one . . .” His eyes were expectant, excited, and more alive than she’d ever seen.

  It was her cue.

  “And you won?” Emma squealed and jumped to her feet.

  He hugged her to his chest and brought a hand under her chin so he could tilt her face to his. “We officially have a winning season.”

  Emma’s lips met his then, their hands and faces melting into each other. It was times like these, she thought, that it was hard to tell where she left off and he began. They were meant for each other, soul mates. She knew it.

  He bent in front of her, kneeled down, and she caught her breath. Was this it? A proposal? But he began to nuzzle her bare legs, sliding his hands under Emma’s skirt. “We have to celebrate,” he murmured and kissed her thigh. “Right now.”

  As dizzy and light-headed as she felt, Emma forced both hands onto his muscled chest and pushed him back with as much effort as she could muster. “Wait a second,” she cautioned. “Did you talk to her? You promised.” She jutted out her lip.

  If he was frustrated, Emma couldn’t tell.

  “I can’t tonight, not with the win and all. All the positive attention the team’s finally getting, the momentum.” He paused. “Breaking that news would kill the team’s spirit. You can’t have that on your conscience.”

  Emma didn’t answer; she knew there was more than some accuracy in what he was saying. Football in Georgia mattered more than academics and grades; the sport was leagues above the arts and community service. It was all anyone ever talked about from July through January, and then spring training began.

  “I miss you,” she tried, and ran a finger down his collar, to the embroidery on his chest. She traced the letters. “I want to be with you every day,” she murmured into his shoulder, laying her cheek against his shirt.

  Strong hands gripped Emma’s shoulders, held her out at arm’s length. He held up a finger for her to stay quiet, then reached into his pocket. Emma watched his hand, which he withdrew, fist tight. He stretched his arm until his hand reached below her nose. He flipped over his palm, opened his fingers, one by one.

  “The game coin,” Emma breathed. She couldn’t pull her eyes away from the glinting disk cradled in his hand. It was a symbol of what he loved most in the world.

  “For you,” he said and pressed it into her palm. “You’re everything to me. Know that.”

  Emma curled her fingers around the gift.

  “Give me just a little more time. And we have to be extra careful.” He reached out, drawing her close. “I promise I’m leaving her.” His breath, hot and sweet, caressed her face. “Say you’ll wait?”

  “All right,” Emma murmured.

  His eyes locked on hers and his voice grew darker. “And there’s one more thing. I need your help.”

  At the request, Emma sat up, fighting a twinge of worry. She brushed a stray hair from her eyes. “Anything. What is it?”

  Coach Thomas pushed himself up on one elbow. In a few solemn sentences, he explained. It would change everything. It would mean a better future. For Mansfield Academy. For them.

  Emma clasped her arms around her knees, pulling them close, while her head and heart dueled over the request. “It’s just for now? For a little while?”

  His forehead crinkled. “I think so.”

  In the end, she couldn’t deny him. “Then, yes.”

  Thomas broke into a wide grin. “Emma, I love you.”

  She stopped breathing. Her hand released the coin; it slipped through her fingers, clinked on the floor, and rolled away.

  “Get it later,” he told her and pulled her close. He tore at her clothing, desperate, wild.

  Emma allowed herself to be swept away, carried on a raging river, dangerous and uncontrollable.

  When they lay on the floor, legs entwined, his fingers tangled in her hair, he drifted off to sleep. Emma watched the pulse in his neck, the regular rise and fall of his chest.

  She wanted to believe him.

  I love you. Emma played the words over in her head. I love you.

  Everything was in place. All he needed was a little incentive.

  She was looking out for him. She knew what was best. She’d put the plan in motion nearly four weeks earlier, when she stopped taking her birth control pills, began eating better and walking more. Three days ago, Emma had even stocked up on prenatal vitamins. She reached out and stroked his hair.

  Now, it was up to Mother Nature to do the rest.

  THIRTY-TWO

  ALLIE

  2016

  Allie hurried her steps, tucking her hair into a ponytail and clutching her bag to her side. Below a row of gray storm clouds, the sun hung low on the horizon, turning the sky shades of burnt umber and orange.

  As she turned on Ben’s street, a crack of thunder echoed in the distance. This time of year, afternoon storms cropped up off the Atlantic in what seemed like minutes, sending torrents of rain across St. Simons Island and into Brunswick.

  Frowning, Allie cast a glance at the sky. For now, the rain was holding off. She prayed it would stay away at least until she reached Ben’s door. But when she reached the sidewalk in front of his parents’ house, the small white structure looked dark and closed up. Even the Live Oaks looked dark and intimidating, with their huge, gnarled branches dripping with Spanish moss.

  Allie ran her eyes over the windows of Ben’s house, searching for a sign of life, a flicker of movement. She walked to the edge of the yard, looking for a clue that his family still owned the property. His car wasn’t there, and the mailbox wasn’t marked with a name.

  She wondered again why Ben had given up the political life he’d been so passionate about. What had happened to change that?

  Behind her, Allie heard the rumble of a car engine, smelled the faint, acrid odor of exhaust. If a neighbor was pulling up and parking, she couldn’t just stand here in front of Ben’s house.

  She felt like sprinting, or at least breaking into a jog. The last thing Allie needed was the driver of the car reporting her to the police for loitering. She shielded her eyes, pretending to block out the setting sun, and slowly ambled away.

  “Allie?”

  She whirled around in surprise.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” Ben said, talking to her through the open window of his car. His forehead was wrinkled, but he didn’t look angry. He pulled over to the curb and parked.

  Allie bit her lip. Calm down. Just explain. She watched as he stepped out of the vehicle. “I’m sorry. Hi.”

  Ben watc
hed her thoughtfully, his expression guarded and serious. He probably pitied Allie, felt sorry for her, and was just trying to be nice before telling her to leave.

  He finally answered. “I heard that you were back,” Ben said slowly, as if the words were difficult to pronounce. “How are you?”

  “I wish I knew,” Allie said. She tried to smile, but the corners of her mouth wouldn’t move. She could almost touch Ben. He looked the same, other than a few gray flecks in his short, thick dark hair, tiny wrinkles around his blue eyes. “I just found out that you were back too. Emma said you’ve been back for a few weeks, I guess?” She hesitated. “I hear you’re doing some freelancing.”

  Ben nodded. “You heard right. I’ve been writing and reporting for about two years on the side. It’s been really good. About a year ago, I realized that since I was working from home, ‘home’ didn’t have to be Atlanta. I could come back here.”

  “That’s great,” Allie said, looking up at him. He was still so handsome it made her catch her breath. And he did look happy.

  “How’s Caroline?” Ben asked, shifting his weight from one side to the other. “I’ve seen her around a little. From a distance.”

  Allie thought about this. It wasn’t a secret that Ben used to be her boyfriend, but maybe no one had reminded Caroline. And why would they? It would only dredge up bad memories.

  “She’s angry. Her world’s been turned upside down again.”

  “Of course.” Ben stiffened, then looked toward the house.

  “I won’t keep you,” Allie said. “But I didn’t just happen to be wandering by.”

  “I didn’t think you were.” Ben crossed his arms.

  Allie sensed the abrupt change in attitude, the slight edge to his tone of voice. As if to emphasize his displeasure, thunder rumbled, still miles away. “You know, I shouldn’t be here. This was a mistake.” She started backing away, nearly falling over the curb.

  “Whoa.” Ben jumped forward to catch her arm.

  His touch, warm and steady, sent waves of emotion through Allie’s body. Breathing hard, pulse thudding, she glanced up into Ben’s eyes. “Thank you.”

  After another beat, Ben let go of her, almost regretfully. “What do you need, Allie? I assume you walked all this way?”

  “I did. It’s not that far.” Allie began to explain, and the rest came out like the rush of a waterfall. “I’m here because of Caroline. Ben, I saw her for the first time in ten years.” Allie’s voice caught. “She’d been avoiding me, so Emma invited me over, but then someone made copies of that editorial—you know, the one from ten years ago—and put them all over the school—”

  “Slow down,” Ben said, holding up a hand. “Why don’t you come and sit down for a minute?”

  As they approached the house, she gathered her thoughts.

  “So Caroline’s not too happy you’re back?” Ben asked. “Is that it?”

  “More or less. I don’t know.” Allie’s shoulders sagged as they sat, side by side, on the top porch step. “She doesn’t believe me, Ben. I told her . . . I told her I’m innocent.”

  “I’m sorry.” Ben’s eyes flickered. Was it pity? Pain? Regret?

  “I appreciate that,” Allie replied softly, turning her head to look at him. “I really thought that if . . . if you could talk to your brother . . .” She closed her eyes. She’d never forget walking in the woods on the path behind the stadium. And then stumbling on Ben’s brother, Coach Thomas, and two players.

  “And what would that prove, Allie?” Ben asked, his voice hushed. “Would it change anything?”

  “You saw what the coach did,” Allie whispered.

  Ben stared at the ground, jaw tight.

  “If he could talk to Caroline. Explain what happened. Even for a few minutes . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Ben raised both hands, as if to press the words away. “No. He has a wife. They’re about to have a baby girl. I can’t upset them. Ask him to reopen that wound.”

  Allie was quiet. What about my wounds? “There were other guys on the team,” she added. “What about them?” A flicker of hope caught fire inside her. She paused and caught his eyes, locking onto his gaze. “And you’re a journalist. You could write a story. Pressure someone to reopen the case.”

  This time Ben hesitated.

  “I think . . . I’ve always thought that the sheriff might have had something to do with Coach’s death.”

  Ben’s head swung around. “Wait, what?”

  “I do,” Allie said, this time with more conviction.

  “How? Exactly how would you know that?” Ben asked, frowning.

  A bolt of lightning cut across the darkening sky as the words slapped at her, cold and hard. A surge of anger broke through. “He hates me. He fast-tracked my case and didn’t even look for another witness.”

  “That’s not a reason.”

  Pursing her lips, Allie tamped down her frustration. She had to stay calm if Ben was going to listen. “I think it was hard for him to be objective—he was too close to the coach. Gaines knew bad stuff was going down.” She swallowed. “Gaines is the county sheriff and he did nothing. He looked the other way.”

  “You’re right,” Ben mused, wrinkling his brow. “But that doesn’t make him a killer.”

  Allie pulled her knees in close, wrapping her arms around them. “Ben, if the coach was giving those kids steroids . . . and if Gaines knew his career was about to get blown apart, he might have snapped.”

  “He is a bit of an egomaniac about the whole sheriff thing,” Ben said and raked a hand through his hair.

  “A bit?” Allie closed her eyes. Leave it to Ben to sugarcoat a rat, long tail and all. She didn’t know how he’d survived the cutthroat world of politics for so long.

  “Listen, I’m trying to hear what you’re saying.” Ben sighed. “But I’m worried about you. Why are you deliberately trying to jeopardize your parole? Aren’t you thinking about that?” He tilted his head to look straight at Allie. “What will that do to Caroline? How will that help?”

  “But—”

  “Don’t say any more, please. I can’t do this, Allie.” He shifted his gaze to the ground. “I have to go. I’m sorry I can’t help. Really. Good luck.”

  As her eyes welled with tears, Allie realized she’d been reckless and stupid to come here and ask for a favor. He’d pledged everything a decade ago, and she’d forced him away; he wasn’t going to sweep in and save her now.

  A gust of wind rustled the trees above their heads while Ben stood up.

  “Caroline—she’s all I have,” Allie cried out. She couldn’t stop the words from jumping from her lips, from reaching out and attempting to catch him.

  As thunder rumbled in the distance, Ben pivoted back to face Allie, his face pained and full of sympathy. “I know.”

  As the first raindrops began to fall, he turned and walked away.

  Allie’s heart plummeted.

  This time Ben was the one saying good-bye.

  January 2007

  Ben hadn’t been called as a witness, though opposing counsel spent a full two days interrogating him before the trial. During his deposition, he’d stated that Allie had never been violent. That she’d been focused on medical school, her daughter, and her family.

  At the start of the new year, Ben had taken a top post in Governor Sonny Perdue’s administration and couldn’t visit Brunswick more than a day or two because of his new duties. It exonerated him, and Allie was glad. If she was forced to sit and look into Ben’s eyes, seeing his disappointment, his bewilderment, she thought she might die a little more each day.

  It was awful enough that each hour they sat inside the courtroom, her mother and father appeared more stricken, their skin and faces becoming almost translucent. It seemed, by the end of the testimony, one or both of them might vanish into the atmosphere.

  Allie suffered gut-wrenching anxiety when the prosecutor held up photos of the dead coach and close-ups of the man’s bloodied head. He talked ab
out fingerprints, Coach Thomas’s skin under her fingernails, and hair fibers. The attorney talked about the murder weapon authorities had found near the coach’s body—a wooden chair leg with no identifiable prints. To emphasize the brutality of the crime, the prosecutor passed around photos of the coach’s family with their smiling, happy, sunlit faces.

  Next, a recording of the anonymous 9-1-1 call punctuated the courtroom. The jury sat transfixed as a muffled female voice, breathy and anxious, told authorities she’d seen a blonde woman outside the pharmacy. She described shouting and the sound of something being broken. When the wail of an ambulance pierced the room, the call ended abruptly.

  When the lead lawyer for the prosecution stepped forward, members of the jury began to shift and stir, readying themselves for a reading of Allie’s newspaper editorial.

  After enduring a traumatic line-by-line dissection of her own words, Allie tightened her fists as a self-assured and arrogant Sheriff Lee Gaines took the stand. Even without a word, Gaines commanded authority in his dark, pressed uniform, reminding everyone that his very presence was law.

  The sheriff remained polite and patient while he responded to questions about his life in Brunswick, winning election after election, and his wife’s accident. Next, Gaines took nearly sixty minutes describing the horror of finding his friend, the coach he loved like a son, dead. His voice cracked as he told of his disbelief at finding Allie Marshall hovering over his body at the crime scene with blood on her hands.

  A loud gasp escaped from the back of the room, causing the judge to bang his gavel and lecture the crowd before Allie’s team could begin their cross-examination. When the room came to order, the sheriff leveled his gaze, unblinking at the lawyer as he approached the bench.

  Allie’s attorney posed two questions after reminding the jury that Gaines’s own wife had almost died that night. Could he have remained focused? Why wasn’t he at the hospital with June?

  But as he asked, the man’s voice wavered. His confidence faltered as the broad-shouldered sheriff on the stand stared him down. In her seat, Allie shivered as if the blood in her veins had been turned to ice.