“What?” Here was the real reason her mother had stopped over. Dinner served, with an ulterior motive on the side. She wanted information. Allie quit looking over the piles and turned to face her mother. “Why would you say that?”
“Well, it’s not me. I heard about that editorial and how Caroline was so upset, bless her heart. Emma said—”
“Mom, I’m fine.” Allie cut her off, then softened. “Thank you for asking, though. It means a lot to me.”
Her mother shrugged and let her hands fall. “We haven’t really talked about it much.” Her voice quavered. “But I’ve always hoped the police would find a clue.”
Allie’s breath caught. Her lips parted as tears sprang to her eyes. How many years had she waited to hear someone say this?
“I prayed that someone would find proof of what really happened that night.” Her mother’s voice cracked. “That someone else was responsible—” Her mother broke off, struggling to maintain her composure. Her hand found Allie’s and squeezed.
The gesture was comforting, but her mother’s words were gold. Allie thought she might die before she heard them.
“Mom, there’s nothing I want more.”
THIRTY-FIVE
EMMA
2016
Could people go from normal to nervous breakdown status in the span of a few weeks? Without checking scientific studies, Emma’s face in the mirror confirmed it. Clumps of her hair fell out in the shower, she wasn’t sleeping, and the dark circles under her eyes appeared tattooed in place. She had lost her appetite. Not even the scent of grilled coconut shrimp from her favorite Brunswick restaurant enticed her to stop and eat.
This morning, though it was still early, Emma was bleary-eyed from researching adoption. According to the state of Georgia, Caroline fell into the “Special Needs” adoption category. Special needs children were those who had been in the care of a public or private agency or individual other than the legal or biological parent for more than twenty-four consecutive months.
Emma clicked on the policy and forms, as well as the Division of Family and Children Services contact information, sending each file to the printer. As the white sheets appeared in the machine’s tray, Emma reached for an envelope, folded the pages, and slid them inside. She had to do something about this. And soon.
Just thirty minutes before, her sister had called, immediately spiking Emma’s anxiety levels.
“Can I help with something?” Emma offered, struggling to keep her tone casual.
“Would you mind if I borrowed your car?”
Emma gripped the phone, her whole body drawing back as if Allie had offered to bring poison as payment. “Want me to drive you somewhere?” she forced out.
“Thanks. No,” Allie replied slowly. “It’s something I need to take care of myself.”
Emma paced the floor.
Allie might be looking for another place to live. Perhaps she was already thinking of moving away. Emma hoped so, but why wouldn’t her sister tell her? Emma rubbed her chin absentmindedly. Allie’s parole meetings were during the week, so that wasn’t it.
Emma thought quickly. She could say no, but didn’t want Allie to catch the smallest hint that she was plotting against her. And this little excursion of her sister’s ensured time away from Caroline. Better to keep her sister happy and unsuspecting. “So . . . driving is not against the rules?”
“You mean, like a parole violation?” Allie laughed. “No. It’s not. I’m sure of it.”
“And . . . you don’t have to check in with anyone?”
“I check in every week with Gladys. I go in and meet with her next Wednesday. It’s not like I’m going to Mexico,” she answered. “Gladys cares that I’m working. Not calling in sick. That’s what’s most important right now.”
“If you say so,” Emma said, doubtful.
“Are you sure you don’t need the car?” Allie asked finally.
Emma drew a breath, mind whirling until it settled on the perfect white lie. “No, it’s fine, really,” she replied, her voice fighting not to strain. “Caroline and I are walking downtown to grab breakfast and get our nails done,” Emma added, picturing Allie’s face crumple as she delivered the plan. “You know, the last time we went there, the owners thought Caroline was my daughter. They’re so funny.”
There was a beat of silence on the phone.
“Well, have a good time,” Allie finally replied. Her voice, stretched thin, betrayed the hurt.
“We’re just locking the front door behind us,” Emma cut in. “I’ll leave my extra set of car keys under the flowerpot on the back patio.”
Emma hung up and immediately called for Caroline, on edge that Allie would head over any minute. “Ready to go? Get your purse. We’ll be late.”
Her niece replied with a muffled shout through her bedroom door. She’d be right there, Emma translated. A minute later, there was the sound of footsteps, the smell of baby powder, and finally, the sight of long dark hair piled on top of her niece’s head.
They set off walking, with Emma setting the pace double time until they put enough distance between them and the house. Caroline, in flip-flops, struggled to keep up with her aunt’s long stride. “Where’s the fire?” she quipped breathlessly.
Emma slowed when they rounded the first corner, her own heart beating against her chest. “Oh, you know me. I like to be on time.”
Though that was true, Emma’s worry stemmed from one place—and one place only. Allie had been different since Caroline’s “prove it” challenge had been issued. The determination was back, the slight edge, the focus her sister summoned when honing in on an important task. There’d been an uptick in her energy and how much she reached out to Emma.
Just like the shimmering surface of a serene lake, hiding a hive of activity just below the surface, there was more to this trip. Emma knew it. Allie just wouldn’t say.
THIRTY-SIX
ALLIE
2016
Hours later, Allie edged the car into the first little town, along a deserted street. Homes in varying conditions lined the road. She squinted and looked for numbers, then checked her sheet. Twenty-nine.
After a peach house with green trim, and next to a cottage that looked like it hadn’t been painted in years, Allie found it. A charming little two-story, blue with white shutters and a narrow front porch. The sidewalk leading to the home was old and worn, like the neighborhood.
She’d done an Internet search the night before and read more about Lamar Childree. There were dozens of articles. The last one mentioned the football staff and the very same Coach Boyd Thomas who had died as she tried to save him.
The first stair creaked under Allie’s foot. She jumped at the noise and then laughed at her own nerves. Allie took the remaining steps two at a time.
The mailbox, battered and worn, bore the name Childree in small black plastic letters. This was the place. Allie drew in a deep breath and raised her arm to knock on the door. She hesitated, weighing the privacy of a family who’d lost a son against her own personal void: a daughter who didn’t believe in her, a girl forced to grow up without a mother.
Allie almost ran from the porch. But she’d driven this far, done this much. She needed to talk to the boy’s parents. Clenching her teeth, Allie rapped her knuckles three times and backed away from the screen door.
The lock clicked a few moments later. The door swung open an inch and a female voice called out, “Who’s there?”
“Allison Marshall.”
“You selling something?” she demanded. “’Cause we ain’t buying.” A woman peeked out, dressed in a long terrycloth robe. “We don’t have no money. Can’t a family have any peace?”
The pain in her voice pierced Allie’s rib cage, dangerously close to her heart. She didn’t want to dredge up the past, but her need for the truth made her bolder, perhaps a bit reckless. “I’m not selling anything. I wanted to ask a few questions about your son.”
Her answer was a door slam, which sent a whoosh of
warm air at Allie’s face. In the distance, the sun glowed huge and orange. The light cast a neon glow on the cars and houses. Allie turned to leave, making her way down the steps to Emma’s car.
The woman didn’t want reminders. She couldn’t get her son back. And she’d be insane to take on the burden of someone else’s problem. It would require reliving the tragedy—too much to ask of a mother who would never stop grieving for her child.
“Ma’am.” There were footsteps behind her, running, heavy. A hand grabbed her arm.
Allie stopped and turned her head to look at the dark, stocky man who held her. She pulled, stretched, and wiggled against his grip. He didn’t release her.
“Tell me why you’re here and I’ll let you go,” he said. Childree’s father—it had to be—was weathered, with sinewy arm muscles, and clearly was not taking no for an answer.
“The coach . . . ,” Allie began and then choked on her own words. “Your son’s coach.”
The man released her. He squared his body between Allie and her sister’s car. “What’s that man got to do with anything? Praise sweet Jesus, he’s long dead.”
The edges of his face blurred in the fading light. His eyes, charred black, red at the edges, were bottomless. He’d lost as much as Allie. No, more. Childree’s son was gone. Buried. They’d had a funeral and said good-byes as best as any parent could to a child. Her soul ached for this father, a man who had expected to grow old enjoying his son by his side. Perhaps he’d dreamed of sipping sweet tea on his porch, his wife by his side, watching his grandbabies play.
Now, she imagined that the future stretched out in front of this man, cold and dark. Empty. A road to nowhere.
Allie pressed a hand to her stomach, steadying her resolve. She might have a chance with Childree if she was honest. If she appealed to him as a parent who had lost so very much. Maybe, just maybe, she could make him understand. “I’m the one who found Coach Thomas,” she began, her voice shaky. “That night.”
The man’s dark face went slack. Disbelief? Pain? Fear?
“I didn’t kill him.”
Childree stared past her, jaw tightening as she uttered the words. “You have children, miss?”
“I do. A daughter.” Allie lowered her voice to a whisper. “She’s fifteen and doesn’t speak to me. I’ll lose her forever if I don’t find out what really happened.”
The dead boy’s father absorbed this, his fists clenched tight together. “Then you know what it’s like.” Childree’s head dropped. “Missing a child.”
Allie’s eyes stung with tears. “I lost my daughter too.” Allie lowered her voice. “It’s not the same. Caroline—she’s still alive. But she doesn’t know me. I’m afraid she might never want to.” Her voice broke.
The man drew his gaze back to Allie, taking his time to look her up and down. “And you think the coach had something to do with what happened to my boy?”
“Yes,” Allie whispered.
Childree pursed his lips and squinted at the ground. “Tell you what,” he said, scuffing his foot on the wooden slats. “Meet me at the corner of Fifth and Wade. Coffee shop there.”
“Thank you.” Allie nodded and backed away as quickly as she could, practically running to the car. From the corner of her eye, she saw one white curtain move back an inch. His wife watched as she opened the door, slid behind the wheel, and cranked the engine.
“On your way, now,” Childree raised his voice. “Go on, go.”
Allie found the coffee shop easily, a seventies-style diner with wide Formica tables trimmed in stainless steel and loud, orange décor. She was nursing her second cup when Childree finally arrived. He entered slowly and raised his chin to the man behind the counter. The only other customers, two men in the back, didn’t look up.
Childree eased into the booth. “I don’t have long,” he told Allie. “How do I know you don’t want to scam me or my family?”
“Look, Mr. Childree, I’m not trying to cause trouble. I’ve done my time and don’t want to violate my parole,” Allie whispered.
Childree motioned for coffee.
“I have a few questions and I’ll leave you alone. Please.”
The man fell silent when the waitress sidled over and poured the dark liquid from a glass pot, eyeballing Allie the entire time. When she walked away, Childree placed both elbows on the table and leaned forward.
“What you share with me . . . ,” Allie continued. “It could answer questions for other families. Families of other players who might have not suffered like your son, but who have physical injuries or problems that prevented them from ever playing ball again.”
Childree nodded. “He was no good. That coach.”
Allie blew on her steaming-hot coffee. “There are no words for me to express how awful this must have been for you. I read the articles. Everything I could find. I’m so very sorry.”
“Obliged,” the man muttered. He reached for his coffee, grasping the handle tight. “I told my son to be careful.”
“Why?” Allie asked. “What made you think he needed to be?”
The wiry man tapped his temple. “Watchin’. Listenin’.”
“I see.”
“He rode those boys at practice. Like dogs.”
“Did he . . . hurt them?” Allie asked, her voice barely audible, even to herself.
Childree held up his hand, thick fingers spread toward the ceiling. “I suspect he did. I suspect it more now. There’s so much I didn’t do. Shoulda seen.”
Allie clutched her coffee mug, barely feeling the heat sear her fingertips. This man had been through hell.
“They told me it was heatstroke,” Childree said. “And maybe that was part of it. They practiced some insane hours. I told my son a dozen times, ‘Boy, you don’t have to do this. You can quit.’ But, he never listened. And now he’s gone. It ain’t right, a mother and father burying their child.” The muscles in his face twisted with grief, a portrait of loss, of unanswered questions, of agony and helplessness.
Allie heart pounded. “It sounds like, Mr. Childree, you didn’t raise your son to be a quitter.”
Childree grimaced. “That’s right. I taught my son too well. And he died for it.”
Allie reflected on the man’s version of the story. “What had been happening with him? Anything out of the ordinary?”
“He changed. His mood, his sleep, his activity. Went from a straight-A student to failing exams, getting into fights—”
“Really?” Allie sucked in her breath. Fights, aggression, just like the Wolverine players. Her mind raced with questions and possibilities. “A few fights? How many?”
“I lost count. Every day, bruises on him. I saw his back one day—he’d taken off his shirt after mowing the yard. It looked like someone’d taken a bat to my boy. When I confronted him, he tol’ me it was none of my concern, not to worry myself.”
Just like Ben’s brother.
“He was so angry. And he was bigger, taller. Stronger too. Lamar worked out all the time with the coach’s team of trainers. Volunteers he brought in for special clinics. Conditioning, strength training, they even did a self-defense class one time. He was obsessed with doing anything the coach said, like his life depended on it.” Childree wiped his forehead.
Allie held her breath, trying to process all of it. “Mr. Childree, you said self-defense? Like with a police officer?”
Childree nodded. “Yeah. You know, Coach Thomas worried about someone jumping them or pulling a knife.” His reddened eyes darted from Allie to the front of the diner. “The neighborhoods can be a rough place.”
Following his gaze to the rundown building across the street, Allie took in its broken window and peeling paint. “I see.” She turned back to face him, clasping both hands on the table. “You don’t happen to remember the guy’s name? The self-defense class trainer?”
“Nah.” Childree took a sip of coffee.
Allie’s shoulders sagged as she fought to get her mind back on track. “And how did
things go from there?”
“There was one day he was so nervous. Shaky. Knocked over a few things in the kitchen. Could hardly look me in the eye.”
“I accused him of taking something. Drugs, pills, something to build up his muscle and speed. He denied it, and then punched a dent in my pickup just to get back at me. He apologized later, but I knew he was hiding something.”
Just like the player who’d hit the quarterback. Outright rage, uncontrollable. And no one in the community wanting to look for reasons. Everyone turning the other way.
“Did you say anything to the doctors at the hospital? To the school?”
“Sure.” Childree laughed, hollow and bitter. “You know what they told me?”
“No, sir.”
“Same thing as Lamar did. My son’s coaching was none of my business. The staff said it was my son’s fault.” Childree pressed a hand to his chest. “They said he didn’t drink enough water, that Lamar didn’t tell the coaches that he needed a break. As if a child should know better than grown men who are supposed to be looking out for him. My boy wanted to do his best.”
Allie swallowed. “I’m sure he did.”
Childree covered his face with his hands. “I miss him. Every day. Every single day.” He composed himself, brushing away tears with tight fists, one still gripping a napkin. “My son, when he died, he was not the same person. Someone, something, messed with his mind.”
“I’m so very sorry,” Allie whispered.
“Were there drugs?” Childree looked at the ceiling. “God knows his mother would never admit it. It would kill her to know for sure.” He looked at Allie. “But something was wrong. Something was different. He changed, and it started with that man.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
EMMA
2016
On her tiptoes, Emma reached for the top shelf. Her fingers brushed against a small, silk-covered box, tied up with yellow ribbon. With a careful grasp, she pulled the container from its resting place and cradled it between her two hands.
All that she had left of her baby.
Sister Dear Page 21