“A player from another school died,” Allie explained. “Same coach. Different high school. It was before he came to Brunswick. The boy’s father thinks he was given steroids.”
D’Shawn’s chin lifted, defiant. “I don’t know about no kid dying. Could be true, maybe not. What I do know is about me. I used to be a star. I used to run the forty in 4.6 seconds. The NFL drafted me. I was on my way.” He pounded his chest with one fist and then let his hand drop. “Now all I got is a disability check and doctor bills. What do anyone care now?”
D’Shawn’s mother murmured under her breath. Her husband rubbed his chin.
“I care,” Allie said.
A look of realization came over the father. “You there, what your name? You’re not from the paper.” He released his wife from his grasp and came toward Allie, his face angry.
“D’Shawn, please,” Allie said and threw a hopeful glance at him. “Can we talk, just the two of us? I can explain everything.”
“You’re the one who killed him,” the father accused.
“I did not,” Allie said, keeping her voice steady.
The husband jabbed a finger at the front door. “Get out, right now, and take your trouble. We—my son—he been through enough.”
Allie stared at D’Shawn. “Please.”
The former football star averted his eyes but moved his jaw side to side, thinking.
“D’Shawn—” Allie took a step backward, then another. “What did he give you?”
“He had a cabin where he kept stuff,” he muttered.
Allie’s heart nearly jumped out of her chest.
“What?” D’Shawn’s mother exclaimed. “That’s nonsense. We would have known about that.” His mother rushed to his side and sank down, clinging to his arm. “Don’t say another word, baby. Your mind’s not remembering right. She’s just trying to twist this all around, put ideas in your head.”
D’Shawn’s voice sharpened. “Coach Thomas? He made up Wolverine Juice. That’s what we called it, anyway,” he added. “Then . . . he got better stuff. Serious gear.” His head fell back against the cushion.
“Sweetheart,” his mother pleaded.
Better stuff. Serious gear. Allie’s skin tingled as if someone had dumped a handful of ice down the back of her shirt. “Mrs. Montgomery,” she tried to get her attention. “Please let him tell me. I really need to know where it came from.”
D’Shawn’s father took her elbow. “You leave or we’re calling the police.” He motioned at his wife. “Call that 9-1-1 anyway.”
At the threat, D’Shawn began to laugh. “Yeah, a lot of good that’ll do.” He chortled and covered his face with his hands, then started coughing. His body vibrated with the force.
Why was he laughing? What else did he know? His mother rushed from the room.
“You see what you’ve done?” The father wrapped his huge hand around Allie’s arm and dragged her toward the front of the house.
“I’m sorry,” Allie tried to murmur.
He yanked open the door and shoved her outside. “Get out.”
In the dark, Allie almost lost her balance on the steps but managed to stumble away. D’Shawn Montgomery’s father stood in the open doorway, looming. “Don’t you come back, you hear?”
FORTY-THREE
SHERIFF GAINES
2016
Though his mind was on Coach Thomas and the Marshall family, when the call came in from D’Shawn Montgomery’s father, Sheriff Gaines grabbed it on the first ring. The families of current and former players had precedence and required personal attention.
Deputies knew the drill. They had strict instructions to run all calls by Gaines, whether it was a lost dog, a speeding ticket, or a noise ordinance violation. Whether he could make the issues disappear or not, his involvement mattered. It was the appearance of his concern that garnered loyalty from families in Brunswick, and of course reelection.
When his deputy explained that Allie Marshall had been to the Montgomery home, the sheriff began to sweat in his air-conditioned office. Learning the sketchy details sent pure adrenaline coursing through his veins.
“I’ll take care of it,” he barked at his officer, who stepped out of the way. Chief sat up and growled at his harsh tone. Leading the dog by his leash, Gaines stormed from the building.
His tires squealed as he rounded the curves, the speedometer hitting seventy as he raced out of town. By the time he pulled up, a small crowd had gathered in front of the Montgomery home. There was no sign of Allie.
Tall weeds rapped and brushed against Gaines’s pant legs as he walked toward the group. The arguing and talking abruptly quit as he stepped into the circle.
“Sheriff.” D’Shawn’s father greeted him with a handshake. “Sorry to have bothered you with this.”
“Where is she?” Gaines asked, breathing hard.
“Gone,” he answered, his face darkening. “She left when I told my wife to call you.”
Head spinning, fists balled, Sheriff Gaines evaluated the possible charges he could throw at Marshall. Trespassing wouldn’t work; his wife had invited her in. Harassment was unlikely to stick because she’d only been there once.
Gaines thought about disorderly conduct. Allie’s parole officer would bite on that. It was only a misdemeanor, but it put her on shaky ground. Gladys would have to send her back to Arrendale—or at least a medium-security lockup—while the case was being investigated.
“Gentlemen, could I have a word with the Montgomery family?”
A few of the neighbors frowned, then wandered away across the street. Another raised a hand and motioned for the father to call him before crossing into the next lawn.
“It’s okay,” the father said to the remaining three men. They nodded and headed down the driveway, heads bent in muted conversation.
The sheriff spread his feet apart, looped his thumbs in his belt, and faced D’Shawn Montgomery’s father. “Tell me what happened. Does your boy want to talk? Your wife?”
“No. They’re resting. The wife thought she was some kind of reporter. She came in, real polite, talked awhile, and then asked D’Shawn flat out if he’d ever used drugs in high school.”
Gaines’s heart spasmed. He fought the emotion churning inside his chest. “Drugs?”
“Steroids,” he answered. “That Coach Thomas gave him.”
Gaines kept his gaze level. His eye wanted to twitch, and he rubbed it hard to keep from letting Montgomery see he was as nervous as a jackrabbit. “And?” he prompted.
“He didn’t use anything. D’Shawn didn’t use anything,” the boy’s father repeated, almost as if he was convincing himself.
The sheriff exhaled all of the air from his lungs. “Well, of course not.” His chuckle came out flat and cold. “I can call Allison Marshall’s parole officer right now.”
Montgomery considered this. “Appreciate that. But, you know, we don’t need no media circus. D’Shawn has that heart condition. His mother’s upset. Her nerves.”
At the mention of Montgomery’s wife, the sound of a female voice floated out the door. Someone needed help; it wasn’t clear whether it was the son or his spouse. There was so much more Sheriff Gaines wanted to ask, but it was clear the family had been through hell.
“Just say the word if you need anything else.” Gaines gripped Montgomery’s hand. It was a real shame. The way things had turned out for D’Shawn Montgomery. NFL draft picks, nine times out of ten, spent the cash right away. It was a given, like six-year-old kids with a credit card in Toys R Us. There was no on/off button, no stop switch.
D’Shawn had blown that chance all by himself.
And aside from Allie Marshall interfering at what seemed like every turn since she’d been out on parole, there’d been very few problems in Brunswick with former players. The boys after Coach was gone—the ones with big talent—they knew the drill, knew the risks, and wanted the NFL dream like every other kid from Georgia.
The sheriff straightened his tie and g
ot back into the cruiser, taking one last look around the neighborhood. As he cranked the engine and began to drive, Gaines thought back to the last conversation he’d had with Boyd Thomas. The last time he’d seen the man alive.
November 2006
Gaines had been worried about the team’s kicker, Kyle Clossner, the brainy senior with a full academic scholarship to Stanford.
It was November, and he’d noted a shift in the boy’s demeanor. He’d recently broken up with his girlfriend, cut class the week before, and arrived late at practice. After the coach sent him to run laps as punishment, everything spun out of control.
Clossner’s timing. His rhythm. After a third fumbled play, Kyle knocked over a water bucket, ran off the field, and reportedly slammed his fist into a locker. Gaines saw the dent.
After fuming for hours, Gaines confronted Thomas. The sheriff found him at the pharmacy, alone, rearranging stock.
“I thought you said you were done,” the sheriff hissed.
Coach paused coolly, holding matching boxes of Motrin. “I never agreed to that.”
Crossing his arms tight, the sheriff edged closer so that the coach would have to look at him. Don’t give Clossner any more,” he’d said.
“No one’s forcing those boys.” Coach Thomas shrugged. Always so cocky. Certain. And now dismissive. “They have a choice.”
“Listen to me,” Gaines exploded, clearing the entire shelf of medicine with one sweep of his arm. In an instant, the sheriff grabbed Coach by the collar and slammed him to the wall, pressing his forearm hard into the man’s throat.
He’d had enough.
2016
Gaines pushed down the accelerator, urging the squad car faster, as if the speed could help him escape the memories. As the live oak trees whooshed by in the fading sunlight, he attempted to channel the philosophy he’d once tried to live by: What’s done is done.
Gripping the wheel, the sheriff focused on the positive: Those Mansfield boys did get a stellar season and a whole lot of press for a small school. The community reveled in a much-needed celebration after every win. Brunswick was in the spotlight once again, the team creating the stuff of legends.
The sheriff grimaced. He should be talking about those glory days over coffee at the local diner. Out on the sidelines during practice, lending tips to the coaches.
But when someone was scaring up ghosts from the past, essentially raising the dead, a hell of a lot of good the 2006 season did for Gaines. Or Coach Thomas, six feet under.
FORTY-FOUR
CAROLINE
2016
“How about the library?” Caroline suggested to Russell. “It’s quiet there. And I have to drop off some books. They open in about twenty minutes.”
Russell cleared his throat. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m okay. I swear. But we need to talk in private,” she whispered into the phone.
“I’ll be right there,” he promised. “See you in about five minutes. Look for me out front, by the steps.”
“’K,” Caroline said and hung up. She sat for a minute, thinking. Emma was working and she didn’t want to disturb her or risk her saying no. She took a Post-it note out of the drawer and wrote, At the library and the time, then, Love, Caro.
With the note pressed to the middle of the kitchen table, where she was certain Emma would see it, Caroline gathered up her three library books, slipped them into her bag, and eased out the front door. The lock clicked in place behind her.
With barely a sound, she stepped onto the sidewalk and turned toward downtown. The library was a ten- or fifteen-minute walk. She passed the fire department and the post office, as well as a few law offices with shingles hanging on posts. All reminders of her mother.
The jury said she had killed a man. They believed it. They’d sent her away.
Caroline frowned and wandered closer to the steps of the library. The long, low brick structure was one of her favorites, with its tall, mirrored windows and high ceilings. She could get lost there, hide out in the stacks. It made her feel safe and secure.
“Hey,” a voice called after a loud car honk startled Caroline.
She whirled at the sound, clutching her books to her chest. “Whoa. Give me a sec.” Caroline exhaled, opened the library drop-box, and slid the books inside.
Russell waited as she walked back to him. His hands rested on the wheel, a lock of dark hair falling over one eye. “Jump in. Let’s talk in here.” He leaned over and pushed open the passenger-side door.
“Um, okay.” She walked closer. “What kind of car is this?” Caroline sniffed at the vinyl and leather scents. The vehicle was older, bright white, with a squared-off body style.
“This baby’s vintage.” Russell winked and stretched out his arm and ran a hand along the dashboard. “Don’t even make them anymore.”
Caroline didn’t know whether to giggle or be impressed. She slid inside and buckled in, closing the door behind her. “What is it?”
“Volare. Chrysler made the last ones in 1980. This was my grandfather’s. He had it in Florida until he died a few years ago. It’s really my dad’s, but he says I’ll get it”—Russell signaled and eased out into the road—“if I’m responsible and take care of it.”
“Right.”
“I’ve got a limited work permit right now. My dad has me running a few errands for him. It’s kind of like probation for a driver’s license.”
Caroline blinked. “Um, should I be worried about driving with you?”
“No. Remember how I told you we lived outside of Atlanta?” Russell said. “Well, in Buckhead, I got hooked up with a pretty wild bunch of older guys. You know, crazy rich kids who like to drink and party.”
She bit her lip and shrugged.
“So, anyway, I got a DUI.”
Caroline widened her eyes. “Oh my.”
“Yeah.” Russell clamped his hand on the wheel. “I’ve done two driving schools, rehab, almost three hundred hours of community service, and paid huge fines.” He glanced over. “So my parents offered me a deal. Move away for my senior year, stay out of trouble, and they’ll pay for PT school if I get in.”
“Wow.” Caroline held his gaze, then turned and pointed at the black device with a spiral cord near the steering wheel. “So, what’s that for?”
“It’s an ignition interlock thing that I have to breathe into,” he said. “It makes sure I’m not drunk. If it measures that I am, the car won’t start.”
“Couldn’t I breathe into it for you?” Caroline asked.
“Would you?” Russell frowned.
“Of course not,” she answered, indignant. “I was just asking.”
“My parents would ground me for life. Or just send me to some camp for terrible kids out in the middle of nowhere. They’ve found out every single time I’ve done something stupid.”
Caroline settled back against the seat. “Seriously, Russell? I appreciate you telling me.”
“I’m not proud of it.” He looked across the seat at Caroline. “I would have told you before, but there was never a good time . . .”
“Or I wouldn’t listen,” she added and smiled.
“That’s true.” Russell chuckled.
Caroline pressed her palms against her jeans.
“So, what’s going on? What happened?” Russell asked. He focused on the blacktop, then turned off at a small driveway to the left. Shaded with trees, the paved road wound up a hill and ended in front of a bungalow-style home.
“O-kay,” Caroline said slowly. Was this his house? Was she meeting his parents? Maybe she should have stayed at the library, but it was too late now.
Russell parked and looked over at her. “Let’s sit here first. You can tell me everything. If you want to, then we can go inside.”
With a sharp exhale, Caroline began talking. She told him about Emma at the dinner table, how she acted when she brought up June Gaines. She told him about the day at school with the counselor and how she was almost failing scien
ce. And she explained about going to talk to Dr. Gaines and the interruption with the sheriff.
“You’ve had a busy couple of days,” Russell mused. “No wonder you’re freaked.”
Caroline sighed and gave him a lopsided grin.
“Let’s talk to my mom. She came home early this afternoon and can help us figure out what to do.” He glanced at Caroline.
She frowned and gave a quick shake of her head. It was too much for her to carry around. Caroline felt as if she might burst.
“Come on.” Russell motioned. “I promise she won’t bite.”
Despite her reluctance, Caroline followed him up the stairs. Their home was warm and inviting, a lovely bungalow with a wraparound porch, hanging baskets dripping with flowers, and a wooden swing painted white.
Russell waved for her to hurry.
It was perfect. Too perfect. Caroline’s body locked into place. Her life would never be this perfect. His mother wouldn’t understand. “I don’t know about this . . .”
“Um, it’s okay to be nervous,” Russell murmured, coming back across the wooden slats. “It’s normal.”
But this was not a date. They were investigating. And trying to connect pieces of a puzzle. And sticking their noses where they didn’t belong. And they could be making everything more of a mess.
Caroline’s throat was suddenly parched. Russell’s mother was her mother’s boss. She didn’t know if Allie and Natalie talked, what they talked about, or if any of it was about Caroline. She bit her lip.
This wasn’t just butterflies.
This was roller-coaster-just-before-the-big-drop panic.
FORTY-FIVE
CAROLINE
2016
Before Caroline could say another word, a small-boned woman—a miniature version of Russell with shorter hair and a turned-up nose—opened the front door.
“Hey,” she said, smiling. “I’m Natalie. How are you, Caroline?”
“G-good, thank you. Nice to meet you,” she said, hanging back behind Russell.
“Don’t you two want to come in?” Natalie opened the door wider, making room for them to pass.
Sister Dear Page 24