Everything We Lost

by Valerie Geary

  He took money from his wallet and counted out enough to cover the check. “Stop apologizing and make it right.”

  He laid the bills down in the center of the table, then slid out of the booth and left.

  Lucy cradled her head in her hands and choked back a sob. “That’s not how it was supposed to go,” she whispered, her breath ragged and damp.

  Gabriella rubbed Lucy’s back. “You have to try and understand, dear. All Sandra’s had to hold on to for so long is her faith. She believes her boy is out there somewhere. Alive. She believes he might come back to her someday too. And that belief, that’s what’s keeping her from falling apart. She was in a dark place for a long time, Lucy, and it takes enormous strength for her not to go back there. You should be proud of her. Proud of how far she’s come.”

  Lucy stared out the restaurant window. Jim and Tilly walked with Sandra between them; each had an arm around her, holding her upright, helping her back to her car where Kepler was waiting, his big black head sticking out the window, tongue dangling from his open mouth. Wyatt was a few steps behind, his head bent, talking into a cell phone.

  “But she needs more than just faith,” Gabriella continued. “She needs family. She needs you. She always has.”

  If that were true, if Sandra really needed Lucy, if she loved her daughter at all, she would have stopped drinking years ago. She would have worried more about Lucy skipping school, staying out past curfew, dying her hair pink. She would have acted more like a mother and less like an underpaid babysitter. And she never would have let Lucy leave Bishop; she would have fought for her to stay. It was true, Lucy had abandoned her mother at a fragile moment, but she’d been all of fourteen. She didn’t know any better, and anyway, if they were keeping score, Sandra had abandoned Lucy first.

  “I know it might not seem like it sometimes, but Sandra does love you, Lucy. She loves you very much, but she’s afraid to get close to you, afraid of how much it will hurt if she loses you the way she’s lost Nolan. But you can’t abandon her now. Not again. You need her as much as she needs you. So you have to keep trying, Lucy, you have to find your way back to each other.” Gabriella reached over and squeezed Lucy’s hand.

  Lucy stared, unable to speak, startled by the accuracy with which the older woman interpreted her private thoughts.

  Gabriella laughed and shook her head. “Oh, child, your doubt is exhausting.”

  12

  The man at the front desk, younger, with slender cheeks and a stylish fauxhawk, pointed Lucy to a chair in the waiting room and told her to have a seat. Then he dialed an extension and spoke into his phone, “Yes, there’s a Lucy Durant here to see you?” A pause and then, “Yes, okay.” He hung up and smiled stiffly at Lucy. “Mr. Tyndale is just finishing up a call. He’ll be with you in a moment.”

  She didn’t have an appointment. She’d driven four and a half hours straight from Jake’s to Patrick’s office in Los Angeles, a downtown high-rise near the Central Library. She had thought about calling first, but didn’t want to give Patrick the opportunity to tell her no. She flipped through an Architectural Digest while she waited, but had trouble concentrating on any one page.

  The last time Lucy saw Patrick was the day after Nolan’s disappearance made newspaper headlines. He’d been missing for five days at that point, and Lucy’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She had been seeing shadows at night, darting in and out of her peripheral vision, and she was having trouble sleeping. When she did manage to fall asleep, she had nightmares where she was trying to run, but couldn’t. Her legs were broken or full of sand or stitched on backwards. Also, she’d started hearing things outside her bedroom window late at night, or thought she was hearing things—whispers, revving engines, strange voices calling her name. No, the noises, the voices, they were all real. She definitely heard them. The other possibility, that she was losing touch with reality the exact same way Nolan had, was not one she was willing to accept. She was just overtired, nervous from all the people coming in and out of the house and from walking on eggshells around her mother. She was also, if she was honest with herself, feeling a little guilty about not being home the night Nolan went missing, about being drunk and not knowing for certain where she’d been and what she’d done. Then Detective Mueller came and asked her a bunch of questions she didn’t have answers to, and she realized this was only the beginning, that her nightmares would get worse unless she filled in the blanks. After Mueller left the house and her mother locked herself in her room with a bottle of wine, Lucy called the one person she thought could help.

  Patrick agreed to meet her at Juan’s Taqueria, but when she got there he wasn’t alone. Adam was there too, smirking and stuffing his face with chips and salsa. The three of them huddled together around a table at the back of the restaurant. An older woman with a slight accent took their order. Lucy had no appetite and asked for a Coke. Patrick and Adam, though, ordered enchiladas and four kinds of tacos and another basket of chips and salsa, enough food for a small army. Lucy told them about the detective coming to her house and asking her a bunch of questions about the night Nolan went missing, where she was, who she was with, what she was doing.

  In a calm voice, Patrick asked, “So what did you tell him?”

  “I told him we got burgers and drove around listening to music and then we went home.”

  Adam splintered a chip between his teeth. “You told him you were with us?”

  “I told him I was with Patrick,” she clarified, and then gave him a pleading look. “I was, wasn’t I?”

  “You don’t remember?” Patrick asked.

  Lucy massaged her temples. “I remember. I guess. I mean, I remember you came and picked me up and we drove around for a while. But I don’t remember what we did exactly and I don’t remember how I got home.”

  Adam snorted a laugh. “You were pretty drunk.”

  “So let me get this straight,” Patrick said. “You told the cops you were with me, but you didn’t say anything about Adam?”

  She nodded.

  “Fuck yeah, bitch.” Adam slapped both hands on the table, rattling the glasses and silverware.

  Lucy shrank under Patrick’s hard stare. He dragged a chip through the salsa bowl and then crunched down on it. After swallowing, he shrugged. “Whatever. It’s not like we did anything wrong.”

  “We were drinking,” Lucy said quietly. “A lot. And driving.”

  Patrick shrugged again. “You didn’t tell them that, though, did you? You didn’t tell them we were drinking?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then I’d like to see them prove it.”

  He smiled at her, and her insides turned cold. “It’s no big deal, really, Lucy. It’s not. If they come talk to me, and they probably won’t, but if they do, I’ll tell them what you told them. We got burgers. We drove around listening to music. We went home. End of story.”

  But was it? Lucy wanted to know. Because she’d come home with cut-up knees and a faint memory of being somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be, and no good explanation for either. “What about Nolan?” she asked. “Did we . . . ? I mean, was he . . . ?” She didn’t know quite what she was trying to ask.

  “We never saw him,” Patrick said.

  Then he made them both swear on their lives that whatever happened from this point forward, they would stick to the story they’d come up with today. “And,” he said, taking a pocketknife from his jeans and nicking each of their thumbs enough to draw up a single drop of blood, “no one says anything about the fly-by either.” He was talking about their stupid prank, but what that had to do with Nolan’s disappearance, Lucy didn’t know.

  “We didn’t do anything wrong,” Patrick said. “Remember that.”

  He stuck up his thumb. A dark red bead quivered on the surface of his skin. Adam was quick to push his thumb to Patrick’s, their blood smearing together in a macabre promise. The boys stared at her, waiting. Lucy looked down at her stinging thumb, at the blood bubbling from the place
where Patrick’s knife had pierced her skin. She had a sudden desire to run home, but there was no one there who could make her feel better, no one who could fix this. She’d pressed her thumb to Patrick’s, her blood sealing the oath.

  A door opened in the long hallway off the waiting room. Lucy put down the magazine.

  She’d worn the nicest clothes she could find in the mess of boxes still piled in her car, but having Patrick in front of her now, dressed in an expensive three-piece suit, his Italian leather loafers polished to a shine, a diamond-encrusted watch glittering on his wrist, his smile just as brilliant and charming as ever—this, plus the way his eyes flicked over her like she was a painting and he was trying to figure out how he felt about the brushstrokes and colors, whether she was worth hanging on his wall or not—all culminated in her feeling completely inadequate, a third-rate slob. She tugged at the hem of her oversized black T-shirt and then wrapped her royal purple cardigan tight around her chest. For the first time she noticed the right cuff was starting to fray. Her designer jeans were faded. Dust coated and dulled her shoes, her stupid neon pink and green sneakers, like the kind a kid would wear.

  For a second, neither of them spoke, and then Patrick said her name. “It’s so good to see you.” His voice was deeper than she remembered, but familiar still, and for a second, she felt fourteen again, all nervous energy and desperation, her heart leaping into her throat. He stepped forward and embraced her.

  She had forgotten how good it felt to be held. By anyone, but especially by him. He smelled like clean laundry and some faint musky cologne. He’d grown into a strong man, bulkier in the arms and chest than when he was in high school. Clearly he spent more time lifting weights these days than running laps. He held her tight enough she could feel his heart beating, and she remembered how once, the same night as the helicopter prank, after they’d had sex for the first and only time, she’d tried to match her heartbeat to his, slowing her breath to synchronize the rhythm, but failing. His heart always at least a half beat ahead of hers, but she had believed that if she could do this one thing, get their hearts to sync up, that somehow this would make their love real. She remembered the possessive way his fingers had played with her hair, how they trailed greedily down her neck to her breasts. She remembered, too, the angry weight of him pressing down, almost suffocating her, the false promises he’d sighed into her ear, the way the stars looked upside down through fogged windows, the whole world upended.

  Another beat and then Patrick released her and took a step back. “Let’s talk in my office.”

  He led her down the hallway to a large, enclosed room with picture windows lining one wall and showcasing a billion-dollar skyline. The furniture was modern, clean lines and efficiency. He closed the door behind her and gestured to a minibar beside a steel-frame bookshelf loaded with law books and travel guides. “Something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.” She hated the stiffness in her voice, how clearly it betrayed her.

  He invited her to sit on a contoured, gray plastic chair positioned at a slight angle in front of his desk. She sat. He stayed standing, leaning against his desk, crossing his legs at the ankle and his arms over his chest, peering down his nose, giving her that same once-over look he’d given her in the waiting room.

  “Adam messaged me on Facebook,” he said. “Told me he saw you hanging around Riley’s, but I didn’t believe him.” He laughed a little, and Lucy’s heart stuttered over the sound. Her stupid, useless heart. “Ten years, can you believe it? I’m sorry I haven’t kept in better touch. I tried to find you on Facebook.”

  She hated herself for believing that he had actually tried. “I don’t use Facebook.”

  “Well, that explains it.” He smiled and then pushed off the desk and walked around to the opposite side where he lowered himself into a black leather office chair. “You’re looking well, Lucy. Are you? Well, I mean? And happy?”

  She ignored his questions and cut straight to the point. “We need to talk about the night Nolan went missing.”

  He frowned at a spot over her shoulder and then rocked back in his chair, lacing his fingers together above his chest. “What about it?”

  His tone was all business now, curt and humorless.

  “I want to know what happened,” she said. “I’m trying to remember.”

  He tilted his head slightly. “Remember what?”

  “What we did that night. What I did.” She pressed a hand to her chest.

  He sighed. “I’m sorry, Lucy, I’m having trouble understanding exactly what it is you think I can help you with.”

  “You were there.”

  “Where?”

  She couldn’t believe he was toying with her like this, making her beg.

  “Please,” she said. “Just tell me what happened that night. Tell me what we did.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched and his eyes narrowed. “I picked you up. We went and got burgers. We drove around listening to music. Then I took you home.” His voice was monotone. “End of story.”

  “But it’s not, is it,” she pressed. “There’s more. There must be more. Patrick, please, I drove all this way—”

  “No one asked you to.”

  “—just tell me the truth. What did we do? After the burgers, after we started drinking. What happened after that?”

  He studied her a moment, and then with sympathy said, “He was my friend once too, Lucy.” When she started to protest, he held up one hand. “I know it’s not the same. I can only begin to imagine how hard it’s been for you. Growing up without your big brother, and all these years with no new developments in the case. All these years not knowing what the hell happened.” He shook his head. “It’s not right and I can imagine how all that wondering could start to wear on a person, but, Lucy . . .” He leaned forward again, placing his hands on the desk. “Believe me when I tell you that it’s in your best interest to let this go.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were drinking that night,” he explained. “You remember that part at least, right?”

  “You were too.”

  “Yes,” he conceded with a nod of his head. “We were all drinking. But that’s only part of the problem.”

  Patrick got up from his desk and went to the minibar where he poured himself a tumbler of bourbon over a single ice cube. He took a sip, then asked, “Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

  “If you know something,” Lucy said, “if we went to the observatory that night, if we were there, you need to tell me. I need to know what happened to him. If we did something . . .” But the rest of the sentence got jammed in her throat and she couldn’t finish.

  “I don’t know what happened to him.” Patrick swirled the ice in the glass once, took another sip, and then carried the rest back to his desk. He sat down again, holding on to the tumbler with both hands. “You really don’t remember anything at all?”

  “Bits and pieces,” she said. “But nothing feels real. It’s all shadows and fuzz and most of it feels like a dream, you know, like I’m just imagining it.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll tell you.”

  Her breath caught in her chest. All these years, and all she had to do was ask? It couldn’t be this easy, this straightforward. Nothing was with Patrick.

  He continued, a warning in his voice, “But, Lucy, I’m serious about letting this go. As a defense attorney, I deal with this kind of shit every day. We’re always taking on clients who go around flapping their gums. Innocent people, witnesses, who tell the cops everything they saw and answer every question, thinking they’re helping the investigation, only to find themselves marked as a person of interest. And once the cops have you marked, they tend not to look very hard in other directions. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  She did. She thought she did. “But if it’s something that can reopen the investigation. If it could help bring Nolan home—”

  “It won’t.” His words clipped short. “Trust me. The detective w
ill twist it to fit his narrative, even if that narrative is wrong. I’ve seen more than one innocent person sent away for life because they were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time doing something stupid. But let me tell you right now. Stupidity is not a crime.”

  He reached across his desk and turned a frame toward her so she could see the picture behind the glass. The woman in the photo was model beautiful, with perfect bone structure and perfect straight teeth and long dark hair cascading in perfect soft curls around her shoulders. In her arms, she held a smiling baby with perfect dimples and a tuft of downy blond hair covering the top of its head. The ocean glittered diamonds in the distance behind them.

  “My wife and daughter.” Patrick turned the photograph to face him, his thumb running over the glass. “She’ll be four months old tomorrow. Elizabeth. After my grandmother. We weren’t planning on getting pregnant so soon, but . . .” He flashed Lucy a tight smile and returned the frame to its place near his computer. “These things happen.” He folded his hands together on the desk, his thumbs working back and forth against each other nervously. “Lucy, you have to promise me that what I’m about to tell you won’t leave this office.”

  She hesitated. “You know I can’t do that.”

  His lips retreated into a thin line, pressed flat between his teeth. He seemed to be weighing his options, whether or not what he was about to tell her was worth the risk. He must have decided it was because he said, “We called Nolan that night. Do you remember that?”

  “When?”

  “Around midnight. A little before. We called from a phone booth outside of Liquor and Stuff. You pretended to be Celeste.”

  Lucy stared over his shoulder and out the window, trying to remember. Sandwiched between a knitting shop and a used bookstore, Liquor and Stuff was part liquor, part convenience store in a strip mall downtown. It was open twenty-four hours.

  “We were trying to find someone to buy us beer,” Lucy said, an image surfacing of the three of them—her and Patrick and Adam—pacing the sidewalk in front of the store, harassing an old man with an eye patch and a limp who just wanted to buy his forty and go. The manager of the place had come outside and said they had ten seconds to scram or he was calling the police. They’d gone, but only around the corner. The phone booth was covered in graffiti, the door missing.