by K. A. Tucker
That pleading tone is like a spell, gripping me. I find myself whispering, “Okay,” before I realize it, then clamping my mouth shut and glancing around to make sure no one heard me.
Shouts fill the room as reporters struggle to get their question heard. Cameras flash and click. But Brett offers a quick, “That’s all, thank you,” and eases himself into the wheelchair. With his father pushing and his mother and sister at his side, he leaves through a side door.
And I can’t help but feel the shift in the air around me.
The news channel moves to a live report from a blonde female reporter. “Brett Madden addresses media for the first time since last week’s tragic car accident that claimed the life of Philadelphia Flyers right wing Seth Grabner. Police have so far withheld details about the accident, but Madden himself has just admitted to being pulled from the wreckage by an unidentified female. The question remains, who is this good Samaritan, and will she finally reveal herself? Well, Raven News may be able to answer Brett Madden’s plea, as our reporters on the ground have uncovered information about the black sedan seen at the scene of the accident.” The screen flashes to my burned-out car. “Stay tuned for more from investigative reporter Camaria Wilkins shortly.”
Lou leans in to whisper. “Your license plate. I’ll bet someone from the towing company leaked it.”
I don’t want her to be right, but Lou’s always right. She’s notorious for it. Tension courses through my body as I accept that the sand in my hourglass of anonymity is close to expiring. I’m about to be outed as the “she,” and if the reaction in that press room was any indication, there’s no way the media’s not going to latch on to this story in a big way.
Lou’s hand settles on my shoulder. “I think it’s time you head out.”
I don’t argue with her. I simply go to the back to grab my purse, hoping I can make it to school to get Brenna before the news breaks.
Chapter 9
“Carrots don’t actually give me night vision. That’s just something parents tell their kids to make them eat their vegetables.” Brenna scrunches her nose up at her plate.
“You’re right.”
Her brows jump a moment before excitement dances in her eyes. “So . . . I don’t have to eat them?”
“Oh, you still do. Or I’m going to make you watch me eat this.” I hold up the Oreo cookie—Brenna’s favorite and the last one in the house.
She scowls at me but pops a carrot into her mouth, because she’s afraid I’m not kidding. She earned her sweet tooth from me, after all.
I sit down across from her.
“You forgot your plate.”
“I’m not feeling well.” My stomach has been in knots since leaving Diamonds.
“Because of your wrist?”
I sigh. “Yeah. Because of my wrist.” How much longer before I find myself explaining things I hadn’t planned on telling her for years? What’s it going to be like for her at school? What are kids going to say to her about her mother?
Oddly enough, she seems to have accepted that it’s just me and her. That a daddy doesn’t fit anywhere in this equation. That doesn’t mean she hasn’t asked—who he is, where he is, is he dead, why doesn’t he live with us. I’ve successfully danced around the answers, telling her that sometimes daddies aren’t around and that’s okay, because that just means I get to love her twice as much.
My phone begins ringing and Lou’s name appears. It’s five P.M. A mere three hours after Brett Madden’s live statement. Part of me doesn’t want to answer the phone, but my gut tells me I should.
Lou’s agitated voice fills my ear. “That sniveling nephew of mine! I’m so sorry, Cath! I can’t believe he would do this!”
I don’t know that I’ve ever heard Lou so upset before. “What did he do?” A sinking feeling tells me it has to do with me.
She groans. “Turn on Channel Seven.”
Oh, God. I already know this is going to be bad.
I had warned my parents not to answer any questions about anything related to me or the accident that might be coming soon. I should call Jack and Emma to tell them the same thing—they still have no idea that I was involved. At least Emma is smart enough not to say anything without first checking with me. I hope Jack is smart enough, but either way, he’s in the middle of his last exam, so I’ll have to wait.
I flip on the TV in time to see Gord’s chubby-cheeked, hairy-mole face fill the screen, a prominent shot of Mayberry’s store signage in the background. A female reporter stands next to him.
“. . . Oh, it’s her all right, the woman I’m dating. Last Friday night, we were having dinner in Belmont, not five minutes away from my store, Mayberry’s New and Used Vehicles.” He enunciates each word of the name slowly and loudly, turning to face the camera as he promotes his store.
Blood rushes to my ears. I can hear Lou saying something through the receiver, but I ignore her, tuned in to the TV.
“. . . She got into her black 2000 Grand Prix at around nine thirty, on her way home to her sweet little daughter. I’ve been tryin’ to get her into something better, but she loves that car! Anyway, she was takin’ her usual route home on Old Cannery Road . . .” My teeth grit as the weasel both outs me and presents himself as someone who knows everything there is to know about me. Gord Mayberry has hit a new low in the ranks of slimy car salesmen. “. . . and she came upon Mr. Grabner’s car. Poor thing, she sprained her wrist somethin’ fierce, tryin’ to get Brett Madden to safety. You should see it, all swollen and bruised and wrapped up in bandages. She’s a single mom and waitress over at my aunt’s diner, Diamonds, out on Route 33, so you can imagine how devastating somethin’ as simple as a sprained wrist might be.”
“Mommy! Who are they talking—”
I cut Brenna off with a sharp shush as I turn the volume up to listen to Gord hang me out to dry.
The reporter shifts her microphone to ask, “Stats put Madden at two hundred and twenty pounds. She must be a strong woman, to pull an unconscious man of that size out of a car.”
Gord belts out one of his awful fake laughs. “No! That’s just it! Cathy’s a tiny wisp of a thing. It’s a damn miracle. Oh!” His hand flies to his mouth. “Sorry for cussin’ on the air. Anyway, divine intervention is what I call it. But it’s just like my girl to help others. She’s come a long way from her wild teenage years, I’ll tell ya.”
“ ‘Wild teenage years’?” the reporter repeats, and I swear her face lights up like a kid discovering a treasure trove of sweets.
“Oh, yeah. That affair with her high school teacher, the Philips guy. Affluent family around these parts, so it was an especially big shock to everyone. Course, she recanted her statement, so who knows what actually happened, but some say that somethin’ happened.”
“Brenna, go to your room right now,” I somehow manage to get out. I’m going to lose my lunch, and it’s been hours since I ate.
I hear her whine of “why?” somewhere in the background, but I’m too focused on the TV to answer.
Here we go again.
Only this time it’s going to be so much worse. This is going to make national news.
“Anyhow, she came in on Sunday with her father—good man—and I set her up with a nice Ford Escape from right here, at Mayberry’s New and Used Vehicles. Hopefully she’ll think twice before parkin’ too close to a burning vehicle next time, am I right?” Again, that fake chuckle, this time embellished with a snort.
“Well, thank you so much for taking the time to speak with us, sir.”
“Yeah, don’t forget. I’m Gord Mayberry, from Mayberry’s New and Used Vehicles. And no problem at all. I don’t know why my Cathy wouldn’t just tell people what happened. She deserves to be recognized. She’s the only reason Madden is alive right now!”
The camera cuts to the reporter, though Gord rambles in the background. “Divine intervention in the form of a young, single mom and waitress from Balsam, Pennsylvania, is apparently what saved Brett Madden’s life.
We’ll be back with more on this developing story, heard on Raven News first.”
A pizza commercial airs as Lou’s sigh fills my ear. “Do you know the idiot called me up all proud of himself, lookin’ for praise for getting both of our family businesses free advertising. I swear, that boy has the same screw loose in his head as his daddy. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
There are at least a dozen things I could name that are wrong with him, but I have bigger things to think about.
Gord just handed me to the media on a silver platter. “Why would they air that? What kind of reporting is that?”
“It’s Raven News. Are you really surprised?”
“No, I guess not.” They’re notorious for being bullies and reporting on events without actual, confirmed proof. “But—”
Knuckles wrap on my front door.
“I’ll get it!” Brenna hollers, skipping from her bedroom.
“No!” I don’t mean to yell at her, but I’m too freaked out to keep my voice level. I didn’t even hear the steps creak, a telltale warning that someone is here. “Come here and finish your dinner.” To Lou, I say, “Give me a sec. It’s probably Keith.” I set the phone down on the table and head over to answer the door.
It’s not Keith.
It’s the same reporter who was just on TV with Gord, and she’s now standing on my front stoop, a microphone in hand, a monstrous camera angled directly on me behind her, the bright beam of light capturing what I’m sure is a ghostly pale face. “Catherine Wright! We’ve received reports that you are the woman who pulled Brett Madden out of a burning vehicle. Is this true?”
She shoves the microphone into my face, waiting.
I’m frozen, caught in that lens like a deer in headlights for two . . . three . . . four seconds, before I snap out of it and step back to slam the door in her face, fumbling with the dead bolt, my hand trembling.
I’m such an idiot. I should have checked the porch through the blinds before I opened the door. But I’ve never had to before. No one but Keith ever just shows up.
“Mommy, what’s going on?” Brenna stares at me with wide, fearful eyes. She’s not used to seeing me like that. I always strive to keep a calm, cool head around her.
“Nothing. Stay put.” I slink over to the living room window and push the blinds open a crack to peek through. The news van is parked next to the Dumpster in the pool hall parking lot, and a photographer is taking pictures of my tiny ramshackle house.
I sense Brenna coming up beside me and I pull her away just before her tiny fingers go for the blinds. “No. Stay back!”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.” I cringe the moment the words come out of my mouth, because I always hated that answer coming from my own mother. I promised myself I’d never use it, and I’ve been good about that up until now.
Lou’s loud voice carries from my phone, calling my name. I forgot about her.
“Reporter. On my doorstep. The same one that interviewed Gord.” I was obviously watching a replay if the woman had time to get here from Belmont.
“Oh, Lordie.” I can just picture Lou rubbing at the frown line between her eyes. “They’re like hounds after blood.”
“How did they find me so fast?”
“They had someone in the DMV run your plates.” She says it so matter-of-factly.
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Like they’d care if it was. They want this story.”
I sigh. “What do I do? They’re still out there.”
“They’re trespassing and invading your privacy. Call Keith.”
Another sigh. “Right.” I don’t like taking advantage of my friendship with him, but I don’t have much choice. I peek out the blinds again. “Okay. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Are you nuts? You’re not coming in here.”
“But it’s Saturday.” I make triple what I would on any other day.
“That envelope I gave you should more than cover it. And I have it in my mind to make my no-good nephew fork over some money to help cover what you’ll be missing on account of his big mouth. You mark my words.”
There’s no point arguing with Lou, and besides, I don’t have the energy. A week of poor sleep, nightmares, and constant worry has finally taken its toll on me, drawing dark circles under my eyes and weighing down my weary body.
“Keep me updated about what’s goin’ on, ya hear?”
“Yeah.” I hang up with Lou and see the slew of missed calls from my mother and Misty. No way in hell can I deal with Misty right now.
The news anchors fill the TV screen again. “Police are still not releasing the name of the woman who pulled Brett Madden from a burning car last week, but local sources have named twenty-four-year-old Catherine Wright as the driver of the 2000 Grand Prix.”
“Mommy!”
“This isn’t the first time Catherine Wright made headlines. Back in 2010, she claimed she had an affair with her—” I squeeze the Power button on the remote control so hard that the plastic body makes a cracking sound as the TV shuts off.
“Why are they talking about you? What were they going to say?” Brenna’s big eyes peer up at me. “What’s an . . . affair?” She tests out the word on her tongue for the first time.
I’m not ready for this. How much easier it would be if this had happened four years ago, when she was still blowing raspberries and throwing oatmeal at the wall, happy and oblivious. “Just . . . Go and finish your dinner. Please, Brenna.” I toss the remote to the couch, fighting tears of dread.
“Damn, I can’t watch this.” Keith only flipped on the TV a minute ago but he shuts it off now, the five-to-one score for Toronto painful to see. Anyone who was hoping the Flyers would rally in memory of their two players will be sorely disappointed.
He peeks through the blinds. “We can keep a car on Rawley’s for the night, as long as they don’t get called away on an emergency.”
“Are the reporters gone?”
“No, but they’re out on the street now.”
“How many?”
He hesitates. “More than one.”
I groan.
“Not much we can do about it unless they’re disturbing the peace. You know, all that journalistic rights bullshit.” Keith isn’t a fan of reporters, either, but that has more to do with them pestering him for story leads than any past interest they’ve had in me.
“What about my rights?” I mutter, wandering over to my kitchen cupboard.
Keith offers me an apologetic smile. “You know they’re not going to stop until they get their story. As soon as you leave the house, they’ll be on you, with cameras.”
I sigh, reaching for the bottle of chardonnay from the cabinet above the fridge, a Christmas gift from Emma. It’s seven bucks at the grocery store, not exactly high end. Still, wine is a luxury these days, so I’ve been holding on to it for a special occasion.
And SunnyD just isn’t going to cut it tonight.
“Want some?” I wave it his way, earning his grimace. “It’s not chilled, but I can put some ice in it.”
He tosses his phone and keys on the kitchen table. “My night’s clear now, so yeah, I can stick around for a bit. As long as you never tell the guys.”
I scan his jeans and button-down shirt. I’m used to seeing Keith in uniform, so maybe it’s that, but he looks different tonight. More put together than usual. “What were you doing when I called, anyway?”
He waves my question away with, “Ah, nothing. I was just going to meet up with someone, but I can do that anytime.”
I’m dumping ice cubes into two glasses when it finally clicks. The cologne, the chain around his neck . . . “You had a date tonight, didn’t you?”
“Like I said, no big deal.” He heads into Brenna’s room to tuck her in and say good night. Thankfully, as soon as Keith showed up, she quickly forgot about everything else.
Great. Now I feel bad. Keith had to cancel his date because of me. Keith rarely ever go
es on dates. The guys around the station give him the gears about it constantly. I know because I overhear some of it when they come into Diamonds.
My phone chirps with a text from its resting spot on my table, and my shoulders instinctively tense. Raven News got hold of my home number and started calling me every five minutes until I unplugged the old rotary phone. I may have to power this one off next, if they’ve managed to find it.
It’s not Raven News, though. It’s Jack.
I turn my phone on after my last exam to find out that my sister saved my idol’s life. Are you fucking serious????
I sigh. Looks like news has reached Minnesota, and likely the entire rest of the country. I guess that means Emma has heard by now, too. She’s not done with exams until next week. Luckily, it would take a nuclear bomb to disrupt her study schedule.
I punch out, Sorry. I didn’t want to distract you. I’ll call you tomorrow, promise.
Of everyone in my family, Jack’s the only one I’ve never gone out of my way to avoid. But this isn’t the kind of thing you text about, and I’m not up to answering a million questions just yet. Misty has already lit up my phone with a slew of messages. I made her the same promise, though I’ll be stretching that “tomorrow” out as long as possible.
Brenna’s giggles carry from her room, so Keith is suitably distracted. I do what I promised him I wouldn’t. Grabbing the remote, I turn the TV back on, lowering the volume so far that I have to stand right in front of it to hear the reporter. “. . . Our sources have confirmed that the Grand Prix removed from the scene of the accident is registered to Catherine Wright of Balsam County. We know that she was driving her car on Old Cannery Road at the approximate time of the accident, and that the woman who called nine-one-one identified herself as Catherine. We have yet to speak to the single twenty-four-year-old mother and waitress, who has refused several of our attempts to get her side of the story.”