by K. A. Tucker
My stomach tightens with wariness the moment I feel the weight of it, sensing the thick wad inside. I tear it open and my jaw drops. “What the . . .” I fan it with my thumb. Twenties and fifties and hundreds.
There are thousands of dollars in here.
Along with a note and two hockey tickets. I immediately recognize Brett’s writing.
Catherine,
I know you don’t want my money. That’s why you need to take this.
—Brett
Heat flushes to my cheeks. He must have snuck the envelope into the cabinet yesterday. Either way . . . he’s right, I’m not okay with accepting a secret stash of cash from him.
I fumble for my phone. Scrolling through my list of contacts, I stall for all of three seconds before I hit Call. Despite my immediate anger, I also feel more than a hint of excitement that I have an excuse to call him.
My heart sinks just slightly when it goes to voice mail.
“Hi, it’s me, Catherine.” How many Catherines does he know? “Catherine Wright,” I clarify, and then roll my eyes at myself. “I just found the envelope tucked in my cupboard. I wish you hadn’t done that. Thank you, but . . . you really shouldn’t have.” Maybe I should have given this some thought before calling. “This is way too much. I get that you want to cover the income I’ve lost, but I’ve only been off two weeks. I wouldn’t earn this much in four months. And I didn’t do what I did for money. Even after I found out who you were, I still didn’t want your money. I’ve told you all this already. It’s like . . .” I’m struggling to articulate what I want to say. I did a better job with Kate Wethers, even when I sounded like a love-struck girl. “It’s like you’re handing me a reward for saving your life. Like you put a price on your life and apparently it’s worth . . . I don’t know, what is this?” I thumb through it again. “Five thousand? Six? You’re worth way more than six thousand dollars.” I gasp the second the words leave my mouth and register in my brain. “Wait! That came out wrong. That doesn’t mean I want more money. I don’t want any of it.” I groan. “God, I hate leaving voice messages.”
I turn to find Brenna standing in her bedroom doorway in her Olaf pajamas, staring at me with wide, curious eyes. I must sound like a crazy person right now, ranting at someone on the phone for giving us money, when for her entire life, she’s heard me talking about things we can’t afford.
I take a deep breath, and when it sails out my lungs, some of my steam goes with it. “I appreciate the gesture. But I just can’t accept it. I need you to take it back. Good night.”
I hang up, wishing there was a way to delete my voice mail and start over. I briefly consider calling back and leaving another, more civil message, but I’m afraid it’ll only make this entire situation more embarrassing.
Then it occurs to me: Was he screening my call? Has he been waiting for me to find the envelope?
I frown. “What day is it, again?”
“Thursday.”
I dart over to turn on the TV and search out the Flyers game. My stress over the money temporarily vanishes as I see the score. “They’re going to win!” There’s only thirty seconds left in the game and the Flyers are ahead by two goals. Brett is guaranteed to be watching the game right now and on the edge of his seat. No wonder he didn’t answer.
I sigh with relief as the seconds count down and the buzzer goes, and the Flyers collide into each other in a sweaty heap of joy. At least Brett will be in a good mood when he listens to my ranting, rambling message, and then dismisses my request entirely, as I assume he’s going to.
“Come on, Brenna. Let’s go read that book.”
Chapter 16
I still can’t hear a knock on my door without tensing up, it seems. Not even when I’m expecting someone. Like my parents, who are coming here to watch the Weekly broadcast with me.
Mom called earlier today, adamant that I bring Brenna to their house to watch the interview together. I refused. I haven’t left the house since Wednesday, except to ride with Vince to take Brenna to school, and I have no intention of doing so until it’s all over.
So she told me they were coming here and hung up before I could tell her not to. That I’d rather send Brenna to her room, turn all the lights out, and watch it alone, almost as terrified today as the day I told the police and the DA that I was recanting my statement.
I rush to the door, not because I’m eager but because I don’t know who might be lurking with cameras in Rawley’s parking lot and I don’t want to subject my parents to that.
My plan is to hide behind the door and shut it the second they cross the threshold, but when I see Jack and Emma trailing them, I forget about potential spies in the bushes.
“Uncle Jack!” Brenna shrieks, tearing across our living room to throw herself into his arms.
“Jack?” I can’t help but stare up at him. He left for college last fall and didn’t come home for Christmas because the flights were too expensive and a seventeen-hour drive in the winter wasn’t smart. In that time, he’s packed at least thirty pounds of muscle onto his six-foot frame and grown his short dirty blond hair out into a shaggy style.
“Got any food?” He chuckles, patting his hard stomach before wrapping his arm around my neck and pulling me into a hug.
“What the hell have you been eating in Minnesota?”
“That’s what I asked him,” Emma jokes, pushing the door closed behind her.
Her round blue eyes settle on me as she tucks a strand of hair—cut to her shoulders now—behind her ear. I’ve always envied her for that auburn shade. It’s so much richer than my ash-blonde. She inherited other things I have coveted, too—a C-cup, long legs, and a brain that can solve complex math equations effortlessly. “Hey, Cath.”
“Hey . . . I thought you had an exam today.”
She shrugs. “Yeah, I finished it and jumped in the car to get here in time.”
“Wow, that’s . . .” That’s a three-hour drive. That’s something I’d never expect Emma to do on my expense. We used to be a lot closer when we were younger, but we drifted, and then I became the older fuck-up sister who put our family through hell and she became the angel child who could do no wrong. I know I embarrass her. She told me as much.
Wait a minute. I turn to Jack, who’s holding a squirming and giggling Brenna under one arm like a football. “Weren’t you supposed to be in Cancún until Sunday?” He was definitely there. He has the burned nose and golden tan to prove it.
“Managed to get an earlier flight back. Just walked through the door a half hour ago.”
“Yeah, cutting it close.” Dad throws a playful punch at Jack on his way to claim the La-Z-Boy. “Your mother said you had leftovers?”
I head straight for my fridge to pull out the containers I packed. “Sandwiches and salads. Beer, too. Want one?” Keith stocked the fridge for himself, but I’m sure he won’t mind.
“Yes, please,” Jack calls out.
“Have you somehow aged by two years since you went away?” Mom shakes her head at me, taking one for my father.
Jack groans and settles himself into the love seat. “Why did I agree to come home this summer?”
“Because you missed me!” Brenna grins wide as she climbs onto his lap. She’ll be all Uncle Jack this and Uncle Jack that for the next week.
He tickles her ribs. “Not as much as you missed me.”
Not as much as I missed him, I realize, watching the two of them now.
“How old are these?” Emma asks, through a bite of a sandwich, wiping her mouth of croissant flakes.
I can’t read her expression. Is she about to comment on how they’re not fresh? “They’re from the interview on Wednesday. They should still be fine, though.”
“They’re really good.” Emma takes another big bite, her finger picking up a loose twig of rosemary as I let myself relax. “They’re fancy.”
“Well, Meryl Price was eating them so . . .”
“I still can’t believe you guys met her. What’s she
like?”
“It was only for a minute but she seemed gracious.” Mom hands Jack a plate that she made for him.
I roll my eyes at him, mouthing “giant baby.”
He grins in response as half a sandwich disappears into his mouth with one bite.
Mom carries one of my kitchen chairs over to settle next to my father. Emma does the same, finding another open space, leaving me a spot on the love seat next to my brother. It’s strange to have my family in my home. My sparkling-clean home. It’s the cleanest it’s probably ever been. I spent the past two days scouring every inch, trying to keep my mind and nerves occupied.
My family has never all been here at once. Emma’s never been, period. But they’re here now, in an unspoken show of solidarity, Jack going as far as to cut his vacation short by two days. It’s suddenly overwhelming.
I thought I was nervous on the day of filming. Now that I’m about to watch myself on TV—knowing that millions of people are also going to be watching this—I’m considering setting a bowl beside me just in case I need to puke in it.
“Why did I ever agree to this?” I grumble, sliding into my spot on the love seat.
“Because of all those reporters hounding you,” my dad reminds me through a sip of his beer. “I only saw two guys hanging around on the bench tonight when we drove in. He was right.”
“Who was right?” Brenna chirps.
“Brett, sweetie.” I smooth her matted hair and plant a kiss on top of her head. “Remember? The man with the broken leg.”
“I forget what he looks like.”
Rivetingly handsome. “You’re going to see. He’ll be on TV, too.”
“When can he come here again?”
“Better be soon, because I can’t believe you met him before I did,” Jack growls through a mouthful, throwing me a piercing glare.
“He’s in Canada right now.”
“Well, when he’s back.”
“I don’t think he’ll be coming around again anytime soon.” He hasn’t responded to my ranting voice message from last night either. I don’t know if that’s his way of refusing to acknowledge my refusal, or if he’s figuring it’s been two weeks since the accident, he’s paid up, and the interview’s done, so it’s an acceptable time to cut ties.
Footfalls on my porch steps sound and I instinctively hold my breath.
A moment later, the door creaks open and Keith steps in.
“Hey!” my dad hollers, holding up his bottle of beer in the air as if to toast him. “Thought you were gonna miss it.”
I frown at Keith’s uniform. “You don’t start until eleven.”
“I’m covering a few hours for someone. Jetting over as soon as this is done.” He reaches over to clasp hands with Jack. “Dang, you’re gonna get too big to skate fast.”
Jack gives him a mock glare. “No way.”
“Hey, Squirt.”
Brenna only smiles.
“What? No hello for me now that he’s here?”
She answers with that maniacal laugh of hers, which makes me shake my head.
“Quiet! It’s on!” Mom exclaims, ending all conversation.
Oh, God. My stomach rolls as I slide an arm around Brenna to pull her close to me, suddenly wishing that everyone would just leave so I can die of embarrassment alone.
My phone dings with an incoming text and I glance at it, assuming it’s Lou or Misty, both at Diamonds tonight.
It’s a text from Brett.
Are you watching?
A flutter of excitement competes with my anxiety.
With a full entourage. You?
With my dad and grandparents. Granny’s making popcorn. I think she assumes this is one of my mom’s movies.
I’ll admit it gives me some comfort to know he’s watching with me, even if he’s a thousand miles away.
Just wanted to check in. I’ll let you go.
I want to respond, to tell him to not let me go, that he can check in with me anytime he wants, but Kate Wethers and her co-anchor, Rick Daly, a broad-shouldered man of about forty with caramel skin and a wide, charming smile, fill the TV screen, distracting me.
Her strong but smooth voice fills my house once again. “Most of you have heard about the recent tragic car crash that claimed the life of Philadelphia Flyers right wing Seth Grabner and nearly claimed that of Brett Madden, captain of the Flyers and son of Academy Award–winning actress Meryl Price. Thanks to the determination of a good Samaritan, Brett’s life was saved. On Wednesday night, I traveled to Balsam, Pennsylvania, to speak with this good Samaritan, Catherine Wright, a twenty-four-year-old single mother and waitress, who just happened to be at the right place at the right time. For Brett Madden, that is. As you can imagine, there has been a lot of excitement in the media for this story, amplified by the fact that Catherine remained in hiding for an entire week from everyone, including the man whom she saved. Tonight we are bringing you an exclusive interview as Catherine speaks out for the first time since the tragedy.”
“Mommy, you’re squeezing me too tight!” Brenna complains, and in her next breath, she squeals, “That’s our living room!”
There I am, dressed in my dusty-rose blouse and sitting stiffly on my floral couch next to Brett, who’s leaning back, his elbow propped on the armrest. Even with a broken leg and in pain, he looks at ease next to me.
I wore the wrong blouse. Under those lights, the pink matches the pink base color in the couch. I match my couch. Why did no one tell me to go change? And there sit Brett and Kate, looking sleek and stylish in their solid dark colors.
Maybe no one will notice.
“You match the couch!” Brenna exclaims, earning my groan and Jack’s chuckle.
“You look really great, Cath,” Keith offers to soften the reality.
I guess I do look okay, other than my bad clothing choice. “They did my makeup,” I mumble, unable to keep my eyes from Brett, remembering the feel of his arm occasionally brushing against mine in this very spot. The makeup girl did manage to catch him with some powder around his eyes and it helped a bit, but Brett looks pretty banged up. And yet still handsome, play-off scruff, bruises, red angry, scar and all.
“That’s the guy I met.”
I wrap my arm around Brenna and pull her to me tight, shushing her with “Yes. Let’s watch.”
“How did he break his leg?”
“His car hit a tree. Now hush.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Yes. Shhh!”
Shivers run down my spine as I listen to myself recount details from the night, my voice sounding so foreign. The camera has zoomed in on my face, and I struggle not to silently criticize my nose, and my expressions, and anything else I can self-consciously pick apart about myself.
Anyone can see that I’m nervous. They’ve edited the interview well, though, the frames zooming in and out on each of our faces when we’re speaking, catching plenty of close-ups of Brett as he listens to me talk.
In fact, the two of us share the screen a lot.
I didn’t realize how focused Brett was on me while I was talking, not until I see it now. His eyes hardly ever left my profile, his jaw tightening, his chest rising with deep breaths, his eyes blinking back emotion of his own, his hand on his lap tensing, fingers stretching as if he’s about to reach for me more than once.
And once or twice, the camera captures a close-up of his aqua blue eyes when I turn to look at him. That fascinated way he looked at me—I didn’t imagine it. The camera has caught it, plain as day.
It also captures the times those eyes drop to my mouth. I feel my face heating as my entire family watches and listens quietly. Somehow, with only angles and edits, The Weekly has made this look like a highly intimate interview.
They didn’t edit out any of the dialogue either. Not even the part where I disparage myself and look down at my chest. That earned Jack’s belt of laughter, even as my cheeks burned bright. The only thing I noticed that they did take out was the part where Simone to
ld them to move on, but the part about Brenna’s father not being a part of our lives . . . even that’s still there.
Thankfully, Keith sensed the topic switching to Scott Philips and scooped up Brenna before I had a chance to, carrying her to her bedroom with a promise to show her something cool on his phone. She’ll hear about her mother’s sordid past sooner than I’d like, but not tonight.
The fifteen-minute on-site segment is over in a flash, and then the show is back to Kate and Rick in their newsroom. “What an incredible story!” Rick exclaims. “Can you imagine driving home on some lonely dark road and coming across a wreck like that? I mean, I’d like to think I’d do the same thing that Catherine Wright did.”
“We’d all like to think we’d be that brave, but honestly? I don’t know how many people would be. Especially when you’re a petite woman? You saw the two of them sitting next to each other. That wasn’t a trick of the camera. She’s half his size!”
She’s right about the size, but I’m beginning to think there may have been some tricks of the camera. Putting us side by side on a snug couch, having my knee rest against his, all the close-ups . . .
I can’t help but think they’re trying to suggest something.
“She seems like a real sweetheart. Honestly, I had no idea what kind of person you’d be facing when you went off for that interview.”
“A brave young woman who is working and raising her daughter in the best way she can is who I was facing.” Kate’s shaking her head. “Nothing makes my blood boil as much as hearing how, at seventeen, she was victimized not only by a teacher but also by the school principal and her community.”
“We only have her word, though, Kate. And she recanted her statement,” Rick warns.
“Because she was in love with him. I believe that she was telling the truth in the first place. The statement she gave to the police, she didn’t know she had any other choice. She was seventeen and terrified. And we do have more than just her word, Rick. Our sources had no trouble tracking down the school secretary, Mrs. Lagasse. She remembers Catherine Wright being called down to the office that day. She wondered what the girl could have done wrong within the first hour of classes resuming after spring break. And then news spread that Catherine recanted the very next day, and she questioned what was said behind those closed doors.”