Wailin’. Someone were wailin’. Jacob sat up and looked around. This weren’t his shack and it weren’t Hawk’s Ridge. Not too sure where he was.... Didn’t do to panic when he woke. If he took a few minutes, he could figure out where he was just fine. No moonlight comin’ through them big windows. Crack of light under the door, though. Lights left on at night was such a waste, but Willie insisted.
Been havin’ another of them bad dreams about Freddie. So bad it must’ve woke him up, despite that pill Willie made him take. The boy tried to slip him an extra one, but weren’t no way he were takin’ two. Spat the second one out when Willie weren’t lookin’. Didn’t need more drugs scramblin’ his busted brain.
That dream catcher weren’t workin’ too good. Had to push back them bad thoughts hisself. Couldn’t tell Willie about the nightmares. Imagine how upset the boy would be. Freddie were the only reason his Willie smiled these days.
Colored lights flashed. Outside, all manner of noise—doors slammin’, people talkin’ real loud, but the cottage were quiet as a cemetery. He should know. Spent half his life alone with dead people. Death were his business. He should go check on Will, make sure that boy weren’t frettin’ on the porch again. Always been a creature of the night, his son, but when nighttime hit these days, Will grew more restless than a caged owl with clipped wings. Worryin’ about his daddy, no doubt. And missin’ Freddie, him being so far away.
Took a while to get out of bed and into the hall. Goddamn useless body.
“Willie,” he called down the stairs. Nothing. Must be Fourth of July with all them flashes of colored lights. Didn’t smell no gunpowder, though. Didn’t hear no bangs.
He walked down the stairs real slow. Used the rail. Didn’t want to fall and give Will more to worry about. His Will sure acted like a man with a lot to worry about.
Jacob shuffled across the main room to the door. The lights were brighter downstairs. And red. Red flashin’ lights. He tried to yell, Will! but the word caught in his throat. With each pulse of red light, he saw Angeline, his dear, sweet Angeline. Angeline on the floor, arm flung out, reachin’ for him. She weren’t breathin’.
Where was his dear, sweet Angeline? He must get to her. She needed him.
He opened the door, but his legs wouldn’t work. Willie were there! Didn’t have a shirt on. Vehicles. Lots of emergency vehicles. Rescue vehicles. Thank you, Jesus. Come for his Angeline, his dear sweet Angeline. But they needed to come in, they needed to help her. She were on the floor, not breathin’.
“Will!” He held up his hand. “Willie! Your mama needs help. She’s inside.”
What were takin’ him so long? His mama needed help now!
“Willie!”
“Dad!” Will looked exhausted. Didn’t get enough sleep, his boy. Up all hours workin’ on some story, no doubt. Been that way since he could hold a pencil.
Why was they both outside? And him in his pajamas, too.
“Everything’s fine. Stay there, Dad. I’m coming.” Will tapped the medic on the arm, then jogged across the yard. Such a good runner, his Will. Ran with the grace and speed of a wild stallion, but where was his shoes?
“Your mama okay, son?”
Will gave him a funny look. Did he say somethin’ wrong? He turned his head from the flashin’ lights. Too bright. And sirens now. He couldn’t smell fire, but there were a fire truck. And Willie, he had red paint on him. What were that boy up to now? Such a wild one, his son.
He grabbed Will’s arm. “Where’s the fire, son?”
“It’s okay, no fire.”
“You’re wet, son. You need to come inside, get some dry clothes and a bowl of soup. Why you half-naked?”
“Galen had an accident, and I gave him my T-shirt. But he’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
Willie didn’t look fine. He were all pale. He shouldn’t be half-naked with ladies around, neither.
“Who’s Galen?”
“Hannah’s son.” Will hesitated. “Hey You’s son.”
“Ah. Crazy One.”
Willie looked real upset. “You can’t call him that.”
“Hey You does. She chose that nickname. Where’s Hey You?”
Will nodded at the ambulance.
“Crazy One gonna be okay?”
“I don’t know, Dad. I think that’s up to him.”
A painted car screeched up to the cottage, and, well, he never. There were Poppy, the brightest comet blazin’ across the sky. She were frownin’, though, and dressed real funny. In pajamas? ’Course, young women wore the strangest clothes nowadays.
* * *
Grabbing her phone, Poppy flung open the driver’s door and flew at Will. She gagged, covered her mouth, tried not to barf. Blood, he had blood smeared on his abs and sprayed on his jeans. Like a pinup for the Spartan army.
“Galen?” she whispered through her fingers.
“Unconscious but alive. Only had time to slit one wrist.”
Her heart raced like a runaway truck on a mountain pass. Until she died, Han would have to live with the knowledge that one of her sons had planned his own death. “Han?” She swallowed. “Where’s Hannah?”
“Went in the ambulance with Galen.”
Will eased her aside. He leaned into the Civic, turned off the engine and handed her the keys. Thunder rumbled in the distance. If she knew how, she would pray.
Since the beginning of the summer, when Galen had confessed there was nothing to live for, she should have known this day would come. She should have known to break confidence and tell Hannah. She just should have known. Instead, she’d made a catastrophic error that had nearly cost Galen his life. And yet, she could make amends, tug on her big-girl boots, step up for Hannah.
“I need to call Inigo.” Poppy waved her cell around. “Which hospital?”
Will massaged his forehead. “UNC.”
“You okay?”
“Fine,” he said.
Poppy didn’t believe him. Not for one blink.
“Poppy!” Jacob shuffled over, smiling. “Bit late for a paintin’ lesson, ain’t it?”
Will moved quickly to grasp his dad’s elbow. “Come on, old man, let’s get you inside.”
“Don’t let your mama hear you callin’ me old.”
“No, sir.” Will gave a tired smile, glanced her way. “Come with us, Poppy. You and I have to talk.”
She trailed behind Will. Speaking quietly, he helped Jacob inside and upstairs. She couldn’t make out words, just the tone—gentle, supportive. Such patience Will had—with his dad, with Miss Prissy. Yes, she’d seen him cooing at her horse when he thought no one was watching. Galen did the same thing. Her dear, sweet Galen.
Focus, girl, focus.
She threw her keys into one of the armchairs, blinked back a stray tear, dialed Inigo’s home phone. Matt picked up. A devoted ex-student of Inigo’s, Matt was a sweet guy who adored Galen and Liam, and could be a total man-bitch on the subject of Hannah.
“Matt? It’s Poppy. Can you talk privately?”
“Sure thing, babe. What’s up?”
“You need to get Inigo to the UNC E.R. Galen’s fine, but he tried to kill himself.”
A shriek and a thump as something fell. “W-what happened?”
“Slit wrist—only one. Hannah got to him before he...did the other one.”
“But we thought he was doing better. Hannah told us—”
“No. You’re not going there, Matt. None of us are playing the blame game. You hear me?”
Matt blew into the phone.
“You hear me?” Oh, yeah, she could do righteous indignation. She was ending this shit before it began. “Galen had us all fooled, and Inigo should understand that better than anyone.” She paused. Matt said nothing. “You need to tell Inigo that Galen’s
okay, but his condition is likely serious. You also need to give Inigo this message from me: if he goes after Hannah, I’ll castrate him with a hoof pick. Capisce, babe?”
She hung up and started to shake. She needed to get to the hospital before Inigo. Protect Han all the way.
“I swear, Inigo, if you...” she muttered.
Hurry up, Will, hurry up.
In her mind, Poppy saw the tousled-headed toddler waddling around with a book saying, “Read to me, Poppeeee. Puh-leeze.” Apart from an unhealthy bank account and a string of disastrous love affairs caused by her for-shit taste in men, she’d led an enchanted life. No family crises, no death except for grandparents when she was too young to care. But Galen...
On the coffee table, a bottle of Wild Turkey with a glass. She poured a shot, tossed it back and poured a second. Two wouldn’t impair her driving. Not really.
“You think that’s a good idea?”
She spun around like a kid caught stealing five dollars from her mother’s purse, which, admittedly, she’d only done once, but she’d never forgotten the look on her mama’s face. Will had that look now. She hadn’t realized before how serious he was, how responsible. Kinda like Hannah.
Oh, he’d put on a sweatshirt. Changed his jeans, too.
Poppy tipped back her drink and swallowed. “Talk to me so I can get out of here.”
Will threw himself into an armchair. “She was awesome. Totally awesome.”
Curious start. “What happened?”
“Slit one wrist, dropped the scalpel in the bath before he could do the second. Took vodka and pills, too, but we have no idea how many or what.”
Something about the way he said we got under her skin.
“Clearly he planned it.” Will pulled forward and collapsed around the waist. His arms hung between his knees.
“How do you know?”
“Writers trade in details. The details tell me it was well orchestrated.”
Poppy eased herself down onto the arm of his chair.
“Yesterday, when we went climbing, Galen was too calm for a first-timer,” Will said. “He listened, followed my instructions, but he had no fear, and that made me nervous. A guy only has one reason to not be afraid on a cliff face—he doesn’t care. I should have paid more attention.”
“Me, too.” Poppy sagged. “The rock climbing didn’t feel right. Galen hates sports. For twenty-two years he’s been Mr. Cautious, choosing to live through words, not risk.” She stared at the world map, at all the colored stars she’d stuck on, at all the colored lines she’d drawn to show Freddie’s route. Poor Will. He must want to hug his own kid so bad right now.
“You know, when Galen was Freddie’s age, I lived in an apartment complex with a pool. Galen swam like a shark, but nothing I said could coax him into the deep end.” Poppy hesitated. “On some level, I knew he was suicidal months ago. Should’ve told Han. Didn’t.”
Will glanced up. Pillow talk she could do, but the way he looked at her felt way too honest. And they were sitting way too close.
“Please don’t share that fact with Hannah,” Will said. “She’s going to need you like she’s never needed you before.”
How could she have been such a dimwit? How could she have missed the obvious? Will didn’t act like a cornered animal around her because he’d seen her shake her booty. It was because he’d seen the wrong woman naked. Even someone with her track record in commitment—two words, married men—could see Will was a keeper, a stud-muffin with a heart. And she’d thought—well, fantasized—that maybe, maybe if she moved in with Jacob, Will would visit more and more frequently until he realized...
“Can I could fix you something?” Poppy jumped up. “A hot toddy? A hot chocolate?”
“I’m worried about Hannah.”
Right. They were going to forge ahead, have the conversation.
“I’ll call you from the hospital.” Poppy kept her voice bright.
“What if I went and you stayed here, with my dad.”
“Hannah’s my best friend, Galen’s my godson. I have to go.”
“But can you drive?” He nodded at her glass. “I can’t let you go if you’ve been drinking.”
Normally she would rip into a guy for a comment like that, but from Will it was sweet. Why did he have to be sweet? Bastards were more of her territory. “I’m a big girl, really. I know my limits.”
“Man, she was incredible tonight. So strong.”
“That’s Han. Shit together all the way, but don’t be fooled. Inside she’s a mess. Galen wrote a poem about it once.”
“I know. She doesn’t look after herself.” He gave a shadow of a smile. “Galen calls her a people pleaser with shitty boundaries.”
Poppy screwed the top onto the bottle of Wild Turkey. Damn it to hell and back. He didn’t just have the hots for her best friend, he’d gone and fallen in love, hadn’t he? Well, he’d better be there for Hannah every step; he’d better treat her like the best woman in the world, because she was. And after that shit Inigo, Han deserved...she deserved someone like Will. “On second thought—” Poppy turned. “I don’t think I’m safe to drive. Would you go in my place?”
Will leaped up.
“But you’ve got to promise you’ll take care of her and promise you’ll deal with Inigo. He’s beyond a prima donna. Class A drama queen. I don’t want him dicking her around, making things worse. Promise?”
“Promise.” Will gave her a dry kiss on the cheek. “You can sleep in my room.”
Lie in sheets that had touched his body? Nuh-uh. “Nah. I don’t sleep much. Prefer the sofa and movies-on-demand. Don’t worry about a thing. And I won’t drink, I swear. But text me when you get there. Let me...let me know my baby’s okay.”
“Poppy?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“De nada. Go!” She flicked him away and walked into the powder room to cry alone.
Twenty-Eight
Anger built. Anger at Galen, for being selfish, for being careless with his life. For having choices Freddie never had. For wanting to die and managing to live.
Hitting the gas, Will tore along a deserted Highway 54 with his windows open. The night whipped around him, heavy with ozone and silent but for a distant rumble of thunder. An apartment complex with a space-for-rent sign shot by and his speedometer wavered around sixty-five. Let the cops pull him over, what did he care? Seventy, he was driving seventy in a forty-five-miles-per-hour zone.
Inigo was probably there by now, offering comfort. Will gripped the wheel tighter. It should be him; he wanted Hannah to need him.
A kaleidoscope of sound filled his ears—the roar of pumping blood, the alarm bells of a body feeding off adrenaline. His lungs tightened under some invisible clamp, and his arms started to shake. Was this panic, delayed grief or love?
Let it be anything but love.
Love didn’t belong in this uproar of death and devastation. How could he be so heartless, so disloyal to Freddie?
Will braked hard. No. He would not behave like his mother, behave like Cass. He would not be this out-of-control loser, driving with disregard for the safety of other people. An accident could be only seconds away. He knew better than anyone.
Turning onto Manning Drive, Will followed signs to the emergency department, hurtling into another parent’s tragedy while he was slowly choking on his own. He shouldn’t be here; he should have gone back to the city weeks ago, not dragged his sorry ass through Teflon-coated procrastination. No matter how many excuses he fed himself about wait lists, there was only one reason he was still here: Hannah.
The unlit road dipped and curved. Tenements of student housing rose into the darkness, each window a square box of orange light. On either side of him, black trees. He turned right. Ahead was a monstro
us building with a huge red sign that spelled out Emergency. Will swallowed. He would not think about ambulances, flashing lights and crash scenes. He would not.
He pulled into the parking lot and stopped at the barrier. Tokens? For real? He swung around in his seat and watched two cars drive past him to stop under the concrete overhang. A valet! Thank God. He threw the car into Reverse, squealed toward the hospital entrance and abandoned his car—door open, engine running—by the valet station.
“Sir, wait!” The valet ran after him waving a ticket. “You need this, sir!”
Will took the parking stub and slid it deep in his back pocket. Not that he gave a rat’s ass about the Prius—a car was merely a means of travel—but without it, how could he drive Hannah home?
Back toward Highway 54, more thunder rumbled. If it rained he could tell Hannah; she might even be happy. So now he was delusional, thinking a woman could care about the drought while her son lay unconscious in the E.R. Four months out from his own son’s death he still didn’t care about anything. Except—Will slowed to walk through the glass doors of the emergency department—that was no longer true.
Fluorescent lights buzzed and the intercom called for doctor so and so to go to room whatever. One of the security guys acknowledged him with a nod, not rapid-fire Q and A. Where was the chaos and carnage he’d expected? And where was Hannah?
He moved to the windows that reminded him of bank teller stations. On his left, a large waiting area with a smaller glass antechamber labeled Triage Waiting Room. Hannah was alone in the far corner, curled up in a plastic hospital chair like a teenage girl: legs tucked into her chest, sweatshirt tugged down over her knees.
“Hannah?”
She didn’t look up.
He turned back to security, dumped his iPhone and wallet in the gray plastic container and passed through the metal detector. Behind him, a woman started screaming in Spanish. The intercom called for a translator.
Will reclaimed his possessions, then ran into the triage waiting room.
Blood, blood was smeared on her face. Why had no one told her? How could no one see that she needed help?
“Hannah,” he said, and rushed forward.
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