He walked back to the car, stood there for a moment, trying to decide what to do: admit defeat and retreat, or stay and fight. But was it too late for a fight? Had he ruined things for good? Karen was off with friendly neighbor Mike, and Lauren was entertaining thugs. And who knew what Ian was doing. None of them missed him. None of them seemed to notice his absence. But was that their fault—or his?
He went to shut the door and heard his police radio go off, the dispatcher sputtering out codes for a shooting with a possible fatality. His pulse spiked at recognition of the location. He’d been to that house enough, after all, barked out that same address to plenty of people as he coordinated the investigation and search. He’d done it thinking it would bring his brother back. But Matteo was already lost to him. The ME had said he’d likely been in that water since he’d gone missing. All that searching, all that time away from his family. And for what?
He looked back at his house. Then at the radio. Then back at the house, his feet frozen in indecision. He should go to the scene. This was his case. He likely knew the shooting victim. He worried it could be Norah’s daughter. If something happened to that kid, he’d have one more thing to feel guilty for. It would be another disaster fueled by his obsession with Matteo’s disappearance. If his brother hadn’t gone missing, he wouldn’t have investigated Norah Ramsey. At least not to the degree that he had. He’d lost sight of everything else. And then he’d lost everything else.
He put his hand on the car door just as he heard the back door open and his daughter call out. “Dad?” Lauren asked. “What are you doing here?”
He looked at her, guilt deepening the lines on his face. He wanted to cry, to run to her, to hold her until she squirmed out of his grasp. But he held his ground as he debated how to answer her question. He supposed that when you didn’t know whether to fight or flee, sometimes holding your ground was all you could do.
She watched him warily, wondering, he knew, if she was busted. “I was afraid you were in trouble,” he finally said. “I came to . . .” He didn’t want to admit what he’d come to do. He’d come to yell at her, to demand an explanation, to rage at the injustice of being expelled from his home just because he’d tried too hard to find his brother. But it wasn’t Lauren he should be upset at. It wasn’t Karen, either. It wasn’t Matteo. It was himself.
“Daddy?” She hadn’t called him that in so long.
He felt wetness on his face, tasted salt on his lips, saw his daughter through a sheen of tears. Her blurry form moved toward him, rocketing into his arms. Behind him, he heard the radio alert again. And for a moment, he felt that tug, the one that compelled him to go where the danger was, to protect and serve as he’d always done. Away from here, things were happening: bad things, to innocent people. But they weren’t his people. His people were here, and they needed him. He couldn’t save those people. He probably couldn’t save his own. But he could start trying. He could start trying right now.
Violet
After they had asked her a few questions, they forgot all about her, which was what she needed them to do. They were too concerned with the emergency situation at hand. So when heads turned toward the victims, she sidestepped out of the den, crept up the back staircase, and made her way to her room as fast as she could. It hadn’t been that long since she’d tossed the doll aside, feigning nonchalance, when Casey had walked in.
It hadn’t been long, yet so much had happened. Later, she would let herself think about it all: the man with the gun, how heroic Casey had been. She’d let herself recall Bess bleeding on the doorstep. The scary man—Polly’s husband, she knew now—lying in the backyard, stopped by the bearded stranger who’d chased him down after he had shot Bess. Polly wringing her hands and pacing, mumbling to herself about how it was all her fault. Casey shrieking over her unconscious mother, begging her to wake up. But not now. Now she had one thing she needed to do—and fast—before that detective showed up, because surely he would. She clicked the lock on her door and went back to get the doll.
She fished around under the doll’s dress, recalling, as she did, the confused look on Casey’s face when she’d walked in on Violet. She knew that Casey had wondered what she’d been doing to that doll. She grinned to herself as she once again found the lacy slip under the dress, the little inner pocket, meant to hold a brooch or handkerchief for a real bride, something blue or borrowed, nestled close to the heart.
Instead, hidden in the tiny pocket, there among the folds of lace and fabric, was the rectangular piece of plastic, the jump drive she’d been searching for. Violet carried it reverently over to her desk, fired up her laptop, and inserted it. She waited for the answers it would hold while at the same time wondering what her mother had intended her to do with the drive. She had cued Violet with the three taps on the table in the jail. It had been their code. When they were around someone else and she wanted Violet to listen, her mother needed only to tap three times to say This is important, to make sure that Violet was paying attention.
But paying attention to what? Had she meant for Violet to hand the drive over to the authorities? Or had she meant for Violet to just know that, even though she wouldn’t give it to anyone else, she’d trust her with it? Violet didn’t know. And she couldn’t ask her mother. So she decided to look at what was on the drive first, then make up her mind. If she found Micah’s father’s name on the list, her decision would be even harder.
She watched as the list loaded onto the screen, leaned forward to decipher it. In this document, she thought, I’ll find the names of men who’ve done despicable and dishonest things, powerful men and ordinary men alike, who don’t want anyone to know what they’ve done. This document, she thought, could ruin lives, whole families. She thought about Micah’s face that night they’d talked in his kitchen. He’d wanted to protect his family. But she wanted to protect her mom.
She knew her mom had done something wrong, something illegal, but she was still her mom, the same mom who watched 13 Going on 30 again and again with Violet even though she had to be sick of it; the same mom who ate pepperoni on her pizza even though she didn’t really like it but knew that Violet did; the same mom who let Violet crawl into bed with her anytime she didn’t feel well or had a bad dream. It was just the two of them, they used to say, against the world. Violet didn’t like facing the world without her. She thought about the scene in her backyard right now, the emergency personnel and police scurrying around. The world was a scary place.
The names were arranged alphabetically, most of which she’d never heard of. News articles surmised that there would be athletes and politicians, CEOs, and local celebrities on the list—men for whom exposure like this could mean the end of their careers, their marriages, their good reputations. She understood why they wanted to protect themselves; she knew what happened to a family when something like that came out. She’d lived through it herself. But she’d lived. It had changed her, sure. But she would go on from here; she’d take what she’d learned and apply it in the future, the good and the bad. And so could these men.
She didn’t find Micah’s father’s name on the list. She double-checked, just to make sure, and, once confirmed, she ejected the drive with a sigh of relief. She stood up and pocketed the drive, humming to herself as she walked out of her room. The humming distracted her from the bloody scene downstairs, the weight of the tiny thing in her pocket. As far as she knew, she held the only copy of her mother’s client list in the world. She could take a hammer to it and throw it away, and no one would ever know what she’d done. But if she did that, her mother would stay in jail.
She walked down the back stairs, prepared to tell anyone who stopped her that she’d simply gone up to use the restroom. But no one noticed her. She was invisible in her own house. She wondered what her mother would think of the scene: the blood tracked through the house, the flashing lights reflected in the front windows, her poor exploded pumpkin, another casualty of the evening. Violet wondered if her mother would think thi
s was all her fault, if she would blame herself like Polly did. Really it was Polly’s husband’s fault. But she could see how one thing had led to another. If Bess hadn’t been at their house, she wouldn’t have gotten shot. If Polly hadn’t been at their house, he wouldn’t have shown up with his gun. If Norah hadn’t been in jail, Polly wouldn’t have come to stay with Violet.
Violet saw the series of events like dominoes falling. She felt herself growing angry with her mother and decided not to think about that, either. Later, after Norah was home, she would tell her how she felt; she would demand an apology. And she knew Norah would give her one, every day for the rest of her life if necessary. It would take a while, but eventually Violet would forgive her.
She went outside and stood at the edge of the backyard, surveying the circuslike atmosphere. Polly was talking to a cop. Out front, the ambulance carrying Bess, with Casey riding along, was pulling away, the siren’s wail building as the engine picked up speed. Several cops gathered around the bearded man, now handcuffed and sitting on the little garden bench, just a few feet away from the body of the man he’d killed. Violet didn’t like looking at the body, and yet her eyes kept straying back to it. It fascinated and disgusted her at the same time. She wasn’t sorry the man was dead. Even though he was dead, she was still afraid of him.
She heard barking and looked around. She’d forgotten all about Barney. She scanned the yard until she spotted a cage. She could just make out his brown nose poking out, protesting as he struggled uselessly to escape. She ran over and squatted down to make eye contact with him. He stopped barking and panted when he saw her. “Hey, boy,” she said in the most soothing voice she could muster. “It’s OK.” She slid her hand between the bars till it reached his velvety muzzle, stroking as best she could.
She felt someone standing over her and looked up to find an officer looking down at her. “You can’t let him out just yet,” he said. “Sorry,” he added. He squatted down beside her and, together, they studied the captive dog. “He yours?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. He’s my grandmother’s.” She gestured over at Polly. “But I take care of him sometimes.” She grabbed the cage wire and Barney sniffed her fingers hopefully.
“He’s had a hard night,” the officer said. “I guess you all have.”
He gave her a sympathetic smile. He was young and handsome. He seemed like someone she could trust, someone who would do the right thing. With her free hand, she reached into her pocket and let the drive fall onto the grass. She glanced down to make sure it hadn’t disappeared underneath the leaves that had been steadily blanketing the yard in the past few weeks. It landed in an open spot of grass right between them, but the cop didn’t notice. He kept talking to Barney, promising the dog he would get out soon.
“I’m gonna go check on my grandmother now,” she said. She stood, her heart racing. If she didn’t say anything, he likely wouldn’t see the drive; she could still take it back. She waited for him to stand up, too.
“I’ll let you know just as soon as he can get out, OK?” he asked. “It’s no fun being cooped up like that, is it, boy?” he asked Barney. And Violet thought of her mother, and freedom.
“I think you dropped something,” she said, and pointed at the ground. She hoped he didn’t notice her finger shaking.
She watched him spot the drive, shining white against the dark grass, and bend down to pick it up, a curious look on his face, before she walked away, leaving him to figure out what he’d found, hoping he realized what he had.
Casey
She sat on a hard chair in the emergency room waiting area, dialing her father again and again, wishing he’d answer. But he was MIA. He was supposed to be working late, but if he was, he would’ve answered by now. Nicole was at a friend’s, waiting for their dad to come get her and bring her to the hospital. Whenever Casey got ahold of him, that was. Casey had spoken with her little sister only briefly, but it had been the most pleasant conversation they’d had since she’d come home. She wished it didn’t have to be like that, wished everything could’ve been different. Mostly she just wished for her mother to be OK.
She tried not to think about how pale Bess had looked, how much blood she’d lost, how scary the ambulance ride had been with the technicians working on her the whole way. “Your mom will be OK,” they’d assured her, but Casey feared that they told everyone that, whether it was true or not. She feared whatever was happening to her mom back in that trauma room, feared the moment they would come out and tell her that Bess was dead. She would be all alone. She had come home to not be alone, yet she’d ended up that way anyway.
She looked up from her phone and scanned the room, then turned and looked at the doorway to the waiting area, willing her father to appear. But the doorway stayed empty. The lady behind the registration desk watched her. They exchanged glances, then the lady pressed her lips together and closed her eyes. The lady felt sorry for her. She was a victim, the object of someone’s sympathy and concern. She was tired of being a victim.
Suddenly someone waved a can of soda in front of her eyes. She looked up to see who it was, maybe Polly and Violet. Instead she saw a familiar set of eyes, brown and kind and also sad. But not sad for her, like the lady behind the desk, sad with her. Eli sat down in the empty chair beside her. “I came as soon as I heard.” He tossed his arm around her. The movement was casual, friendly. She didn’t feel threatened or uncomfortable. She just felt comforted. It wasn’t her mom or her dad or her sister. He wasn’t related to her in any way. But he felt like family.
She wondered if that was what love was: not sex and not attraction and not romance—not any of those things. She wondered if it wasn’t just this: sitting in a hospital together, showing up without being told you were needed. Knowing that Sprite was what you always wanted when you were upset. She popped the top and took a long pull.
“I was with someone else,” she blurted out. Because if he was going to leave her, she needed him to go before she got too used to his presence.
He shrugged and gave her shoulders a squeeze. “I don’t care,” he said.
She looked at him, confused. “You don’t?” Maybe she’d mistaken what he felt. Maybe he’d been using her as much as she’d used him. If that was the case, she guessed she deserved it.
He grinned. “I mean, of course I care. But we’re broken up. We were”—he sighed—“I don’t know what we were. But I figure . . .” He shook off his confusion.
She looked up at him, and she could see it there, in his eyes. He could act nonchalant, but she saw the love she’d come to expect. The love, she realized, she still counted on.
“I figure we’ll figure out what we were”—he stopped, corrected himself—“what we are. In time. Right now, if you don’t mind, I’d just like to sit here with you and wait for news about your mom. I’d like to be with you when they come out to tell you. If that’s all right with you, that is.”
She rested her head on his shoulder and felt relief fill her entire being. “It’s all right with me,” she said. “It’s all right.”
She stood over her mother, watching her sleep. They’d said her mother was still unconscious but that she could see her, for her reassurance. They knew she’d seen her mother get shot, had held her till the ambulance arrived. Even now, though she’d changed into some of Violet’s shorts and a T-shirt and washed her hands, she could still see blood under her nails. She could still smell the ironlike scent of the blood, the burned air from the gun firing. The smell would not leave her any more than the images of Bess taken down by the bullet would.
“Eli’s here,” she said, hoping that would stir her. Hoping she’d get angry and wake up, demand to know why he was there and what he wanted. “He’s been sitting with me since he heard. He brought me a Sprite.”
She pulled a chair over to the bedside and sat down. She felt so tired. But she didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to be awake if something changed, wanted to be the first person Bess saw when she opened
her eyes. Bess had lost a lot of blood, had had to have surgery to repair her shoulder where the bullet had hit. She would need physical therapy for a long time, but she’d regain use of her shoulder. That’s what the doctor had said when he came out to talk to them. Her father had finally shown up with Nicole. The two of them sat side by side in the waiting area, looking shell-shocked and afraid, uncertain what to do. They looked at Casey with a wariness, like they wanted to ask her questions but were holding back. They seemed afraid of her, of what she’d witnessed. She felt apart from them, separated even more than before. But this time she enjoyed the distance. She wanted to stay on the other side of whatever gap existed now because her mom was on that side, and when she woke up, they would stand together, connected by what they’d experienced. She thought of the girl at the party that night saying that Russell Aldridge had raped Casey, saying it had happened to her, too. That connection had terrified her. But maybe, she thought, it didn’t have to.
She kept chatting, and her mom kept sleeping. She told Bess about the homeless guy who killed the man who’d held them hostage. The cops said the man had been stealing things from people’s storage sheds and garages—food and beverages mostly. They said he’d probably been canvassing the neighborhood for where to hit next and just happened to be in the right place at the right time. He’d stabbed the man with a knife he carried for protection. He was a hero, albeit an unlikely one. She told her mother she planned to track him down somehow so that she could thank him. Who knows what would’ve happened if he hadn’t come along. “I bet you’ll try to rehabilitate him or something,” she said to Bess. “Knowing you.”
Casey waited hopefully, but Bess didn’t respond. So she kept on talking, as much to keep herself awake as to communicate with her mom. She babbled on about Eli, about school, about whatever popped into her head. The longer she talked, the more she revealed. She told her mom about her conflicted feelings about Eli, about the cop, about how badly she’d handled everything lately. “I’ve messed everything up,” she admitted.
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