Dr. Head closes my really, really thick file and rocks in his chair. “I’m sure it was quite a fall. None of us want to believe he drowned. But we can’t change it. He’s gone, and your mom is worried about you holding on so tight. Maybe this will help you move on.”
My heart is knocking against my ribs, begging to be free. “No.” The raspy tone doesn’t come close to resembling my real voice.
Dr. Head replaces his glasses on his nose and peers over them like an old librarian. He keeps his voice steady. “The longer you wait, the harder the grieving process will be. The sooner you accept where we are, the faster you can heal.”
“Maybe I don’t want to heal.”
I sit there, shaking my head until he places a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t punish yourself. It’s time to let go.”
I push his hand away and speak through my teeth in a growl. “Don’t say that.” I need to get this quack out of my head.
“When a kid loses a parent, it’s common to want to blame it on someone. Deny the facts. It’s hard for a kid, especially your age, to understand that accidents happen and sometimes they are unexplainable. That sometimes people, parents, die and that doesn’t make it anyone’s fault.”
“He’s not dead!” Without warning, I jump out of the chair, sending a lamp crashing to the floor. Without another word, I storm out of the room, stumble down the stairs, and burst through the double doors. In the sunlight, my mouth gapes open, like a fish gasping for air.
How could Mom have done this to me? Why didn’t she tell me herself?
Anger I’ve never known surges out into a piercing scream that rides the wind before disappearing. I spin around and search for a way out in every direction.
Where do I go from here? What do I do next? Where can I hide?
A door slams behind me.
Glancing back through rage and watering eyes, I find Dr. Head standing on the sidewalk. Slowly, I retreat with my fists up, ready to defend myself. “Leave me alone.” He advances toward me. My words burst out, this time even louder. “I mean it, Doc. Don’t touch me!”
He ignores my threat and embraces me in a bear hug. “I’m so sorry, Grace.”
I writhe, trying to get loose, but he holds me tight.
My body tires easily and slumps into him. I bury my face into his cheap, polyester shirt. My legs buckle. It’s as if the ground’s been yanked away and now, I’m hanging over a huge crevice, ready to fall. Dr. Head supports me, refusing to let me drop away into a cave of nothingness. A wail climbs through me and escapes my locked jaws. Tears pour out. The wall of denial surrounding me crumbles, and the dam floods over, drowning my hope.
My heart collapses from months of tireless beatings, and a sob escapes my lips. “I miss him.”
Dr. Head keeps his grip on me. “I know, Grace. But you’re going to be okay. I promise.”
I cry for a few minutes, my whole body shaking uncontrollably. Spasms tear through every crevice that still wants to believe Dad’s alive.
He clears his throat and speaks in a near-whisper, assuming that if he says something softly, it might make this all hurt less. “I know it’s seems impossible to accept. But you will in time.”
Behind him, Mom pulls up and gets out of the truck. She freezes on the sidewalk when I catch her eye.
I support myself and shove Dr. Head away. “No! You’re wrong. I won’t accept anything any of you say. Not until I have proof.”
My mom starts to walk toward me.
I put up my hand and scream, “No! It’s too late.”
Her lip quivers and she manages to speak. “I’m sorry, Grace. It’s going to be okay.”
I point between her and me. “We will never be okay.’ I swallow and force out something I’ve never said to either of my parents. “I hate you.”
Survival Skill #34
When tracking, it’s the combination of evidence that provides the whole picture.
After running away from both of them, I hide in the alley for over an hour and sob until I’m drained of tears. Empty. Even though I don’t want to, I force myself to keep my meeting with Wyn. My legs feel weighted, as if they’re filled with quicksand from the ankles up. I can’t—won’t—let this setback prevent me from pushing forward. A little blood means Dad was hurt, and the wet shirt just tells me he’s not wearing one anymore.
It doesn’t prove he’s dead.
Does it?
I shake the thought from my head. Even if he is, I have to uncover the truth, the whole truth, for myself. Panic sets in. I have to find him and bring him home.
Dead or alive.
Before I enter the police station, I check my face in the window for any signs of my breakdown. Or a “breakthrough,” as Dr. Head would call it. I wipe my face on my t-shirt and push through the door.
Bernice squeals when I walk in, but as soon as she sees my face, Bernice sticks out her bottom lip. Her voice softens. “Grace, sweetie. How yah doin’? You holdin’ up okay? I’m sorry about your daddy. May he rest in peace.” She bows her head a little and puts her hands in a prayer position.
Anger stirs deep inside, threatening to expose itself. People can say the most inappropriate things sometimes without even realizing it. I ball my hand into a fist behind my back and try not to show any emotion on my face. “Thanks.”
She comes over and cradles my shoulders. “Lordy, you’re wastin’ away before my eyes.”
I force my lips to curl upward. “Must be what I’m wearing.” On the other hand, it could be that the life is draining out of me each day Dad’s not here. Little by little. Drop by drop. I’m shrinking.
Into. Nothing.
“You know darlin’, Captain’s still out of town. You may want to come back tomorrow.” She plops back down at her computer and starts pecking on the keys with her fake nails. The noise reminds me of Bear’s doggy toenails clicking on the hardwood floor. When she realizes I’m still there, she stops typing and eyes me, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Unless you came to see Wyn?”
On cue, Wyn emerges from the storage room. Streaks of dirt smudge across his face, giving him the linebacker look. He’s wearing old battered jeans with holes ripped at the knees and no shirt. Sweat glistens on his lean body. I don’t remember the missing shirt being part of our plan. Surprisingly, I’m kinda digging the improvisation. I avoid staring and feel my cheeks searing like a piece of meat on a grill. What’s wrong with me? How can grief and lust fill the same space? I try to focus on an image of Mo’s face. He’s the one I connect with the most. These feelings for Wyn are just old feelings that have been stirred up. Like when you kick up dust. It floats around for a while, but eventually it settles again. As if it was never there.
Wyn speaks in a flat tone. A little too rehearsed if you ask me. “Hey, G. How are you? Long time, no see.”
Averting my eyes from his, I can’t help but wonder if he knew about Dad’s shirt last night. And if he did, why didn’t he have the guts to tell me.
I push everything aside and focus on what I need to do. Get that file. “Hey, Wyn.”
He veers off script and shoots me a concerned look. “You okay, G?”
I shake it off, not meeting his gaze directly. “Sure, I just thought Captain would be back.”
He returns to our script with Bernice. “Whew, Bea, you sure are workin’ me hard today. What’s a guy gotta do to get some water?”
Bernice launches out of the chair. “Gracious me, where are my manners? Let me get you some ice-cold stuff. Captain’ll appreciate everything being done when he gets back. I know I do.” She bends over to fill the triangle cup and hands him the water.
He throws back his head and gulps down the liquid before letting out a long sigh of relief. “Aahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Thanks.”
I roll my eyes. He’s laying it on a bit thick for my taste. The average person might catch on. However, we’re lucky. As sweet as Bernice is, she’s always been one fry short of a happy meal. Totally unsuspecting and undeniably gullible. Especially when it
comes to Wyn.
She blushes and coos. “Thanks, Wynnie. Lucky for me, you were here to fix the A/C, especially in this heat.”
I speak up. “Yeah, Wynnie! Sure is lucky you were here to save the day. Real knight in shining armor. Only … without the armor.” I point to his bare chest and try not to blush when his pecks flex involuntarily.
Wyn scowls at me then addresses Bernice. “Oh my goodness. I didn’t realize it’s already lunch. I better get started on fixin’ the toilet so I can eat. Boy, I’m starved!”
Bernice hops up out of her seat again like a bunny in spring. “Good Lordy me! Forgot all about lunch. How about I go get us somethin’ from Barry’s place?”
He flashes his double-dimpled smile. “You sure, Bea? That’d be great. If you don’t mind.”
“Of course not! I insist.” She faces me. “Grace? You want somethin’?”
I stand up and get ready to leave. “No, thanks. I need to get to work. Tommy’ll kill me if I’m late again.”
She flashes a lipsticky smile and heads for the door with her flowered purse in tow. “Okay, darlin’, if you’re sure. You tell Tommy I said hello, and I’ll tell Captain you came by. Wynnie, I’ll be right back with some fuel for your engine.”
Wyn winks. “I’ll wait at the rest stop.”
Oh brother. Bernice giggles and waddles through the door.
He immediately faces me. “You’ve been crying?”
I act stupid. “Me? Crying? Yeah right. Since when do I cry?”
He looks at my face. “Contrary to what you want me to believe, I know you’re not dead inside. What’s wrong? Did something happen since last night?”
I mumble. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Maybe he doesn’t know or maybe he’s just testing me.
He pulls back my bangs. “G?”
If I’m going to do this, I need to pull myself together. “Look, I promise I’ll tell you all about it later. Soap opera and all. But right now, we don’t have time.” I split the blinds with my fingers and watch Bernice hobble down the sidewalk. “By the way, nice acting. I knew you were full of it.”
“Shoot, I have to be full of something if I’m hanging out with you,” Wyn bites back. “Seems to be one of your upgraded features. The new and improved Grace on fire. Drama included.”
I furrow my brows. “Ha ha.” As soon Bernice is a safe distance away, I jump into her chair. “Wanna time me?”
“I’m glad you think this is a game.” Wyn peers over my shoulder. “How are you gonna get in?”
I point to a post-it note stuck to her screen. “Use the password.”
He snickers. “Man, you are one lucky chick.”
“Nah, I saw it here last time.”
He breathes on my neck when he talks. “You know, using up all your nine lives and luck before the age of eighteen isn’t a great idea. You’re bound to run out.”
I push him away. “Can the peanut gallery keep it down while I do my thang?” I scan the desktop and search through Carl’s folders until I find the CrimeStar application. When the sign-in box pops up, I type in Bernice’s user name and the password. As I wait for the application to open, I tease him. “Hey, Wynford! Did you know your name is her password? Something going on with you two?”
“Gross. You think you’re funny, but you’re not.” His hot breath tickles my ear, and the smell of his musty sweat teases my nose.
“Well, I crack myself up.” I squash the old feelings resurfacing deep inside and focus. Finding out about this bullet is the only hope I have left. We both stare at the hourglass on the screen. I bounce my legs, waiting for the computer to quit buzzing.
Wyn pipes up. “Now what?”
I swat his nose. “Look, I can’t concentrate with you breathing down my neck. Keep an eye out for Bernice in case she comes back sooner than we expect. She always rushes when you’re involved.”
“Fine. I don’t want to be a part of this anyway.” He strolls over to the front window and peeks through the mini-blinds. “You better find something big, and soon, or you’re gonna get promoted to numero uno on my shit list.”
“Nothing new.” Finally, the main screen pops up. “Yes! I’m in!” I buzz through the menus until I find the right folder and scroll down, looking for the document name. The arrow mouse hovers over the file icon. I hesitate a nanosecond before double clicking. Please let there be something here I can use.
After opening the folder, I scan through the evidence catalogue, studying every photo. I finally open one that shows a bullet lying next to a ruler, measuring its length. “Yes! I think I got it! And as far as I can tell, it looks to be the same type.”
Wyn calls out. “Well, you better wrap it up because Bea’s on her way back.”
“Already?”
“It’s not like this town is huge or anything.”
My heart thumps as I print off the picture of a bullet. “Just a few more seconds. You gotta stall her.”
“G, come on!”
At the bottom, I spot a link to some articles and references. “Just do it!”
Wyn faces me. “Fine. But only if you go to dinner with me.”
I stop typing and check to see if he’s serious before shaking my head. “Come on, Wyn, you know I can’t do that.”
He gives me a mischievous smile. “Well, you better or you’re going to get busted.”
I frown at him. “Are you serious? You’re blackmailing me? Now?”
He crosses his arms and stands tall. “No better time than the present. You had better decide because she’s just passing Larry’s Hardware. What’s it going to be, food or felony?”
I keep my eyes on the screen. “Fine, but I hate you.”
Wyn shrugs. “Noted.” Then he bolts out the door. I watch as he points towards the station then back at the diner. She nods, and they walk off together, obviously getting me food too.
I launch the article and read the title. Tennessee ranger killed in hunting accident.
This is about the ranger that died last year. I read the article until I see a name, William Cameron. Why does that name sound familiar? Instantly, it comes to me. Will Cameron. From the news articles I read last week. The game warden who busted Al in Tennessee. I cross reference the name in the database, and a photo pops up. The man seems familiar. I stare at his features for a few seconds before something clicks.
I reach into my bag and pull out the tin with Dad’s photo. The one of him winning the excellence award. The one I snatched from Carl’s file.
William “Will” Cameron is one of the men standing behind Dad in the picture.
My heart races. Is it possible the two cases are connected? Carl said they weren’t but maybe he’s wrong. I get up and peek through the blinds to check Wyn’s status. He’s across the street talking with Bernice and Postman Louie. He can surely kill time with them.
Man killed by a hunter, bullets unidentifiable, no hunter comes forward, death ruled an accident by the coroner. Survived by son, Morris, and daughter, Fiona.
A caption under a picture of a body covered in a white sheet reads: Son finds dad’s body and tries to revive him until paramedics show up. My stomach clenches at the thought of watching a family member die and being completely helpless. Another photo caption reads: The Cameron family in happier times. I click on the photo link and wait as it launches in a new window.
The pixels slowly fill the screen and become crystal clear.
I freeze as an invisible stake pierces my heart. My stomach churns. Life stops for a split second as my brain processes what I’m seeing. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping the picture will be different. I open one eye. No such luck.
Outside, Wyn sounds off a sharp whistle warning me that Bernice is on her way.
I punch Print and exit the application. As she walks through the door, I snatch a stack of papers off the printer and stuff them into my bag. Wyn trails close behind, eyes wide, like he’s seen a naked female ghost.
Bernice holds up a brown paper sack. “Wyn says
you want lunch?”
“Uh, yeah, that was sweet. I wish I could eat with you guys, but is it okay if I take it with me? Tommy wants me now.”
She hands me the bag. “Sure, sweetie.”
I bolt out the door before she or Wyn can ask me any questions. Around the corner, I pull the photo out of the bag and stare at Will Cameron’s son.
It’s definitely Mo.
Survival Skill #35
Asking yourself questions can’t lead you home; your answers matter most.
Tommy stands behind the counter conversing with a customer. He waves as I walk in the door.
As if nothing’s wrong, I pin on my nametag and begin straightening the new display of touristy crap. Hats, tomahawks, and moccasins. Since when did Tommy start selling this stuff? He must need money bad.
When Tommy heads to the back, I take out my notepad and scribble a few notes about everything I’ve learned in the last hour.
Mo’s dad was killed, and his dad knew my dad. His dad busted Al for hunting, then he was killed.
Why wouldn’t Mo tell me about his dad, and how much of this does he really know? After everything I’ve confided in him, he just kept it from me? I try not to be angry because he didn’t really lie or anything. Guess I can relate to keeping secrets. Some things are too painful to say aloud.
Makes them real.
Confusion surfaces and, suddenly, I’ve accumulated more questions than I’ve answered. I jot them down, still trying to process all the facts jumbled in my brain.
1) Where is Sidehill, and who is the anonymous tipper?
2) Why are Al and Billy using homemade bullets?
3) Is Mo’s dad’s case related to mine? Is that why Mo is here?
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