by Steven James
“I’m all right.”
She considered that for a moment, then her eyes drifted to my new T-shirt. “Wow. You’re really stylin’ tonight.”
“Pink is the new black.”
“Really.”
Cheyenne momentarily went back to examining the board.
“It’s hip,” I assured Tessa.
She grimaced. “Hip?”
“Trust me. I have my finger on the pulse of all that is cool.”
“Please tell me you did not just say that.”
Cheyenne slid her rook across the board, took Tessa’s knight, and said, “Mate.”
Tessa refocused on the board, and her mouth gaped open.
“Seriously, Pat.” Cheyenne rose, came toward me. “Are you okay?”
“It’s fine. I’m fine. Now, no more questions about my arm.”
Tessa evaluated the board, then let out a groan. “You were setting that up for like five moves.”
“Six.”
Nice.
Tessa slumped back in her chair.
Cheyenne stood beside me now, closer than a mere co-worker would have stood. The proximity spoke for itself. “Is there anything I can do for you?” she said. “I could stay if you want, I’d just need to make a couple calls…”
Man, was that tempting. “I’ll be all right. But thanks. Really.”
She didn’t look like she exactly believed me but seemed willing to let it drop for the moment. “I brought your laptop back from the NCAVC meeting.” She pointed to the kitchen. “It’s on the table.”
“Great. Thank you.”
A slight awkwardness filtered its way into the room, and even though I’d just told her that I didn’t need her to stay, I felt a growing desire to rescind that. Cheyenne picked up her purse. “Well, I should probably be going, then.”
“Wait,” I said. “Did you guys eat yet?” It was a lame attempt at finding a way to tell her I wouldn’t mind if she hung around. “Do you need some dinner?”
“Actually, I’m supposed to be meeting someone for dinner in the city.”
“Oh.”
“Lien-hua.”
“Oh.”
“We really hit it off this afternoon. Seems we have a lot in common. She’s going to fill me in.” I expected her to elaborate, but she stopped abruptly, leaving her words open for interpretation.
Unintended consequences.
“Well, I’ll walk you to the door.” I glanced toward Tessa. “Hey, can you get your mom’s diary?”
“Why?”
“Please.”
She gave me a disapproving look but at last left for her bedroom.
Cheyenne and I crossed the room. “There’ve been a lot of developments in the case,” I said. “I’m sure Lien-hua will bring you up to speed.”
“Actually, I spoke with your boss on the phone about twenty minutes ago. She gave me a rundown.”
“Margaret?”
She nodded. “I handed in the Joint Op paperwork this afternoon. She said that as the head of the task force, she wanted to introduce herself. She told me to attend class in the morning and then come to the afternoon briefing with the rest of the team.”
“So you’ve never met her before?”
“Uh-uh.”
Huh.
“What time is the briefing?” I asked.
“It’s scheduled for 2:00, but I think it’ll depend on how the investigation progresses in the morning.”
My class started at 2:00. “I won’t make it, but maybe we can connect afterward. Catch up on the case.”
“Sounds good.”
We were at the door. “Hey,” I said, “you’ve really been a big help to me. Last night and then tonight, coming to my rescue again.”
“Didn’t I tell you? It’s my new hobby.”
“In addition to target shooting and line dancing.”
“A girl’s gotta be well-rounded.” She gave me a concerned smile. “You sure your arm is all right?”
“Yes. Listen, did Tessa tell you anything about what was going on with her this afternoon? Anything I need to know?”
Cheyenne shook her head. “She didn’t say, but it did seem to help that I was here.”
I hesitated for a moment. “I hate to keep asking you for favors, but you mentioned you’re having dinner in DC?”
“Yes.”
“Could you come to my rescue again?”
“Any time.”
I pulled out Missy Schuel’s card and jotted her home address on a sheet of paper, then handed it to Cheyenne. “Can you take the diary to Missy? She’s a lawyer for-”
“A lawyer?” Tessa was standing at the end of the hallway, holding the diary. “Why are you giving the diary to a lawyer?”
“I’ll explain everything in a couple minutes.”
“Now is good.”
“Tessa.” I tried to sound stern, fatherly. “Detective Warren needs to go.” I held out my hand. “The diary. Please. And then we can talk things through in a few minutes.”
After a brief consideration, Tessa gave me the diary, I paged through it to make sure that the letter Paul Lansing had written to Christie was still inside, then slipped a scrap sheet of paper in to bookmark it and handed the diary to Cheyenne.
Tessa watched.
“Okay,” Cheyenne said. “See you soon.”
“Thanks again.”
Then she left and Tessa and I were alone.
“All right.” My stepdaughter had her hands on her hips. “What’s going on-why did you give her my mom’s diary?”
42
“In a minute,” I said. “You first. I want to know why you were so upset this afternoon and why you were so eager for me to get home.”
She seemed to debate with herself whether or not to press me but then said, “Okay, so I have something to tell you, but I don’t want you to get mad.” Her eyes focused on the thick bandage again. “What’d you scrape your arm on, anyway?”
“A bullet, and I can’t promise that I won’t get mad until I know-”
“You got shot!”
“Yes, but right now we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about-”
“Who shot you?”
“One of the bad guys. Now, listen-”
“Are you okay? Seriously?”
“Tessa.” I’m sure my tone reflected my growing impatience. “I did my best to hurry home because you were anxious to tell me something. What is it?”
She stared at me for a long uncertain moment, then unexpectedly left the room, returned with her laptop, set it beside me on the couch, and tilted the screen so I could see it clearly.
Her email application was open, and she’d highlighted a thread of messages.
When I saw who they were from, a sharp bite of anger cut through me.
“You’ve been emailing him!” Paul Lansing’s first email had been sent the day after we’d visited Wyoming. I scrolled down the list and saw that the most recent had been sent less than twenty-four hours ago. “I specifically told you not to email him without letting me read over-”
“Does it hurt?”
I went back to the top of the list and started scanning the messages. “What?”
“Your arm. Does it hurt?”
“Of course it hurts. A bullet went through it. I can’t believe you’ve been-”
“Ew.” She looked pale. Sat down. “I wish you hadn’t told me that.”
With every email I read, I felt a fresh surge of betrayal.
“How could you do this? Go behind my back and email him like this?”
“Why is it going behind your back to email my dad?”
“Because I didn’t give you permission to.”
“He’s my…” She paused, must have reconsidered what she was about to say because she left the sentence unfinished, stranded there in midair between us.
“Anything else?” I said. “Any other bombshells you want to drop on me?”
She hesitated for a moment.
“Well?”
She leaned over, tapped the keyboard to open an Internet browser window, clicked to her facebook page.
Another email.
From 2:21 p.m. this afternoon. Tessa, I’m sorry I got angry at you today at the museum. I just wanted to make sure you were safe. I tried calling the phone I gave you, but you didn’t answer. (Don’t worry, I found it.) I’d rather not call your cell, I don’t want your stepfather to find out we met. I wouldn’t want him to get mad and then take it out on you. But we need to talk. Call me or email me as soon as you can. Love, Dad
I felt a rising quiver of rage. “You saw him? That’s why you went to DC? To see Paul? That’s why you cancelled lunch with me?”
“I…”
“You lied to me.”
“No, I just-”
“You said you were going to the Library of Congress.”
“I did.”
Half truths.
Deception.
“Love, Dad”… He signed the message “Love, Dad.”
I could feel my whole body growing tense, the ache in my arm tightening.
Tessa watched me uneasily. “I’m sorry.”
I pointed to the computer screen. “What is this about him giving you a phone?”
“I threw it out.”
I waited.
“No. I did. I promise.” She pointed to the screen. “He even says he found it.”
“And just when exactly were you going to tell me about all these emails?”
“I tried to this afternoon, but-”
“You’ve been emailing him for three weeks!”
“I was scared you’d be mad.”
I smacked the couch. “Well, I am mad.”
Then I stood and I was towering over her and she was easing backward.
“I needed to find out why he never came looking for me and whether or not he loved Mom, things like that. And he didn’t.” Her voice cracked slightly. “He didn’t love her.”
Despite how distraught she sounded, I was still furious. “He says here that he doesn’t want me to find out about any of this; that he was afraid I’d take things out on you. Why would he write that? Is that what you told him?”
“No! I swear! I told him how much you love me, how you’d do anything for me, how you saved my life. But he kept asking me all these questions about you, and that’s when I left.”
Her voice was crisp with pain, and I felt the delicate bridge we’d been building for the last sixteen months splintering apart. But I had a right to be angry. I said nothing.
“Please. You have to believe me.”
I wanted to ask her why I should believe her now. Why, when she’d been deceiving me for the last three weeks? And I probably would have said it if the realization of what Paul had been doing hadn’t hit me so hard.
He was doing research for his lawsuit.
He was using Tessa to dig up dirt on you.
Something cold and uncertain began crawling around inside of me. “Did you tell him where we were staying for the summer? Is that how his lawyers found out where to send the letter?”
She was quiet. “What letter?”
I hesitated.
“You just said his lawyers sent a letter,” she said. “What letter?”
“Tessa, right now, what matters is-”
“Tell me!”
I took a breath, evaluated things, finally plowed forward. “Paul Lansing is trying to assert his rights as your biological father. That’s probably why he-”
“Assert his rights?” It took her only seconds to connect the dots. “You mean custody. He’s trying to get custody of me?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve already spoken to a lawyer-”
“Oh?” Now, it was her turn to look betrayed. “Really? And when were you planning on telling me all this?”
“I only found out about the letter last night after you went to bed, and then this morning you were asleep when I left.” A seismic shift had happened in the conversation. It was a little disorienting. “I wasn’t keeping it from you. I was going to tell you at lunch.”
As I watched her, I could almost see the anger she’d felt toward me only a moment ago evaporating and something darker taking its place. A shiver of fear. “This isn’t happening,” she said. “This can’t be happening.”
Her hands were shaking slightly.
I held my good arm out to her. “Come here.”
She came to me then, and, careful to avoid touching my injured arm, she leaned against my chest. And she held me in a way that broke my heart.
I didn’t feel right telling her that things were going to be okay, that it would all work out, because I couldn’t guarantee any of that, but then I realized she was crying and I knew I had to say something. “Shh,” I whispered. “Don’t worry. I’m here.” I’ve never been good at this sort of thing. “I’ll always be here for you. You know that.”
After a long, painful moment, she eased back to look at me. A single, round tear traced down her cheek. “I love you,” she said, and her words were soft and deep and real.
I wiped the tear away. “I love you too, Tessa.”
“You can’t let this happen. You can’t let him take me.”
Then I said what I’d been hesitant to tell her only a moment before: “I won’t let him take you away. I promise.”
And this was one promise that I swore to myself I was going to keep.
No.
Matter.
What.
43
Thirty minutes later, after things had calmed down somewhat and Tessa was feeling at least a little better, she asked me to tell her about how I got shot, but to leave out any gross parts.
Obviously, I couldn’t divulge details about the case, but I did tell her as much as I could about the race through the hotel and the shooting in the basement.
And in that strange way that shared tragedy seems to draw people together, my story about the shooting made me feel closer to her, reassured me that we could both be vulnerable in front of each other and it was okay.
When we finally went to the fridge for supper, it was after 8:00.
She found some leftover Thai and headed to the microwave. “Aren’t you guys always supposed to wait for backup?”
“Ideally, yes.” I grabbed a couple cans of root beer. “But it doesn’t always work out like that.”
“So, what is this? The third time? Fourth time you’ve been shot?”
“Only the third, but I’ve been doing this for over fifteen years and-”
“Maybe you wouldn’t get shot so much if you’d follow the rules.”
“That’s never exactly been my strong suit, Raven.”
A stretch of silence.
“You could have gotten killed, Patrick.”
Honestly, I hadn’t thought about the shooting in those terms, and her words brought a sudden seriousness to the conversation. “I suppose that’s possible.”
“Do me a favor.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t let that happen.”
Unsure where to go with this, I replied simply, “I’ll do my best.”
After supper, we talked for a long time about things we’d never really shared before: her years growing up in Minnesota, her first boyfriend, my high school basketball days, the two women I’d loved before meeting her mother.
Eventually, for a late dessert, we broke into my secret stash of vegan brownies I’d bought for her at a bakery a few days ago. I anticipated that they would taste like baked chalk, but they were amazingly good.
“This lawyer you have,” she said, her mouth full of brownie, “is he good?”
“It’s a woman, and I think she is. I’ve never worked with her before, but she comes highly recommended.”
“And she’s the one who wanted the diary?”
“That’s right.”
We both munched for a moment, then she said, “Don’t go after him, okay?”
“Who?”
“Paul.” Another bite. “Just leave it t
o the lawyer.”
I felt a tug of disappointment for being the kind of person to whom she needed to say something like that.
I’m sure my hesitation telegraphed my thoughts, and I decided to change the subject. “I have to make a few calls,” I told her. “I need to tell the lawyer about Paul contacting you, and I should probably touch base with my boss, let her know there aren’t any broken bones in my arm, that I’ll be fine to teach my classes tomorrow.”
“Maybe you should take a day off?”
“I’ll be okay.”
“Yeah,” she said, and it almost sounded like she was disappointed. She stood. “I gotta print out some stuff anyway. I did some research for you.”
“Really?”
“On that Gunderson Foundation place, and on primates. I think it might help you with your case.”
Hmm. Nice.
“Forward Paul’s emails to me first,” I said, “so I can send them to the lawyer.”
A pause. “Okay.”
She left the room, and I dialed Missy’s home number.
44
Missy Schuel listened silently as I told her about Paul Lansing’s emails to Tessa and his rendezvous with her earlier in the day.
“Who initiated the electronic communication between them?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What about the meeting?”
“He did.”
“Forward the emails to me.”
“I’m doing it right now.” I tapped at my keyboard.
“It might be considered intimidation if you contact him, so don’t. I can guarantee you that it wouldn’t help our case. Also, your friend dropped off the diary. Thank you.”
“Yes.”
“I have a few other cases on my plate, but I’ll read as much of it as I can tomorrow.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“I left a message for Lansing’s lawyers; they haven’t returned my calls. I’ll try again in the morning. Hopefully we can still set up a meeting next week. They might not like it, but I think we should move forward as soon as we can.”
I thanked her again, and when I ended the call, I saw a text from Lien-hua asking how I was doing-she’d heard about the shooting and was concerned.
Considering all that was on my mind and my tumultuous feelings toward her, I didn’t think I was up for the emotional roller-coaster ride of talking to her right now. I texted her that I was fine, thanked her for teaching my class today, and then told her I’d call her first thing in the morning.