His jaw shuddered again, almost a gag. If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn he was going to be sick. He shook his head, but it was more like he was grasping at the chance to look away. “I . . . It was for the best, Mia.” His voice was nearly nonexistent. “I never said that I loved you. I never promised you anything.”
It was as if he had physically shoved her, and Mia staggered back. Her reflexes replied, offering up the slap she’d threatened all those years ago. “Liar,” she hissed, knowing the sting to his face couldn’t sum up the fury she felt. “You know damn well what you promised.” There was a jagged pause, and Mia was unsure if she regretted what she’d just done, or if she should have slapped him harder.
If anything, he appeared grateful for the excuse, a reason to keep his head turned, his eyes focused out the window. “Well,” he said softly, “can’t say I didn’t have that coming. It’s not what you think, Mia. Whatever mangled fate put us back in the same place . . . You have a fantastic career, a terrific life. Go back to it.”
“Back to what?” she asked, stupefied by the prospect. “For the first six years I made the best of what I could. For the last six I did my damnedest to put you behind me. Just so we’re clear, I failed—miserably. And I don’t even want to know what I’m going to owe for that!”
He abruptly turned toward her. “You have nothing to feel guilty about. I walked out—you did your best. You don’t owe anybody a goddamn thing!” There was a low growl, all the way from his gut, his frustration more obvious than his injuries.
Confused, Mia shook her head, unsure why that of all things registered a reaction. Nothing was making sense and she stepped closer. It was only to clear things up, a simple clarification of facts. But the sheer proximity of him was intoxicating. Mia’s fingertips moved fluidly down Flynn’s arm, skimming over the edge of the tattoo that peeked out from beneath his shirtsleeve. She felt the fresh scars that bore more recent signs of life. He didn’t pull away. An achy sigh, heavy with desire and regret, pulsed from Mia’s throat. She could almost taste him, his mouth, his body, coming within a breath of hers. The space left between them smoldered. It was like that first night in the seedy motel when a look between them singed whatever was in their common path. Reaching toward the sharp line of his cheekbone, the side she’d slapped, Mia wanted desperately to take it back. Flynn grasped her hand and gently drew it away. But he held on—as if it was all he dare offer.
“Don’t . . . don’t confuse this,” Flynn said. “I’m not . . . I can’t—”
Without a knock the door swung open, the nurse’s candy-coated voice oozing in. “Flynn, you got lucky. I caught a taxi just as it was leaving. But you’ll have to hurry. He said he’s in a no-parking zone.”
“No,” Mia said, her teeth gritted, her hand now clamped to his arm. “Don’t do this, don’t go—please.” His rough fingers dusted through a fine layer of bangs. He seemed unable to stop, touching the smooth skin of her face. Their gaze bound, twined tight as the wild vines of Athens.
There was another interruption, Dr. Logan squeezing past the nurse. “Wonderful, you haven’t left yet. These meds just came up from the pharmacy. You know,” he said, “I never did determine what you’re made of, Flynn—part titanium, that’s for sure. But I do know that without these, even you won’t be able to handle the pain.”
Still staring at Mia, he answered, “Honestly, Doc, it won’t help a damn thing.”
“Listen, your insistent departure is bad enough. Humor me. I spent a good deal of time ensuring your recovery, almost as much as Mia. The least you can do is follow some discharge instructions.”
“Yeah, sure. You’re right,” Flynn said, turning away. “What do I need to know?” Both Dr. Logan and Flynn moved toward the window, forcing Mia out of the small space. She blatantly eavesdropped, catching cautionary words about dizziness and seizures. After a few moments, Dr. Logan finished and Flynn packed up the medication.
“Mia,” Dr. Logan said. “There’s something else I need to speak with you about . . .” He stopped, hesitating at the door. From the day he’d taken Flynn’s case, the kindly doctor seemed oblivious to any personal turmoil. Now he bent his careworn brow, looking thoughtfully between Flynn and Mia. And she realized that he’d been well aware all along. “I’m guessing this isn’t a good time. Perhaps I can phone you?”
“Anytime,” Mia managed, clinging to the edge of self-possession.
“Good, I’ll be in touch. Take care—both of you.” Opening the door, he glanced over his shoulder. “Suzie?” She obediently followed, pasting a last look on Flynn.
“These are yours,” Flynn said, holding out a neatly arranged stack of drawings, the ones she’d posted around his room. “I . . . I think they’re incredible.” Mia absently took them, holding them tight to her chest. “I, um, I shouldn’t have come back here. Let it go, sweetheart. It . . . it was never anything more than a beautiful disaster.” He picked up the duffel bag, and in one sweeping turn, headed out the door.
Mia’s physical reaction was a step behind. Real time moved ahead of her brain, which was taking a moment to hold the rest of her together. It all raced through her head like a flash fire, charred ruins, the wind scattering gray sooty ashes. This, she imagined, was how a person felt when everything they had, everything they loved, burned to the ground. She could feel the singe, hot on her face, worse on her heart. Amidst the smoky aftermath, she didn’t notice that Roxanne had come into the room.
“Mia, answer me. Where’s Flynn?”
Her head ticked around, responding more to a sense of déjà vu than Roxanne’s question. She’d had this conversation, lived this moment before. “Gone,” she said, dropping the drawings onto the bed. “Everything’s gone. Flynn . . . he said that he shouldn’t have come back. That what we had was just a . . . that it wasn’t real. I don’t even know how to—”
“He’s lying.”
At first she only nodded. Roxanne accusing Flynn of deception was an everyday event, no need to react. Then Mia did a double take, realizing it was all backward. In her hand, Roxanne held out a dirty lavender envelope with Mia’s name across the front in Flynn’s handwriting.
“This is what I owed you.”
“What you . . .”
“Flynn left this for you.”
“Today?”
“Twelve years ago,” Roxanne said, clear and calm—as if Mia might not notice the gap.
Her gaze jerked between Roxanne and the envelope. There was an audible gasp, and Mia retreated back a step. “Twelve—How? Oh, Roxanne, not even you would . . .” But she was nodding, her chin tipping high as if balancing on a fine line between right and wrong.
“There isn’t any excuse—not anymore. No reason that makes what I did forgivable.” She extended her arm farther, offering up the coveted contents of the past. “I swear to you, Mia, I thought I was doing the right thing.”
Mia’s hands flew to her face, the heat in her cheeks nearly burning through her fingertips. “For twelve years you kept that from me? You’ve known why he left me? My God, Roxanne, what kind of person . . . How could you do that to me?” For the first time in as many years as they’d known each other, Roxanne was speechless. Mia didn’t let another second pass, snatching the envelope away and taking what was hers. Turning away, she walked to the window, pulling two sheets of neatly creased paper from inside.
Mia,
By the time this letter is in your hands, the hardest part will be over. There won’t be anything you can do to change it. This morning I turned myself in. If I ever get the chance to explain, you’ll understand why I didn’t have time for the argument. And believe me, Mia, I wanted that argument. I wanted you to say anything, do anything, to stop me. Watching you, all I really want is to wake you up and explain. But I can’t. Right now, I don’t have answers you’ll need. And I won’t ask you for any more faith. You already have way too much in a man who hasn’t done a damn thing to earn it.
It was always my intention, my plan, t
hat come June I’d go through with this. But I came across some information today, and it fast-forwards everything. This is the only move I have left. Running, especially running with you—it won’t fix this. With this letter you’ll find a business card. Angela Whittaker is my attorney. She’ll explain why I had to do things this way. If, after reading this, you still want us, if you’re willing to wait, contact her. A while back we talked about what was too much, and if this is, I understand. Think about your future. Because with or, maybe more to the point, without me, it will be exceptional.
I’d be a fool not to fear what time will do to us. But a life is a long thing when you can’t marry someone, can’t have a real job, can’t put the father’s name on a birth certificate. I want all those things, Mia. No matter what you say now, eventually you’ll want them too. There isn’t any reason you shouldn’t have them, certainly not because you fell in love with somebody who can’t give them to you. And right now, that’s who I am. Do one thing for me: If you don’t want to wait, let it be finished this way. I don’t want any good-bye letters, any messages telling me you’re sorry . . . You have nothing to be sorry for. But, Mia, you need to understand. From the moment you crossed that street, every time I made love to you, for the days to come when I’m living on memories, know that I love you.
Flynn
Breathing required instruction. Mia looked out the window where a single star glowed. She told herself to let it out; breathing wouldn’t hurt anymore. Turning the envelope over, a crisp new business card fell onto the windowsill. It should have been bent and frayed with twelve years of wear. Doubt was replaced with what might have been. He loves me. He always loved me. And suddenly, Mia felt as if she’d cheated on him. No wonder he left—again. Her hand gripped her forehead, thinking how the casual flirtation of an insignificant nurse had agitated her. “Oh my God, he must have wanted to die when he found out about Michael.” Mia spun around. “Wait!” she gasped, the obvious making its way through the tangled past. “He’s not . . . he’s not going back to prison! That’s why the police haven’t come for him. Flynn’s free!”
“Appears that way,” Roxanne offered from behind. “Not only is he free, but he had nothing to do with the murders . . . with those girls.”
Mia stared, her head cocking to one side. “I see. Your DNA must have come back. That explains a lot, hard scientific evidence over my word. It’s a shame you couldn’t have trusted me back then, believed that someone knew more than you. I can’t even begin to think the hell it would have saved us all—Michael especially. And you might have hung on to the only friend you’ve ever really had.”
It was a glacial melt, tears streaming down Roxanne’s face. “I . . . I understand. I wouldn’t expect either of you to forgive me. But, Mia, it’s not too late—”
“Isn’t it?” she said. “Had you given me the damn letter,” she said, thrusting the stationery toward Roxanne, “at least Flynn wouldn’t have gone through all that just to find me married to somebody else.”
“I don’t think that’s why he left—not entirely.”
“Oh please, we’ve just proven what you know.”
“I know Michael was here.”
“Michael?” she said, suddenly willing to listen. “He was here . . . to see Flynn?”
“I overheard the nurses talking. From the amount of shouting going on, I’m guessing it wasn’t a pleasant conversation.”
A last stand. If there was no persuading Mia, Michael would appeal to Flynn. She could imagine the conversation, one man prepared to do anything to win, the other willing to bow out if he believed it was the right thing.
“Not long after Michael left, Flynn asked to be discharged.”
“He did, didn’t he?” Mia turned back to the drawings. She saw the news clipping that would have told him everything. Flynn would do anything to protect her dream—including giving up his own. “Keep going, Roxanne. I want you to tell me everything you know.”
Roxanne nodded, but before she could comply, there was a knock at the door. “Excuse me, ladies. I’m, um, I’m looking for Serg—Mr. McDermott.”
“He’s gone,” Roxanne said, barely turning to answer. “Mia, I’ll help you in any—”
“Just a second, Roxanne,” Mia said, brushing past her. “Can I help you with something, Mr. . . .”
“Jensen. My name’s Kirby Jensen.” Mia’s breath caught on his reply, her fingertips flying to her chest. “I wanted to talk to Mr. McDermott about . . . You see, I—” His gray gaze stared at a point between his worn work boots and Mia. “It’s complicated.”
“Roxanne,” Mia instructed, “would you excuse Mr. Jensen and me. But don’t go far, we’re not finished.” Roxanne offered a curious glance, but no argument as she left the room. Mia turned to Kirby. “She’s right, Flynn’s gone.”
“I see. Damn . . . I guess I came a long way for nothing. His sister called yesterday. She sounded as surprised as me to learn he was here, in Maryland. Would, um . . . would you have any idea how I can get in touch? There’s something I owe him.”
“Owe him?” Mia questioned. She looked steadily into his face. It was dark, haggard, as if time had had its way with him. It looked as if he hadn’t slept in about twenty years.
“Yes, I owe him my life. To be honest, ma’am, a lot of guys owe their lives to Sergeant McDermott,” he said, a shaky breath blowing out of him. “But not like I do. We were stationed together, years ago, in Northern Africa. There was something he did back then. Something I wasn’t man enough to take the blame for—and believe me when I tell you, the blame was mine. What Sergeant McDermott did allowed me to have a life. It’s about time; it’s years too late—probably both, but I had to come.” He continued, purging his soul. “I wanted to tell him that maybe I didn’t find a miracle cure for cancer or go on to save the world. But I did my best. I got five of the greatest kids you could ask for. The oldest, twins, Kirby Jr. and Anna Claire, they’re good kids, starting their second year of college. I don’t know, maybe they’re the ones who’ll leave a real mark. I like to think my being there helped. And I wouldn’t have been if it weren’t for Sergeant McDermott. I can’t ever repay him, but I wanted him to understand that I know what I owe.”
Moments later Kirby Jensen left, leaving Mia alone in the room, holding tight to the past and a dirty lavender envelope.
Chapter 31
It was an unlikely scene—a snow day in Maryland, Michael home during daylight hours. Icy water ran like tears as Mia glanced out the window, watching her husband try to dig his way out. The neighbor’s snowman fought the weather, the afternoon sun making a serious attempt at murder. A teakettle whistled and Mia hurried to the kitchen, not wanting to wake a baby that she seemed unable to comfort. Pouring the water, the steam penetrated her face. She backed up fast. Like the snowman, it wouldn’t take much to melt the façade, leaving a puddle of nothing. Her reflection caught in a stainless steel pot, one of several waiting to be washed from last night’s supper. Good thing it was only a pot. Surely the image was distorted, the face not looking like anyone she recognized. As she sat at the breakfast table, the sleeve of her faded flannel shirt grazed through a smear of maple syrup. She rolled it up, weaving her hand past a scattering of mail and crumbs. Underneath the Wall Street Journal was yesterday’s USA Today—or maybe it was from the day before. She opened it, scanning the state-by-state highlights. It was a bad habit, worse than hunting for him on busy sidewalks, less likely than discovering he was a contestant on Survivor. Mia looked through the bulleted blips. She was relieved to see that there hadn’t been a natural disaster in any of the places he might be—Texas, Indiana, Georgia—thinking that it was too bad there was no such tracking system on the moon. She heard a door open and shut, Michael calling her name.
“Mia?” She felt a firm hand on her shoulder. “Mia, wake up.”
She was quick to welcome wide-awake, wanting out of that sticky flannel shirt and the dirty kitchen. More than that, she wanted to escape the feeling that came
with it, the unhappy people who lived in that house.
“What are you doing down here?”
She sat up, blinking at her own orderly living room. “I guess I fell asleep. Where . . . where were you all night?” she asked, unsure if it was any of her business.
“After I finished at work, I decided to stay downtown,” he said. “I . . . I didn’t want to come home and find you packing.”
Mia pushed herself to a sitting position. “You wouldn’t have—not last night.”
He nodded, his gaze traveling the bare walls. “There’s, um, there’s something I need to ask you.”
“Something about yesterday?” she said, wondering how best to fill in those details. His demeanor was different, though; his tone heavy—burdened.
“No,” he said, sitting across from her, hesitating, as if the question carried with it a furious weight. “It’s something I’ve wanted to know for the last six years. Something I was never man enough to ask.” Mia sat up taller, unable to imagine Michael fitting into such a category. “Do you remember Sacred Grounds?”
She pulled back, her brow knitting. “The coffee shop in Athens?”
“Yes.”
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