by CJ Lyons
Before I leave the sanctuary of my room, I glance at my laptop. I can’t resist. After all, what do I really know about Alec Ravenell? This guy who’s turned my life inside out.
Sitting on my bed, I open the browser to a popular social media site. Even as I pull up Alec’s profile, which Rory and Max have already examined, and click through to his mother’s page—feeling like a total voyeur for doing so—I know Alec is exactly who he says he is.
He hasn’t posted much on his own profile, but his mom has dozens of pictures of him with his family, celebrating in a big frame house that sits in the middle of a field of gorgeous feathery, purple grass with the ocean beyond. Scenes of them playing on the beach, out in fishing boats, and an entire stream documenting Alec’s life: baby pictures of him snuggled in his parents’ arms, Alec digging in the sand, Alec being chased by a bird twice as tall as he is—a whooping crane, I think—Alec bundled in a life jacket fishing at the rail of a boat.
And then everything changes. When he’s about four or five, Alec the boy not only gets the glasses that older Alec still has, he also gains older Alec’s serious, cautious expression. That look of always searching for something or someone.
I stop there, feeling like an intruder. Not only because I know Alec hasn’t lied, but also because I realize one thing about my own family: they never denied it. When I confronted them downstairs just now, no one said it wasn’t my father who killed my mother and started the fire. No one said Alec was wrong.
I slam the laptop shut and lean back against my pillows. I feel . . . numb. Not anger, not depression, not any other emotion I can label . . . just numb. Why? Why would my mother go with him if Dad was so unstable? Why bring me? Why not get him help?
Was he sick for very long? Was it something new? Did he even know what he was doing, or was he delusional?
I close my eyes and try to remember anything. Anything to give me some idea who we were as a family. Were we ever as happy as Alec’s family obviously is?
I push my thoughts aside, searching the black behind my eyelids for any trace of my parents. And I hear laughter. Joyous laughter—a woman. My mom, I’m certain.
In the background there’s the hypnotic whisper of water lapping; soft, rhythmic slaps against the well-worn dock at the lake house where we lived when I was young. I feel feet thudding against warped, mismatched boards. And finally I see, just a glimpse. Bright sunshine rippling over the mountains, a hawk hovering overhead, watching our antics as I race my mother and father to leap together in faith, the three of us soaring into cold, soothing water.
I hold my breath, feel their hands grasp mine, keeping me safe, never letting me escape to the dark, magic kingdom hiding in the depths below. They always pulled me back, my lifeline to the sun and air and world above. They never once let me go.
But you ran. They were fighting for their lives and you ran. The recriminating voice in my head is my own. A misery of guilt and despair smother me, threaten to choke me with my own tears. Because it’s true. That night, I ran. I abandoned my family.
And look what happened, the voice cackles. Do you remember? Remember what happened after you ran away?
Sand grits beneath my legs and I’m cold, so cold. I’m not me anymore, I’m Nora, scared little Nora who ran . . .
A crack came from behind her. Loud, like the grown-up movies on TV she wasn’t supposed to watch. Then a woman screamed, but it wasn’t on TV—it was her mommy. There was another crack and another, and now it was her daddy yelling, crying, not sounding at all like Daddy. He sounded angry and scared and she wanted to cry, but Mommy had said not to, so she swallowed hard until her crying was all inside her head, but that was still too loud and she had to be quiet, be quiet, so she held her breath and waited and waited and waited . . .
Everything went silent except the rushing noise that never stopped. Her chest was hot and felt about to burst, so she slowly let her breath out and even more slowly took a new one in, tasting the air, listening hard.
Nothing. She slit one eye open, peered into the night. Mountains of sand towered over her hiding spot where she’d crawled beneath a carpet of vines. Nothing, no one. Just a thick fog like when she’d piled her pillows on the floor and jumped off her bed and one of them burst open and let loose white, fluffy cloud-like stuff. Only this fog circling around her hiding place, it didn’t fall away like her pillow stuffing—it stayed there, growing thicker and thicker, a white blanket draped beneath the black night sky.
She was alone. Carefully, still not making a sound like Mommy said, she crawled free of the vines and grass and stood. She had to find her mommy and daddy. Then everything would be okay, like it always was.
The screams and the sounds had come from somewhere in front of her, she thought—she wasn’t certain, but she thought—so as much as it frightened her, she crept toward the hills made of sand, away from the rushing noise, the crash-quiet-crash noise that never stopped, only paused to catch its breath. The noise was somehow reassuring, an anchor as the fog blinded her steps and she stumbled through the strange white fog-black night.
She shouldn’t be here, out in the night alone, lost, so far from Mommy and Daddy. It wasn’t safe. She hugged her arms around her chest, let herself cry even though she still didn’t make a sound—at least not one loud enough to be heard over the rush-crash-rush-crash. She just wanted Mommy and Daddy. She never should have run away. Never should have left them.
Once she found them, she’d never leave again. She’d be a good girl. Whatever made them bring her here, to this strange, frightening place, she’d never do it again, she promised.
She topped the hill of sand and suddenly it was bright light pushing her back with hot dragon’s breath. Its smoke-filled wings spread black and furious, filling the sky as its mouth belched red and orange flames.
Panicked, she slipped and fell, tumbling down the hill and back into the prickly vines, sand filling her mouth and nose. This time when she got back up, she could barely breathe from the smoke choking her lungs; the entire night had roared into a raging cauldron of heat and stink and flames.
She ran. Away from the too-bright flames. Toward the rushing sound. Toward where the night was still and calm and black, two moons beckoning her with soft, silvery comfort. One was high in the sky, the other reflected in the water. So much water. Stretching far and wide, more than even her lake back home. Water, warm and safe, swirling around her ankles, tugging her forward, inviting her.
Sobbing, she fell into its embrace.
CHAPTER 20
Alec
I’m still in the meeting room, hastily jotting down notes and a to-do list in my notebook. Dad hadn’t been much comfort, but he was helpful. He’s been a police officer for almost twenty years, first a deputy and now a detective, and has learned a lot about people during that time.
“You’re a man now,” he told me. “Step up. Take responsibility for your life. And for what you did to hers.”
“Nothing is how I thought it would be.” I hadn’t intended that as a whine—although part of me would have liked to stew a little. But there was no time for self-pity. I needed to fix this. For Nora. “Where did I go wrong?”
“This is why you’re not a cop. You’re a storyteller. And you’ve been telling yourself this particular fairy tale for fifteen years. I mean, seriously, son, what did you think would happen?”
I braced myself; we’d had this conversation at least two dozen times since I told my folks I wouldn’t be going to UNC or Clemson or even staying home to keep taking classes at USC-Beaufort. I’d given up on all the schools that wanted me in order to chisel my way into a tiny college in a small, obscure city in Pennsylvania where I knew no one. Except Nora.
“Was there any other way it could have gone?” Dad continued. Not ranting or haranguing, more like relieved his only child was finally accepting reality. “Did you think she’d want to help you investigate her own father’s mental illness? Probe her family history—question her own sanity? Not to ment
ion the fact she’s only seventeen.”
“Eighteen,” I corrected without thinking. “Her birthday was yesterday.”
There was a pause followed by a sigh. “You told the girl about all of this on her birthday?”
“I didn’t realize—I just thought it was any other day. Plus, on Thursdays she’s here at the college for class. I wanted her to feel comfortable, in a safe environment, when I introduced myself.”
“And instead, you come off as the stalker of the century. You try that down here, y’all’d be lucky you didn’t get a back end full of buckshot for your troubles.” His voice dropped, low and serious. “Son, you need to get over this thing. It’s ruining your life. And now hers.”
“I can’t leave until I make it right for her. That’s why I called. I don’t know what to do.”
“Start with apologizing. Explain to her how you are when you get an idea in your head—like that time you were eight and decided it would be a good idea to climb the tallest pine around and see for yourself just what an osprey nest looked like. You planned that ill-fated expedition for what, a month?”
More like two months, not that I’d ever admit it. I’d made it to the top of the tree but there had been chicks in the nest, and the mother—or maybe the father, I couldn’t tell, because all I’d seen was a tornado of feathers and talons and a beak that could snap my head right off my shoulders. So I’d made the strategic decision to retreat.
Which translated to falling. Branches catching and slowing me but also scratching and tearing, blinding me with flying needles, my hands flailing, grasping for a handhold, until finally I was on the ground. Fifty-four assorted stitches later and a cast on my broken arm—I’d snapped the bone right near the elbow, which ended any hope I had of throwing a ball straight ever again—and all I had to show for it was a cautionary tale my parents never let me forget.
That and first prize in the Pat Conroy Lowcountry Storyteller’s contest—the first of many awards for my writing. But this wasn’t a story. This was real life. I needed to stop trying to live out the fantasy I’d concocted and start fixing the damage I’d left in its wake.
“So I apologize. Should I tell her anything about the case?”
“Not unless she asks,” Dad advised. “And then start with vague generalities. Don’t get too specific, not until she’s ready. And, son, she might never be ready. You’ve changed everything for her. She might not want to see you again. You need to respect her wishes. You understand?”
I sighed. “Yeah.”
Dad’s tone sharpened. “No, I don’t think you do. You’re used to wearing folks down or outsmarting them with an end run around them to get what you want. That’s how you wound up there in Pennsylvania to start with, conning that teacher of yours to get you that job with his professor friend writing that tell-all true-crime trash.”
“It’s legitimate journalism—”
“It’s voyeurism for profit.” We’d had this conversation before as well. “My point is, you can’t be dragging that poor girl and her family into your idea of how things should be. If she says no, if she slams the door in your face, you need to accept that and walk away. For good. Understand me, son?”
I grimaced as Dad’s southern drawl thickened. After a few months up here—where everyone clips and skids their words together, bumper cars at a carnival slamming into each other and speeding away before you even knew what you’d been hit with—a voice from home sounds so welcome. But Dad wasn’t saying what he was saying to assuage my homesickness or to make me feel better. No. This was Dad’s “come to Jesus” tone. One you ignored at your peril.
“Yes, sir,” I finally answered. “I understand.”
“Good. Call your mother. She’s worried about you.”
Dad hung up, leaving me to plot out my apology. I was determined not to repeat the same mistakes I’d made yesterday. No ambushing Ella when she was alone. No hesitating about why I was there, giving her time to misconstrue everything. No lying to her, period.
That’s about as far as I get before the meeting room door slams open and Max reappears. “I ought to deck you.”
I fight to keep from rolling my eyes. Max is only a year younger than me, but somehow I feel like I’ve aged a decade, most of it in the past twenty-four hours. “Go ahead, if you think it will help Ella.”
Max actually takes a stutter step forward, fists raised, before coming to his senses and instead kicking a chair away from the table and dropping into it. “You stay away from her.”
“I intend to.” It’s the truth—kind of. I will stay away from Ella. Just as soon as I apologize and make sure she’ll be okay. “Where is she now? With Rory?”
“No. We dropped her off back home. She’s going to talk to her family. Tell them that she knows. That they don’t have to lie to her anymore.” He leans forward, one fist on top of the other, elbows splayed wide against the tabletop. Claiming more territory. Letting me know who’s top dog here. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“How was I supposed to know she didn’t know the truth? That her family had been lying to her for fifteen years?”
“Don’t you dare! I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand what they did. They love her, they wanted to protect her from the ugly, awful truth for as long as they could.” His words rush together as he becomes more agitated, until finally he spins back out of the chair, gesturing as he speaks. “That’s real love. You’ve met Helen and Joe. Can you imagine how painful, how hard that was for them? Living a lie for so long? Until you come along and just, just—”
“Destroy everything?” I supply. I don’t try to argue the point. How can I when Max is right?
“You’re a freakin’ human wrecking ball.”
“I think I should go apologize. To Ella. And her family. I went too far, and I’m truly sorry.” The words sound trite, too common by far for the size of my transgression, but they’re a start.
Max paces, his steps jerky as he considers my words. I’m more than a little surprised that Max hasn’t hit me—I wouldn’t blame him if he had. But it’s clear Max is much more of a thinker than a fighter. Just as it’s clear that he is hopelessly in love with both Rory and Ella, although in different ways. I almost feel sorry for the guy.
Max whirls, obviously coming to a decision. “Yes. You need to apologize to everyone. But I know Ella. Now that she knows about this, she’s going to pick at it like a scab until she’s worried herself raw. You need to answer her questions in a way that will reassure her. Give her a sense of closure. Let her move on, not obsess over something she can’t fix.”
“How am I going to do that? Her dad murdered her mother, then shot himself. Who knows? He might have killed her as well if she hadn’t run and hid.”
“I don’t know.” Max plants himself in front of me. “But you need to make this right. And you have to promise me one thing. You cannot show her those photos of her folks. Not ever. I don’t care what you tell her, you fix this. And then you stay out of her life.”
I stand. “You mean you want me to lie to her? Isn’t that what got us into this mess to start with?”
“You are what got us into this mess. And you’re going to fix it, and then you’re going to leave Ella alone. Forever.”
“Okay.” Max is the kind of guy who usually makes me want to argue, but there’s no arguing about this. Only surrender. How did I screw up so badly? I turn to gather my stuff.
Max leans against the door, holding it closed. “Just make sure you don’t forget the last part. The part where you never see her again.”
He yanks the door open and vanishes through it before I can say anything.
I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder and look around the empty room with regret. I don’t care about Max or his stupid rules. But he’s right about one thing—after I apologize to Ella, I need to let this go.
How can Ella look at me without remembering what I’d done? Without reliving the memory of her parents’ deaths?
&n
bsp; I came here because I thought she’d want me to, that it would fulfill the promise I’d made Nora so long ago, and had a crazy notion that she would remember me and together we’d discover the reason why her father had done what he’d done. But she didn’t want me here. Didn’t even remember who I was.
I wasn’t helping her. Instead, I’d hurt her. Badly.
“Guess now, she’s never going to forget you,” I mutter. “Not after this.”
I trudge from the room and snap the lights off.
CHAPTER 21
Ella
Feeling like a coward, my brain still trapped by memory combined with guilt and fear, I flee my room for the safe harbor that is my studio.
Years ago, I took over the detached garage behind our house as my studio. It’s cold and drafty, but I have a space heater. Also, Joe found me these fantastic wool mittens with tops that snap back to turn them into fingerless gloves, and after I kept stealing Helen’s lightweight but warm fleece sweater with deep pockets—not to mention snagging it on a canvas stretcher and smearing it with paint more than once—she deeded it to me.
The garage’s overhead door is locked from the inside and I’ve blocked the bottom with rolled-up blankets to limit any drafts or rainwater leaks. I left the row of windows uncovered, and Joe and Darrin added two skylights, one on each side of the steeply pitched roof; plus, there’s a window in the side door, so I get plenty of natural light.
As I step inside the studio, grabbing Helen’s sweater from the peg beside the door, I push the button to lock the door behind me and sag against it, the soft fabric of Helen’s sweater and comforting scent of her perfume—something expensive Darrin buys her in Paris—gathered around me. My mind feels shredded by unearthed shards of memory colored by the terror of that night so long ago and the guilt of abandoning my parents.