Out of the Ashes
Page 21
"Thirteen years. How are you, Cindy?" With a glance over his shoulder, he experienced a trickle of warmth when he caught Shannon's worried gaze from down the hall. Nodding to her, he closed the door.
"What are you-" Deciding he'd rather be seated for whatever came next, Curt rounded his desk and sat down, relieving his suspiciously rubbery hold on his crutches. "What are you doing here? I haven't seen you since-"
"I know," she interrupted. Her hands in her lap, she twisted them, unable to remain still. Unlike Shannon's fidgety moves, Cindy's seemed to stem from nerves. Fear. Unable to look at him, her gaze darted around the room, her eyes seeing nothing.
"What's this about, Cindy?"
"I had to see you."
"You had to see me," he repeated, his voice devoid of any inflection. "Now?" As Curt's initial shock faded over finally seeing her—more than a decade later, his heart began pumping, sending much needed heat through his veins. What did she want? "I searched for you . . . after prison. For years after-"
Wincing, her gaze finally rested on him, embarrassed. "I wanted to see h-how you were doing."
"I'm fine. How about you?"
"Everything is . . . I'm m-married now. I . . . straightened out my life . . . finally." Her nervous laugh set Curt's teeth on edge. "I met a great guy and . . . we're very h-happy."
Good for her. He tried to feel charitable. Tried to feel relieved. That she hadn't been as damaged by that night as he was. Instead, he felt numb. As though he were floating above the room, observing a guy who looked like him. Having a conversation with the woman who'd changed the course of his life in the span of sixty seconds. He glanced up, aware that she'd stopped speaking. "That's great. I'm happy for-"
"Curt-" She released a ragged sigh, her eyes filling with tears. "I-I need to talk to y-you . . . about that night."
The cold sensation in his chest drifted lower, forming an icy knot in his stomach. "We don't need to do this. It was a long time-"
She bolted from the chair. "No. We—I have to do this. I have to-" Unable to remain still, she paced to the window. "Thirteen years . . . is a long time to keep this in. My husband and I . . . we're trying to be h-happy." She sniffed back tears. "But, I can't do this any longer-"
The cold settling over him had crystallized. Into an ice pick. Each word she spoke . . . stabbing him in the chest. "I'm sorry for what happened . . ." Despite his rising panic, he continued. "But, by the time I was released from the hospital . . . and then the rehab facility . . . it was a year. Then, there was the trial . . . and prison-" He forced the words out, when they wanted to choke in his throat. "You never contacted me. You never even tried. If you'd had something to say . . . any of those years would've been the appropriate time."
"I ran. I panicked that night . . ." Unable to face him, she kept her gaze out the window. "I ran from you. From the wreck. From . . . everything." She recoiled against the memory they shared.
Though badly injured, Curt still remembered everything about that night. The sound of glass shattering on impact. The flashing strobe lights when help finally arrived. The ear-splitting quiet before they did. An icy wind seeping into his skin. The excruciating pain that grew blessedly numb as minutes ticked by. The metallic smell of his own blood. Lasered into his brain was the smoldering vehicle they'd hit—and the woman slumped over the wheel. He'd closed his eyes . . . praying for likely the first time in his life. That if God existed, He would take him. He would wake up the woman . . . and take him instead.
"A friend of my c-cousin . . . in Tennessee. She t-took me in. I worked. Under the table."
Her halting voice barely penetrated the fog of his flashback. Shame washed over him. Thirteen years of gnawing guilt. The images he would never be free of. Curt tried to focus on her words.
" . . . then I met Jason. We've been together six years."
Unclenching his teeth, he spoke around the hot lump of rage and grief clogging his throat. "That's nice-"
"Curt—stop."
His heart pounding, the film running in his head rewound at her shouted words. So like that night. Her cry had been one of horror. Releasing an anguished breath, Curt tried to rein in his jumbled thoughts. He shivered from the sweat dampening his shirt.
"I was driving, Curt. It was me," she shouted. "It was always . . . me." Collapsing into the chair across from his desk, Cindy began sobbing.
Slumped in his own chair, his good leg shaking too much to rise, Curt watched helplessly. Dispassionately. His blood thundering through his head like a freight train.
"I know." His voice was hoarse, unrecognizable. He'd let her drive. His gaze centered on the wall behind her, he unlocked the memory that haunted him each night. Her shrieking laughter as she accelerated around the bend. Her hand groping his thigh. A sick dread in the pit of his stomach, the moment he realized Cindy was in far worse shape than him.
"I was terrified." Her hitching breath broke the weighted silence. "Over what I'd done. To you . . . to that woman." Her shoulders heaved with a fresh batch of tears. "I thought I could forget. I thought moving away . . . I'd just—pretend it never happened."
She raised her gaze to his. Curt forced himself to look at her, swallowing a hot rush of emotion. The helpless, hopeless desire to rewrite history. Grief over all that had been lost. All of it roiling through him, like a volcano about to burst. He couldn't speak. The huge, hard lump in his throat had solidified into an unyielding, painful mass.
"But, I've never . . . I can't forget," she whispered. "And I can't move on."
"What do you want from me?"
Her guilt-laden gaze locked on his, Curt was unable to look away. "I wanted to talk with you . . . before I-"
"No, Cindy." He cut her off, knowing before she spoke what she would say. "Don't do it. It's been thirteen years."
"I have to." Her eyes blank with shock, she stared through him. "For me. For . . . Jason," she whispered. "I have to face what I did."
"It's pointless," he argued, his voice a painful rasp. "I paid the price. I paid for both of us. We were both guilty."
"Jason is backing me on this," she continued as though she hadn't heard him. "I just wanted you to know first . . . before I g-go to the police."
Stunned, Curt could only watch as she rose from the chair. Scrubbing her eyes on her sleeve, she moved around the desk. Frozen to his chair, he stared into remorse-filled eyes, the strain of more than a decade of guilt visible in the lines on her face. Saw her wince as she acknowledged his brace. Stiffened when she leaned down to hug him.
"I'm so sorry, Curt. For . . . leaving you. For . . . everything. I can't take away your pain. I can never give you those years back." She released a shuddering breath. "But, I can do this."
"Cindy-"
She'd moved to the door before turning back. Her smile weary, she nodded. "It will finally be over. I'll finally be free of this horrible guilt. And I'll be able to move on. Jason . . . will wait for me."
After she left, he stared at the wall, his thoughts splintering in a million directions . . . yet landing nowhere. Enraged and helpless at the same time. Curt was suddenly struck with the throbbing, restless, burning need to move. To flee. Away from here. Away from everyone. From his thoughts. His skin crawled with shame. Anger. Resentment. And . . . damn it, relief. All at the same time. A sudden shiver swept over his clammy skin and he knew he was going to be sick.
She was wrong. The guilt never ended. It would never be over.
Chapter 12
Curtis was gone. Vaporized. Standing in his doorway, Shannon frowned. Where had he disappeared? And the bigger question—why? The shop was silent—the crews wouldn't return until later in the day. He wasn't in the bathroom or the kitchen. If he'd left the building, he'd gone out through the shop.
Too afraid to return to his office after Cindy bolted in tears fifteen minutes earlier, she'd remained at her desk, where she'd been seated since Curt's old girlfriend had arrived. Her heart lodged firmly in her throat, she'd been paralyzed for several mi
nutes, unsure what she could do to help Curtis. Because the vibe around that woman had been too strong to miss. Intuition screaming, She'd known when she informed Curtis of his visitor that something terrible was about to occur. That suspicion had only been confirmed by the electric charge that had jolted through him when he caught a glimpse of Cindy. His expression had been one of shock. Of finally seeing in flesh and blood, the ghost that had haunted him for years. The convulsive grip of his fingers on hers before he released her hand had not been to comfort Shannon . . . but to comfort himself.
Cindy—the persistent woman who'd called thirty times over the past few weeks. Cindy—the girl he'd been with . . . the night her grandmother died. The girl whose name Curt shouted in his nightmares. The girl who'd disappeared.
When Shannon finally summoned the courage to check on him, unsure what she would find—she'd been too late. To comfort him. To listen if he'd felt the need to talk. To drive him home . . . since he'd clearly felt the need to leave.
Jarring herself from the trance she'd lulled into, Shannon released her white-knuckled grip on the doorframe to his office and continued down to the shop. One of the trucks was missing. Curtis had left. Driving—without care for his injured knee. Without talking to her. Chewing her lip, she deciphered the tumult of information overloading her brain. Should she contact his brother? Call MaryJo? Should she go after him? Assume he'd end up back at home?
Or leave him in peace. Whatever news he'd received today had upset him . . . to the point he'd felt the need to process it. Alone.
"You need to respect that." Her muttered words echoed off the empty shop walls. What could Cindy have told him—that after thirteen years, he'd been upset enough to leave? What impact would it have on him? What impact would it have on them? She winced over her selfish thoughts. "Not your call, McCarty." She didn't get to decide.
Shoulders slumped, she closed the shop door and walked back to the reception area. The best thing she could do for Curtis right now—was the job he paid her for. Anything else . . . everything else . . . would have to wait. Until or unless he decided she had a right to know.
CURT STARED AT THE trees framing the rear of his yard. As dusk inched its way across his property, shadows slowly overtook the shape of the trees, blurring them in a soothing watercolor of deepening purple. Unsure how long he'd been standing there, he blinked gritty eyes, aware of a growing ache in his leg. In a fit of frustration he wasn't sure he could explain, he'd flung his crutches to the far side of the deck. Now, he'd have to hop on his over-worked leg to retrieve them.
"What am I supposed to do now?" Thirteen years of his life . . . wasted. No, he corrected. Only six wasted—to injury and rehab and recovery and jail. The last seven had been pretty damned decent. On any measuring stick. Sure, he could rail about his useless leg. About all the surgeries . . . about pain and limitation. But, he would've had that anyway. The accident had taken something he wouldn't ever have wanted to give up. But, the rest of it . . .
Blowing out a frustrated breath, Curt inched along the railing, his first movement in nearly two hours. "What happens now," he muttered. For someone usually adept at analyzing himself—years of self-loathing had served one useful purpose—making him hyperaware of what he was feeling about himself. After thirteen years of knowing himself better than anyone else ever could—Cindy's arrival today left him blank. Uncertain. Unsure what he was supposed to feel. Because over the last seven hours, he'd run the gamut. He'd raged. He'd actually broken down and cried. Yet, he still wasn't any closer to figuring out whether they were tears of relief. Or anger. Or loss. Because he'd felt all three. There was anger. Hot. Molten. Bubbling through him like lava, ready to burst from him and flow- But, directed where? At Cindy—for screwing him over? Leaving him to take the blame for something they'd both done? Anger at himself? For not confessing what he'd always known. Why had he kept silent?
At the time, his shame . . . his chest-constricting guilt . . . his endless sense of worthlessness had felt better served by taking the brunt himself. By absorbing as much punishment as they could possibly dish out. Now—he was no longer certain . . . of anything. Now—he felt . . . sort of stupid. But, would it truly have been easier if Cindy had stood trial, too? Would her presence have made him feel better? 'Better' was not a word Curt could ever attach to that nightmarish time in his life. But, what if it had? What if standing in court beside the woman who'd actually been driving- Would he feel differently now? Would he have processed his guilt faster? Would he truly have felt better about himself?
Thirteen years too late, Cindy was stepping up—accepting her role in the events of that horrific night. Should he be relieved now? Or would the rehashing of it serve to awaken old monsters he'd worked so hard to forget? That he'd locked away in a vault—where he could visit them—acknowledge them. And then safely place them back inside.
Elizabeth. What would the revelation mean to the girl whose life he'd destroyed? Would she have hated him less? Perhaps her loathing would have been shared with Cindy. Would any of that have made a difference in the nightmares that still plagued him?
God—would she contact him again? A shiver ran over him. Would she even hear about it? If the case was reopened, the victims would be notified-
Perspiration gathered at the base of his spine, his heart beating faster. After seven years of radio silence . . . could he bear the thought of hearing from her again? What if she reached out to . . . apologize? Not apologize, he quickly clarified. But- Hot emotion surging, his breath caught in his throat. Forgiveness. What if she could finally . . . forgive him? After all these years . . . He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. The only thing he'd ever allowed himself to wish for.
Hearing tires on the gravel drive, Curt released a shaky sigh. His truck. Shannon. What the hell would he say to her? Did he want her to know . . . everything? Would he be able to hold himself together long enough to tell her?
"Hey—are you alright?"
Her scent arrived on the breeze, offering a fleeting moment of intense pleasure—a brief respite from his brooding thoughts before his heart began pounding. "I'm—okay."
Avoiding his gaze, she walked to the far end of the deck and retrieved his crutches. Approaching him, her eyes reflected warmth. Not judgment. Friendly concern. "Here you go. Would you like to sit at the table?" She nodded to their dining spot. "I . . . could get you something to drink. If you want to sit out here awhile longer, I can . . . leave you . . . to—sort things out."
Staring at her, Curt accepted the crutches, wondering what she was reading in his expression—since he was unsure himself. Were his eyes still red-rimmed? They felt gritty. Tired. As though he hadn't slept in days. Likely, he wouldn't sleep for the next several. As she slipped a crutch under his arm, Curt drank in her shadowed face, knowing there would be worry reflected in her eyes—if he could only risk looking into the honest beauty of them. Her scent wrapped around him, leaving him with the first flicker of well-being he'd experienced since that morning. When she offered him the second crutch, her hand brushed his. Deliberate, he was sure. Shannon loved touching. Loved touching him, anyway. And damned if it didn't send heat arcing through him. Warmth. Feeling.
"Shan-" Capturing her fingers, he felt them stutter against his. And experienced a trickle of relief. For perhaps the first time since knowing her, he could finally admit he needed . . . this. Needed . . . her. Shannon somehow filled one of the cavernous, aching holes inside him. When she slipped into his arms, he released a long, gusting sigh. Just—holding her. Accepting her warmth when he felt so damned cold inside. Loving the weight of her against him when she wrapped her arms around him.
"Don't say anything." Her husky voice slid over his senses. "It can all wait. I don't need to know anything." Her head lifted from his chest, her gaze searching his. "I want to help you. Whatever you need . . . that's what I want to give you."
"I need . . ." Her. Christ—he needed her. Maybe . . . he loved her. The turmoil churning through him be
gan anew.
"Curtis? Just stop—okay?"
He startled against her. "What-"
"I can feel you," she said as she slid her hands along his back, her fingers kneading the rigid muscles through his shirt. "Stop thinking," she urged. "Just . . . rest, okay?"
Curt found his first smile, a brief glimmer of happiness in the fading light. Resting his head on hers, he released another ragged breath. "I need this, Shan." Maybe permanently, his mind whispered.
God help him.
SHANNON WOULD HAVE been content to stand there all night. After several minutes, he released her and headed for the patio chair. She watched him swing his leg up on the side table, something he'd been unable to do a week earlier. Physically, Curtis was improving each day. Emotionally, she wasn't as certain. He looked terrible. Defeated. Sad. His eyes red-rimmed with fatigue and emotional exhaustion. Whatever Cindy had shared had only escalated his stress. "Why don't I get us something to drink?"
"That would be great." He released a weary sigh.
"I don't suppose you've eaten anything today?" By the strain around his eyes, she assumed he'd been standing there for several hours. At some point, he'd lost . . . or thrown his crutches across the deck.
"I'm not hungry," he admitted, resting his head back against the chair.
"Well, I am," she lied. "So, I'll make up a little tray." Uncertain where the conversation would lead, Shannon planned for the worst. If Curt didn't feel like talking . . . if he asked her to leave him alone, she wanted to make sure he ate enough so he could take his pill later. After the day he'd experienced, he'd likely need something to help him sleep.
A few minutes later, he surprised her with a rueful smile. Handing him a beer, she set her wine glass on the wrought iron table. He eyed the tray with amusement. "I'm glad you didn't listen to me. I'm actually starving."