HF01 - Almost Forever

by Deborah Raney

  And of course Garrett would have to know. That would end everything between them. He had made no secret of his desire to see the arsonist punished to the full extent of the law.

  She wasn’t an arsonist. But her actions had resulted in no less a tragedy. Was what she’d done punishable by death? Her blood ran cold, and she dropped her head. But that would be a gift, wouldn’t it? Death would be a far more merciful sentence than living with what she’d done.

  Who could she tell? Where could she go to reveal her secret? And how could she explain why she’d waited so long to confess? She hadn’t known. She hadn’t remembered until now. But would they believe her?

  You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.

  Her breath came in short gasps. She had known. Deep inside—someplace she’d buried deep and toiled to forget—the truth had dwelled all along. She had known. But the truth had been too terrible to face, even in secret.

  The truth will set you free.

  How could the truth set her free? No. The truth might put her behind prison walls. Possibly put her to death.

  “What are You trying to do, God? I don’t understand,” she wailed. “Why did You bring that memory back now? What difference will it make? It won’t bring those people back. It doesn’t change anything, God.”

  The truth will set you free.

  The words came as clearly as if He had spoken them aloud. The truth would set her free. She could never forgive herself if she wasn’t honest. She had to confess her role in the fire that had killed Adam and the others. She somehow knew that, as well as she now knew what had happened that night. She had manufactured memories of blowing that candle out. She wanted to believe it so badly that she’d created images in her mind, somehow convinced herself. And then she’d filled her time with other things so that she didn’t have to think about what she’d always known.

  But now that her dream revealed what actually happened, she had no choice but to turn herself in. She could never bring Adam back. Or Molly, or any of them. But she had to pay for what she’d done. She could not live with herself if she didn’t.

  Clutching the bedcovers, she rose on legs like Jell-O and went into the bathroom. She turned the shower as hot as she could make it and stood under the sharp needles.

  Half an hour later, when she stepped from beneath the spray, she knew what she had to do.

  He’d been afraid all along

  that she would start to think

  too hard about what had

  happened in the park.

  21

  Garrett checked his cell phone again as he unlocked his apartment. He’d texted Bryn three times since he got up this morning and called both her home phone and her cell. When she didn’t answer either, he left two voice mail messages and an email. She hadn’t responded to any of them. When she finally got all those messages, she’d probably accuse him of stalking her, but this wasn’t like her. He usually got an almost immediate response if he texted her.

  A sinking feeling went through him. He’d been afraid all along that she would start to think too hard about what had happened in the park, start to second-guess how their friendship had moved to a new level after he’d kissed her.

  She’d said she was happy with the change. She’d made a point to tell him that on the phone. Still, he knew once she started thinking it through that she might have second thoughts, might decide that it was too soon. He’d had similar thoughts himself. That’s why he’d called her last night after he got home. He wanted to reassure her that he wasn’t willing to risk their friendship by running ahead of her. But maybe she didn’t believe him.

  Things had gotten pretty hot and heavy between them. The kind of intensity Molly called “no turning back.” Once, he and Molly had run into Molly’s best friend while they were shopping at the mall. Michelle was with a guy she worked with—someone she’d always told Molly was “just a friend”—but it was obvious by the way they were pawing each other that they’d turned into more than friends. When they were out of earshot, Molly had rolled her eyes. “Well, there goes a perfectly good friendship.”

  “Why do you say that? Looks to me like they’re better friends than ever.”

  But Molly stopped in her tracks, put her hands on his shoulders, and turned him around. “Look at them.” She pointed down the corridor at the arm-in-arm couple. “Don’t you get it, Garrett? There’s no turning back now. They can never go back to being friends. If this doesn’t work out, they’ll never be able to get back what they had before.”

  He’d argued with her. But deep inside he knew she was right. Was that what Bryn was worrying about right now? That they’d already gone too far? That they’d already ruined a perfectly good friendship?

  He culled a pile of catalogs and credit card offers from the mail and tossed them in the trash can under the kitchen sink. He had to convince her somehow. He’d have to take it slow, keep his paws off her for a while. Prove to her that he was willing to back off a little for the sake of preserving what they’d had before today.

  But oh, it would not be easy. The thought of being with Bryn again did a number on his heart rate. Smiling, he fished his cell phone out of his pocket, flopped on the sofa, and dialed her number again.

  Wednesday, January 16

  The phone started ringing. Again. Bryn froze. It would be Garrett, and she couldn’t talk to him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  She shifted in the hard chair at the kitchen table, then turned back to the stack of envelopes on the table in front of her. The sheet of paper beneath her hand was blank.

  She’d called Myrna and told her she was sick and wouldn’t be in to work. It wasn’t a lie. She’d never felt so sick in her life—mentally, physically, emotionally. She hadn’t been able to keep down what little she’d tried to eat, and she could barely stay upright.

  Nevertheless she had sat here with barely a break since early this morning, writing letters of apology to everyone she could think of, explaining what had happened, how she truly had not remembered her role in the fire for certain until last night, that she would give her own life a thousand times if it would bring back the brave firefighters who’d died that night, and that while she was prepared to take whatever punishment the law required for her act of extreme negligence, she knew that in the eyes of these heroes’ loved ones, it would never be enough.

  She’d bent to the task, writing by hand, making each note personal and unique, not willing to do this by rote. She didn’t have mailing addresses for each person on her list, but she would find them and mail the letters tomorrow morning.

  One by one, she turned over each sealed envelope on the stack, admiring the handwriting she’d taken such care with, and then feeling sick that she could think of such a trivial, self-centered thing at a moment like this.

  As she read each person’s name, she said a prayer for them—that God would comfort them, that they would accept her apology and somehow find the mercy within them to forgive her.

  Jenna Morgan. Her friend. It hurt more than she’d admitted, even to herself, to have lost her friendship. It didn’t matter now what Jenna’s reasons for drifting away were. This letter would seal the distance between them in a way that could never be repaired.

  She’d written separately to Bill and Clarissa Morgan, Zach’s parents. She’d never met Jenna’s in-laws, but she’d seen their name in news stories about the fire. Now she prayed for them, weeping as she imagined them opening her letter and reading words that couldn’t help but reopen the wound of losing their son. Jenna would probably read their letter, too, and share their pain all over again.

  She turned over another envelope. Emily Vermontez, Manny’s wife. And another letter to their son, Lucas, who’d not only lost his father, but had lost the use of his legs—at least temporarily—in the fire.

  Her hand lingered when she turned over the envelope that bore Susan Marlowe’s name. Susan had been her friend, too, someone a few years older, someone she looked up to. Bryn ached, th
inking how betrayed Susan would feel when she learned the truth. She had lost the husband she adored and now she was left to comfort two sons who were taking the death of their father very hard. Like salt in an open wound, the fire had also destroyed the very building that housed the ministry Susan had poured her heart into.

  Bryn had written separate notes to the Marlowes’ sons, Davy—David, Jr.—and Danny, and included them in Susan’s envelope. She didn’t know Susan’s boys either, but she knew the elder, David’s namesake, had struggled greatly, wanting to drop out of college and come home. Perhaps her letter would allow Davy a small measure of closure on his father’s death.

  Not since she’d begun to write the letters in the early hours of this morning had she had second thoughts or been tempted to keep quiet about her role in the fire. She knew—beyond a ghost of a doubt—that she was doing what God had led her to do. That she could never live with herself if she didn’t do everything in her power to make amends.

  But now, looking at the fresh sheet of paper in front of her, she broke down. It took all her strength to pick up the pen again. She held the point over the paper, and in a shaky hand she wrote “Dear Dad.” She put the pen down and wadded up the tear-smudged paper. With a groan of anguish, she tossed it into the trash can under her desk.

  She couldn’t let Dad read this in a letter. She had to tell him in person. Today. She needed to be with him to soften the news. But how could news like this ever be made more palatable?

  Maybe she would spend the night at his house before she turned herself in tomorrow. She trembled, thinking about how distraught Dad would be, how disappointed in her. She prayed his heart could hold up under the strain. She would never forgive herself if hearing her news sent him into heart failure. But she couldn’t not tell him.

  A new thought brushed at her conscience, and the beginnings of a letter to Adam took form in her mind. She imagined the words scrawled across a sheet of paper. Dearest Adam, can you ever forgive me?

  Wiping away the new onslaught of tears, she pulled out a fresh sheet of paper.

  For Garrett. For the living.

  To write his letter would be the hardest thing she had ever done. At first, she’d thought she would tell him in person. If the tables had been turned, she would have wanted Garrett to come to her and make his confession face-to-face. But as she’d relived their conversations in her mind over the past few weeks, she remembered Garrett’s bitter words against “whoever” was responsible for the fire that killed Molly.

  Maybe she was being cowardly in this respect, but she could not bring herself to face him, to see the look of love that had been in his eyes for her the first time they’d kissed, turn to disgust. After he knew the truth, he would never want to see her again. It would only be torture for him to have to look at her after he knew what she’d done.

  She drew in a breath and steeled herself to write words that would end—forever—one of the dearest friendships she’d ever known.

  The love in her father’s eyes

  made her want to weep. How

  on earth could she tell him

  what had happened?

  22

  Hi, Dad . . .”

  “Bryn! Come in, come in. What are you doing in this neck of the woods? I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I know. I should have called.” She was losing her nerve fast.

  “Nonsense. I just finished drinking some hot cocoa. Can I make you a cup?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  “Do you want something to eat? Have you had dinner?” He closed the door behind her and headed for the kitchen.

  “No. I’m not hungry. I . . . Daddy, I have something to tell you.”

  He turned to face her, cocked his head, and studied her. “And I bet I know what it is.” A slow smile painted his face. “It’s that Garrett fellow, isn’t it? The guy you’ve been walking those dogs with?”

  “No . . . Dad. It’s . . .” She looked past him to his cluttered living room, suddenly not sure her legs would hold her. “Let’s sit down, okay?” She plopped into a chair.

  But Dad fluttered around the room like a little old woman, picking up newspapers, stacking food-crusted dishes to one side of the coffee table. “I think I know what you’re going to say, Bryn Abigail, and I know what you think I’m going to say, so let me just save you the time.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb between the living room and kitchen. “You’re in love with this man, and you think I’m going to tell you it’s too soon.”

  Bryn opened her mouth to protest, but Dad was on a roll.

  “Under other circumstances I might tell you just that, Bryn. But for some time now, you’ve had a cheerful catch in your voice and a spark in your eyes every time you mention that boy’s name.”

  The love in her father’s eyes made her want to weep. How on earth could she tell him what had happened? She needed to do it now, but she couldn’t make her voice work.

  And Dad rambled on. “You’re too young to be in mourning for too long. If you love this guy, you have my blessing. I know you wouldn’t jump into something you weren’t sure about. I trust you.”

  She sat on the edge of the sofa, paralyzed. Oh, if only what Dad thought she’d come to tell him were true. In that moment, she loved him more than she could express—for giving her permission to love Garrett, for understanding, for trusting her. Trust. That thought took her breath away. For what she must tell him now would destroy that trust.

  “Oh, Daddy . . .” She fought to keep from crying. “I wish it were that. I wish it were good news. But . . . it’s not.”

  “Bryn? Honey, what’s wrong?”

  “I’ve done . . . I did something terrible. I didn’t mean to.” Overwhelmed again by what she had to confess, her voice caught on a sob. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  Like a flash her father was at her side, his arm around her. She drew strength from his presence. “What is it, honey? What’s wrong?”

  She heard the fear in his tone and wanted desperately to be able to take it back. But she couldn’t. “I’ve been keeping a terrible secret—even from myself. I tried to tell myself that I hadn’t done anything, but no matter how I wanted it to be true, it . . . it just wasn’t. And now, I have to make it right. I have to, Dad.”

  “Make what right? Bryn, you’re not making any sense.”

  “The fire . . .” She shot up a prayer for her father’s heart. “The fire that killed Adam, that killed all those men . . . it was my fault.”

  “What? You’re talking nonsense, Bryn. What on earth are you saying?”

  “I left a candle burning . . . in the office at the shelter. That’s what started the fire that night. I didn’t mean to. I was going to go back and put it out. But then Charlie asked me to play cards with him and—” She stopped short. Over and over, she’d had to correct her thoughts, remind herself that she couldn’t lay the blame anywhere else. Not on Charlie, not on the man with the body odor, not on a lack of sleep, and certainly not on Adam, who’d started their fight and put her in a fragile frame of mind. None of those things were an excuse for her mistake. “I never should have left it.”

  “Bryn?” Dad stared at her. “Are you sure?”

  In agony, she could only nod.

  He put his head down, ran the fingers of both hands through his hair again and again. Finally he lifted his head and stared across the room at nothing. “But you don’t know that’s what started the fire.”

  “I do know, Dad.”

  “How could you know? It . . . it could have been anything.”

  “Daddy . . .” She drew another labored breath. “They know the fire started on the second floor. And that’s not all . . .” Flushed with shame, she told him about disabling the smoke detector in the office.

  Her father slumped in the chair, exhaled a heavy breath. “But they—the paper said something about mattresses.”

  “That’s why the fire was so intense, yes. Because all those mattresses from the hospital were stored there
. But that’s not what started the fire.”

  Her father sat shaking his head, seeming to absorb all that. Finally he put his elbows on his knees and looked up at her. “Why haven’t you said anything before now?”

  She told him about her dream, about how she’d suppressed the memories, even tried to manufacture a memory of blowing the candle out.

  “How can you be so sure the dream is more real than the memories you made up? What’s the difference?”

  She hung her head. “I know the difference. I just know.”

  When his shoulders slumped, she knew he believed her. He closed his eyes for a minute before he met her gaze again. “So what are you going to do?”

  “I have to tell someone. I have to confess.”

  “Bryn, you can’t be sure it was you. Wait until the investigators have finished their work.”

  “No, Daddy. It’s bad enough that I’ve waited this long. I have to tell someone. If I wait until it comes out in the report—” She didn’t have a clue how to finish her sentence.

  “But . . . who would you tell? You can’t just walk into the police station and . . . We need to hire a lawyer. You have to be very careful. This is serious, Bryn. You can’t just march in and claim you did it. You could go to jail! Maybe you’re wrong.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve written letters to all the families, apologizing. Now I need to turn myself in. I’m so sorry. I am so sorry.” Grief flooded her as she realized how profoundly this would affect her father. And as she realized that he might be right, she also realized there was a very real possibility that she might go to jail for what she’d done.

  “Bryn, I’m going to call someone. An attorney that Eberfield has used sometimes. He’s a good lawyer.”

  She closed her eyes. “I can’t afford a lawyer. Any lawyer, let alone a good one.”

  “Don’t you worry about that. I’ll take care of it.”