The weather came on and Garrett punched the remote, leaving the room in silence. He had to find out what was going on. He glanced at the pile of mail and newspapers on the kitchen counter and dragged in a breath. The TV station had the story in time to run it on the five-o’clock news. Maybe there was a story in tonight’s paper as well. This was front-page worthy if anything was. He yanked a rolled-up paper from the heap and unfolded it. Yesterday’s paper. He pulled another one from the pile, sending the whole mess sliding to the floor.
He growled in frustration and knelt to scoop the jumble of papers into a pile. A pale blue envelope caught his eye, and he picked it up. Bryn’s handwriting. It was postmarked yesterday.
Heart racing, he rocked back on his haunches and tore open the envelope. The date at the top of the page was also yesterday’s date.
Dear Garrett,
I’m having trouble finding the words to say what I must say. I don’t know how I could ever make you understand, but I have to try. Please know that I never intended to hurt you. You were the dearest friend I had in the world, and among all the other massive regrets I have, losing our friendship—as I surely will once you’ve read this—is one of the things I regret most.
I don’t know where to start except at the beginning. And it seems like the beginning of the end was yesterday morning when I awoke from a dream and realized the dream was more than that—it was a memory. A memory of what really happened the night of the fire. A memory that, I swear to you, I had somehow suppressed until yesterday. When I tell you what I remembered, I think you’ll understand how my mind allowed me to shut it out. Whether you can ever forgive me is another thing.
The letter went on for another page in Bryn’s small, elegant cursive. Garrett leaned against a cabinet door and read that first page over again, trying in vain to make the words mean something rational. Finally he let the page fall to the floor, smoothed out the second page, and read on.
I hope you know me well enough to know that I would do anything to go back and change what happened that night, change my responsibility in it all. But I can’t do that. So I will do the only thing I can do. Tomorrow I will go to the police and turn myself in, and I will accept whatever consequences the law—and God—require of me.
I am so sorry, Garrett. That I am responsible for Molly’s death is almost more than I can bear. If I could give my own life in exchange, I would do it a thousand times over.
I know that I can’t expect you to remain my friend, but I hope that somehow, with time, you will be able to find it within yourself to forgive me for what I did.
Again, he reread the words. The syllables formed in his mind, but they may as well have been a foreign language for all the sense he could make of them. After what seemed like an hour, he eased himself up from the floor, crumpled the letter into a ball, and tossed it across the room in the direction of the trash can under his desk.
He’d been a fool, and Bryn had played him for one. Maybe not intentionally, though it was pretty hard to swallow that she hadn’t known she was guilty until this so-called dream.
Overcome with grief and anger and a thousand other painful emotions, he stood and forced one foot in front of the other. He’d sought God about his friendship with Bryn. He’d been sincere. He just hadn’t counted on her betraying him. The truth was, he’d let Bryn stand in the way of a healthy grief.
Now it was as if he’d lost Molly all over again . . . except this loss came with a heavy dose of betrayal. If it was possible, that pain cut deeper even than the loss of his beloved wife. And this time, he wasn’t sure he could hold up under the unbearable sadness.
She’d never dreaded
anything quite like she
dreaded this trip.
27
Sunday, January 27
Bryn hung up the phone and slumped into a chair at the table in Dad’s kitchen. The house was quiet with her father at work and Sparky in the backyard.
Ten days had gone by since she’d turned herself in to the police. Her arraignment was set for February 19, and her attorney had said if she insisted on pleading guilty, she’d be sentenced immediately and possibly be given the maximum sentence. She was prepared for the worst. Though she had several weeks yet to endure this awful limbo, she’d quit her job.
Myrna had given her time off immediately once the news broke that Bryn had submitted her confession, but Bryn sensed the library director would have preferred she bow out altogether. She’d called Myrna at home moments ago and hadn’t missed the relief in her voice when Bryn told her she would be sending a letter of resignation tomorrow.
Bryn needed the money her library job had provided, but she was sensitive to the fact that it had not been good publicity for the struggling library when it came out that Bryn was employed there part-time. Perhaps it would smooth matters over if the director could say that Bryn Hennesey had tendered her resignation. Dad had assured her to let him worry about the money for now. She didn’t have a choice.
After the police released Bryn, Dad had gone with her back to her house to pack some clothes and to load up Sparky and his things. She’d been here at Dad’s house in the country ever since. She was grateful now for the quiet of the place, and grateful that she hadn’t had to face anyone since.
Sparky was in doggie heaven, with free run of Dad’s backyard. In the evenings after work, Dad was building a dog run off the garage so Sparky could be outside even if no one was home.
She thought about Charlie and knew she needed to let him know that she’d moved—at least temporarily. She didn’t know if he would have heard the news about her confession as far away as Springfield, but in case he did, she didn’t want him worrying about Sparky’s fate.
She’d have to get the contact information for the shelter in Springfield off her computer when she went in to the Falls today for groceries. She’d considered bringing the computer back with her. Dad had a desktop—if you could call the beast that—but she’d had nothing but frustration trying to use the ancient thing. She’d just begun to realize how much of her life was contained on the compact computer she and Adam had shared. Besides her address book and phone numbers, her calendar was on that computer, not to mention all the websites she’d marked as favorites.
Here at Dad’s she’d mostly spent her time reading, walking in the woods behind the house, cooking for Dad, and praying. She’d poured her heart out to God, praying daily, hourly for forgiveness, and then praying for the families of the men who’d died that November night.
For some reason, during these quiet moments before God, she found herself reliving her life with Adam. She’d recalled each moment of their courtship, of their wedding day, and remembered all over again how in love she had been with her husband. It was hard not to regret the time they’d wasted arguing over things that shouldn’t have mattered—didn’t matter at all now. But it was healing to think of Adam with love, to reflect on his life, and what he had meant to her. She was proud of him, and for the first time she appreciated the hero he had been. Why hadn’t she ever been able to see the way he put his life on the line every day. It broke her heart that she’d never expressed her pride in him to his face.
She thought of Garrett, too. And prayed for him. Prayed that he could somehow go on with his life. That was a hard one. She knew it wasn’t possible, but she caught herself too often daydreaming that they’d somehow mended the chasm between them, that they were friends again. Sometimes she allowed herself to replay the sweet times they’d shared together. The brief kisses they’d shared. But that only depressed her more. How could he ever forgive her?
She hadn’t heard back from even one of the people she’d mailed a letter of apology to. That fact was disturbing—and more than a little frightening. Had the DA gotten hold of each of them, hoping for that sensational case Meyer had talked about? Or worse, was there not one of them who could forgive her?
Dad and Judson Meyer were still trying to talk her out of pleading guilty, but how could she plead anythi
ng else? To do so was tantamount to lying. Even pleading “no contest” implied that she was making excuses for what she’d done. More than that, she did not want this case to go to trial. She wanted it over. Even if it meant she had to go to prison—a thought she hadn’t dared entertain for too long—at least this wouldn’t be hanging over her head.
The guilt she would live with every single day of her life, but at least she would accept the punishment meted out to her, and maybe it would give her—and the families of her victims—some measure of peace.
She checked on Sparky out the back window. Living at Dad’s agreed with him—and, surprisingly, it seemed to agree with Dad, too. If she’d known what a fast friendship Dad and that dog would form, she would have brought Sparky here from the very beginning. Of course, then she might not have met Garrett.
The thought stopped her in her tracks. From the vantage point she had now, that would have been a blessing.
She drew the café curtains against the bright afternoon sun and went to get her purse. She’d put off the trip into the Falls as long as she could if she was going to be back in time to make supper for Dad. But she’d never dreaded anything quite like she dreaded this trip. Even more than turning herself in to the police—which seemed crazy. But it was true. How could she face people after what she’d done?
For a minute she considered going to Springfield for groceries instead, but she needed to check on her apartment and pick up some more of her things. Besides, she couldn’t hide out here at Dad’s forever. Eventually she would have to go out in public. She may as well get it over with.
She prayed all the way in to town. Selfish prayers—that she wouldn’t have to see anyone she knew.
She drove to her place first, grateful that the garage would allow her to sneak in and sneak out. A blast of stale air lashed her when she opened the door between the garage and the kitchen. Yet, the familiar smells sent a wave of homesickness rolling over her. Brushing off the temptation to feel sorry for herself, she hurriedly gathered up a few clothes and her favorite vanilla shampoo from the shower. She took the things to her car and went back for the computer. She hoped she could figure out how to connect everything again when she got back to Dad’s.
Locking up the house, she wondered if it would be for the final time. She needed to make a decision about selling the townhome. She didn’t want to impose on Dad—though she suspected he’d rather enjoyed having her around. But she was in no position financially to keep the townhome. And if she was sentenced to prison, she didn’t want Dad to have to deal with putting her house on the market.
She drove to Hanson’s Market, a smaller grocery store on the west end of town. It was a little more expensive, but she was less likely to run into someone she knew here. What she didn’t count on was the fact that while she knew only a few people in the Falls, since the fire—and especially recently, with her photo plastered all over the news—everyone seemed to recognize her.
Almost the minute she rolled her cart into the store, the whispering started. She passed a middle-aged couple poring over a grocery list, but they looked up when she passed, and the woman’s friendly expression turned to one of recognition. Bryn didn’t miss the words the woman almost hissed at her husband once her back was to Bryn. “That’s her! The one who started that fire!”
Bryn knew if she whirled around she would see them staring after her. A minute later, the same thing happened with two young mothers shopping with babies in tow. The expression of recognition, the furtive glances, and a hushed conversation behind open palms. She didn’t blame them. She wouldn’t have done anything differently had she been in their shoes.
She hurried to the next aisle, but hearing the murmurs that followed in her wake, she quickly abandoned her list, grabbed a few things from the produce section, and pushed her cart toward the nearest checkout stand. Somehow she would cobble up a dinner for Dad with what he had on hand. Next time she would shop in Springfield. And she would figure out a way to disguise herself.
She declined to have the high school kid who bagged her groceries carry them to her car. In the parking lot, she transferred the bags to the backseat of the Accord. She was returning the cart to the rack at the market’s entrance when she looked up to see Jenna Morgan coming out of the store, a plastic grocery bag looped over one arm.
Spying her, Jenna gave a little gasp. “Bryn . . .” Her eyes, devoid of makeup, welled with tears. Jenna was several years younger than Bryn, but she had aged ten years since Bryn had last seen her.
Jenna’s jaw tensed and she looked away, put up a hand as if asking Bryn to keep her distance. “I’m sorry. I . . . I don’t understand how you could . . . Why didn’t you tell someone? How could you let this go on for so long?”
“Jenna, I didn’t know. I promise you, I didn’t know. I blocked it out. Or maybe . . . maybe I just fooled myself into thinking I didn’t remember. I’m so very sorry. I don’t know what else to say.”
Two patrons with full grocery carts came out of the store and sidestepped them on their way to the parking lot. Jenna ignored them, took a deep breath, and reached for an abandoned grocery cart as if her legs wouldn’t hold her another minute.
Bryn risked a step toward her. “I hope you got my letter . . .”
But Jenna backpedaled as far as the stack of shopping carts allowed, and Bryn backed off.
Jenna’s stare bored a hole through her. “I forgive you. Bryn, I forgive you because I know it’s the right thing to do. But that’s all I can say right now. I . . . I need to go.” She made a sound that was a cross between a sob and a groan and brushed past Bryn.
Bryn turned and watched her walk away. Of all those she’d written to, Jenna was the one she thought might understand. Zach and Adam had trained for the firefighter job at the same time. They had the same rank and had been friends. She and Jenna had so much in common. They’d laughed together, griped about their husbands’ long hours, shopped together, and helped each other decorate their homes. But if Jenna had turned this cool toward her, how could she dare to hope the others might somehow forgive?
She knew she’d done the right thing in asking for each person’s forgiveness. The day after she’d finished the letters, she’d opened her Bible to read—a new habit in which she’d found much comfort—and the pages had fallen open to the fifth chapter of Numbers, where it spoke of the law commanding that if one person wronged another, he should confess his guilt and make restitution.
Of course, there was no way she could ever make restitution for the human lives lost because of her carelessness. Still, she had done what was within her power to do. She had confessed, both to the families and to the law, and she would make whatever restitution the judge decided was fair. God knew that she would give anything—her very life—if that would change what had happened. But it wouldn’t. Nothing could ever change the consequences of her carelessness. It was too late for that.
She couldn’t control how the people she’d wronged would respond, but she’d at least opened the door, let them know of her remorse, and given them an opportunity to forgive.
She had accepted God’s forgiveness and found deep comfort in it. But if Jenna, Susan Marlowe and her sons, Emily Vermontez and Lucas—and Garrett, oh, Garrett—if they all chose not to forgive her, to hold her accountable for the lives of their loved ones, how could she ever forgive herself?
The parking lot at Hanson’s
was crowded. Great.
He was in no mood
to see anyone.
28
Garrett looked both ways, pulled out from the school parking lot, and turned the opposite way from home. He’d avoided shopping as long as he could, but now his cupboards were bare. Three nights a week he played pickup basketball with the guys, then made excuses to stay at school until the janitors came in to clean his classroom.
He graded papers before he went home, had lesson plans lined out through spring break, and his room sported a new bulletin board every couple of weeks. He’d cleane
d out his desk and the storage closet, even washed the bank of windows that covered the southern wall of the classroom. Anything to keep busy, to not think about what had happened to him.
But he couldn’t live on school lunches alone, and drive-through was getting expensive, so tonight he’d decided to brave the grocery store long enough to pick up some cans of soup, cold cereal, and milk. Maybe a frozen pizza or two, though none of the staples he’d grown accustomed to whetted his appetite.
The parking lot at Hanson’s was crowded. Great. Unless he shopped late at night, he rarely managed to get through the store without running into a parent of one of his students or friends from church—one of the foibles of small-town life that could be good or bad, depending on his mood. Today he just wanted to get in and out—and home.
He cruised through the tiny parking lot waiting for a spot to open up near the entrance. When that didn’t happen, he took the nearest space and took off at a jog toward the front door, weaving between vehicles. He zagged around a fifteen-passenger van bearing a logo for the Falls’ Senior Center. On the opposite side, he almost collided with an open car door. “Whoa! Sorry about that.” He stopped short, waiting for the driver to slide behind the wheel. He recognized the white Accord before his mind registered that it was Bryn getting in the car.
She whirled to face him. Horror painted her features as recognition lit her eyes. “Garrett . . .” His name came out in a whisper. She stared at the asphalt, shaking her head.
He waited for her to meet his gaze, to say something. When she didn’t, he glared at her bowed figure. “What are you doing here?”
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