Yet now a more immediate danger had taken up residence with its own set of terrifying what-ifs. What if George showed up? What if Finn really had lost it, and he held her and the boys hostage somehow? What if Caitlin was arrested for aiding and abetting a criminal? What if Violet found out that Caitlin was here, that she had known where Bear was for even one second—let alone two days full of thousands of seconds—and not called her?
When she’d decided to come, Caitlin had thought that sharing this roof with Finn would make her feel as if she were at least doing something for Violet, facing something for Violet. But now that she was here, breathing the same air within these walls, sharing cold beers and even a few laughs before things had turned south, all she could feel was her betrayal of her friend. She was swimming in it. No—drowning in it.
She had never, ever betrayed a friend before, not like this. She had only one other dark secret in her life, the one Finn was holding over her head, and that one alone had added a shadow to every minute of every new day she lived. She knew there was no way she could add another, darker shadow and pretend it wasn’t there. If the roles were reversed between her and Violet, how could she ever forgive Violet for this—no matter what Violet’s reasons were, no matter what Violet’s rationale was? It was unforgivable.
Caitlin realized with a heavy sadness that there might be no salvaging their friendship—she was in too deep. And it made her hate Finn, for putting her in this position. She hated him so much that it was tempting to call the police right now, let the chips fall where they may, accept her punishment. It would almost be worth it to make sure he got his, to set things right for Violet. Caitlin might not be able to explain anything she’d done in a way that would make Violet understand, but at least she could reunite her with Bear, put something back where it belonged, even if it meant that the rest of it all came crashing down around her.
But what had she done to deserve this particular crash? Of course, maybe if she had chosen to tell Violet certain things years ago … but no, those things weren’t hers to tell. She’d simply been dragged into the middle of this mess against her will. The unfairness of it was almost tangible.
Caitlin didn’t trust herself to make any more decisions tonight—not for herself or Finn, and certainly not for the twins or little Bear. Because in spite of her years of incessant worrying, the biggest danger now was one she had not foreseen.
And that meant there could be other threats she had overlooked.
17
AUGUST 2016
Violet hunched over her knees on the couch and stared at the name and phone number on the screen of her laptop, open on the coffee table. Delilah Branson, there in ten ordinary-looking digits. It had been easy to find the number as soon as she had the name. And it had been easy to find the name as soon as she’d looked up the accident. There it was in the Cincinnati Enquirer’s online archives: The passenger in the car, 27-year-old Maribel Branson, was killed instantly on impact. She is survived by her parents, William and Delilah Branson of Indianapolis. Both drivers were treated for minor injuries and released. An investigation into the cause of the crash is under way.
There were plenty of William Bransons in Indiana’s white pages, but there was only one Delilah.
Violet had always been sickened by rubberneckers on the freeway, but she couldn’t stop herself from looking up every mention of the crash she could find—there’d been coverage near the scene in South Carolina, as well—staring at photo after photo of the gnarled wreckage. It was hard to believe that both Finn and the driver of the truck he’d hit had walked away from that. It was harder to believe that this entire tragedy was laid bare online for all the world to see—even though Finn was mentioned nowhere by name—and yet Violet hadn’t known a thing about it. In the hours since Agent Martin had left, she had been sitting here trying to come to terms with the fact that she’d been oblivious of the most public moment in the life of her own husband.
Her own husband, and the woman who would have been his wife.
One of the articles had referred to the car’s driver as “virtually unscathed.” Violet wasn’t so sure about that.
She needed a drink to steel her nerves. At least, she needed the idea of a drink to steel her nerves. She would have only one shot at this, so it was important to have her wits about her when she called. She padded barefoot into the kitchen, where she rummaged through the cupboard above the fridge and found some vodka and an unopened bottle of cranberry juice. She filled a short glass with ice, measured out exactly one shot of vodka, and poured the tart red liquid to the rim. Then she returned to her seat on the couch and took a sip. Just a little one.
It was eight o’clock, and the sunset had reached that golden hour where the light really did paint everything it touched gold. The living room faced the street, so Violet had closed the blinds for privacy, but the white slats glowed with an ambient yellow. The house was that same deafening quiet she’d called Caitlin to complain about the other day. So much had changed since then. Gram had thrown her off balance with her doubts. Agent Martin had floored her with his questions. Bear’s bed had lost a little more of its Bear smell. But the too-quiet of this miserably empty house roared its same dull, ear-splitting roar.
Violet dialed the number and waited. One ring, then two. Maybe it would go to voice mail. That would be … well, not easier at all, but less scary at this exact second. Then, a woman’s voice. “Hello?”
Violet cleared her throat. “Mrs. Branson? Delilah Branson?”
“I’m afraid I’m on that Do Not Call list, though it seems as if fewer companies bother to check these days.”
“Oh, no, I’m not … I mean, I’m calling because—” Violet took a shaky breath and started again. “My name is Violet Welsh. I’m calling about Finn Welsh.”
There was a pause. “You’re his wife?”
Violet nodded pointlessly into the empty room before her voice returned. “I am, yes. I’m so sorry for—”
“Oh my, and there’s been this … this mix-up, with your little boy. Has he come back?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m so very sorry to hear that. To lose a child…” Her voice trailed off, and Violet’s eyes closed at the sound of the pain behind the words. “That FBI agent—Martin, I think his name was?—called the other day, with all sorts of questions. I’m afraid I wasn’t any help. I haven’t heard from Finn in years.”
“That’s not why I … I mean, I think I might have different questions. If you have a minute?” The white noise of the room’s silence seemed to have been sucked into the phone line. “I don’t want to be insensitive—”
“Your child is missing. You’re allowed to be insensitive. I just can’t imagine Finn doing something like this. There must be some kind of misunderstanding, surely.”
An uncomfortable pressure was building in Violet’s chest. “I hope so.”
“I was happy to hear that he’d gotten married and had a child. I only heard that recently—through the grapevine, you know—and I really did think to myself, Good for him. He deserved happiness. We tried to reach out to him after the accident, but I think it was just too difficult for him. Some people found it hard to believe—most of all him—but we really didn’t blame him for what happened. Maribel had been so crazy about him, and he was so clearly devastated…” Her voice trailed off into a heavy sigh. “Pointing fingers wasn’t going to do anyone any good. Our pastor said maybe it would help him if he could feel our forgiveness, but I don’t think he wanted to feel it. I think he wanted to punish himself. If that makes any sense.”
“I think it does, actually.”
“We even offered to help him financially, and he declined, though I’m pretty sure he was desperate. If Caitlin and George hadn’t taken him in, I really don’t know what he would have done. Most of his stuff given away for the move, all that debt from the wedding deposits—” She stopped herself abruptly. “I’m sorry. Here I am rambling on. What exactly was it you wanted to know?”
<
br /> Violet hesitated. It could be hurtful to Maribel’s mother to learn that Finn had never once mentioned Maribel to his own wife. She might take it as a sign that he’d put it behind him, though Violet was starting to suspect the opposite was true. Then again, she didn’t want to play along, pretending this was all old news, and risk not learning some crucial bit of information that might help her make sense of what was happening now.
“Just … exactly this sort of thing. I’m so sorry to dredge all of this up for you. It’s just that Finn didn’t talk much about”—she wavered—“about that part of his life. And I thought it might be helpful now to know what I missed. You mentioned them getting ready for a move, for instance—that was for a job, right?”
Violet could remember staring at Finn’s portfolio in her office, those words from HR echoing despondently in her mind: relocating for his fiancée’s job … his fiancée’s job … his fiancée …
“Well, sort of. Maribel did manage to get an offer. But really they were looking for any excuse to move to Asheville. I think they would have gone even without one. Two talented artists like them, they would have figured something out when they got there.”
Violet felt as if someone had slammed on the brakes. The ice in her glass clinked, and she looked down at her shaking hand as if it belonged to someone else. When her voice returned, it sounded far away. “Asheville, North Carolina?”
“Yes. It’s a beautiful town. Very individual, very artsy. Very Maribel. And Finn too, I gather. He never mentioned it?”
It was like rewatching one of those flip-the-switch movies like The Sixth Sense or The Others after you know the main characters are not what they seemed. So many scenes look different now that you know the twist, now that you’re looking for the things you didn’t catch the first time around. Violet could see it all: How Finn had gotten uncharacteristically quiet when she’d told him about Gram’s retirement plans in Asheville and suggested they go along to stay close. How he hadn’t answered that night but had agreed in the morning, then disappeared for hours on his road bike. How something had suddenly come up at his office the weekend they’d been scheduled to make the long drive to tour rental houses, and he’d insisted Violet and Gram and Bear go ahead without him. He’d just gone along with whatever Violet wanted, from the house to the furniture and décor, and she’d felt so adrift by his lack of initiative that she had ended up picking things she really didn’t want at all, things that she thought might please him or suit the family but ultimately did not.
A life in Asheville was a life he had meant to be living with someone else.
She never would have suggested they come here if he’d told her. She would have missed Gram, but … no. If Gram had known, she wouldn’t have suggested it either. They’d have gone somewhere else. Someplace they could all be happy. Unhaunted.
But he hadn’t told her. And they had come here. How could Violet possibly tell Maribel’s mother that she was here in Asheville now? Would she still think Finn and Bear’s disappearance was so tragic if she knew the extent to which Violet had apparently taken Maribel’s place?
Violet sidestepped the question. “I’m clear on things from the point when Caitlin and George took him in,” she said. “Before that, though—I’m trying to fill in some blanks.”
But even as she spoke the words, she wondered if she did know everything from Caitlin and George on. She was starting to grasp the gravity of the things that her friends had never revealed—of their loyalty to Finn over her, even if only through silence.
“Well, they were so excited about the move. Everything was all set—she e-mailed me so many pictures of the studio they picked out that my in-box practically crashed. They both just loved the town. It was one of the first things they bonded over, that night they met—one of the things that I think convinced Maribel from the start that Finn was the one, though that probably sounds silly.”
“Not at all.”
“You probably don’t want to hear about this, your husband and his ex. Certainly not while your child is missing—”
“Actually, I do. I really do. How did they meet, did you say?”
“It was the sweetest thing. Meant to be, everyone used to say. They always got a kick out of telling the story. Finn had placed an ad—one of those Missed Connections on Craigslist—looking for a woman he’d met on vacation. But it was really vague, the way he wrote it, and Maribel thought the ad was for her. She’d just gotten back from Gatlinburg, where she’d met this guy, and … anyway, they arranged to meet, and obviously knew right away that they had the wrong people. He used to tease her about how annoyed she’d gotten, how she’d actually lectured him for not being more specific—Maribel was never one to pretend something didn’t bother her if it did.”
Violet’s mouth had gone dry. Her grip on the phone faltered and it fell into her lap. Hastily, she picked it up, pressed it to her ear, and remembered the vodka cranberry she was cradling in her other hand. She drank deeply as the room caved in around her.
It took all her reserves to summon another question.
“But he thought she was pretty?” she ventured. Maribel’s pictures alongside the news reports of the accident were stunning—her cloud of dark wavy hair, her heart-shaped face, her creamy olive complexion, her petite stature and generous curvature—and had absolutely nothing in common with Violet’s sandy hair and tall, thin frame. “I mean, she was angry, but he talked her into staying for a date anyway?”
Mrs. Branson laughed. “Well, not exactly.”
She told Violet about the good Samaritan and the concert tickets, and as she spoke, Violet’s last bit of resolve fixed its gaze on the framed picture on the mantel. She and Finn on their wedding day, just back from the courthouse and sitting, champagne flutes in hand, in the little walled garden behind George and Caitlin’s house, she in a loose sundress and fitted jacket, he in khakis and a crisp button-down, her smiling directly into the camera while he looked at her as if lost in thought. It had always been one of her favorites.
She had never felt so sure of herself as she had that day.
She had never been so wrong.
Never once had she looked at that photo and wondered what he was really thinking. But by the time she and Mrs. Branson hung up a few minutes later, it was the only thing she could think about.
Besides Bear, that is.
She never could stop thinking about Bear.
18
AUGUST 2012
“That night we met, you said everything was haunted. Everything.” At first, Finn had felt a little ridiculous talking to Maribel’s picture, but a half bottle of bourbon later, it was coming naturally. Exactly a year ago today, they’d gotten in the car and pointed it in the direction of the Atlantic. He’d been so eager to be the one to finally show Maribel something she’d never seen before. Maribel, who somehow always knew when private galleries were opening their doors, and which unassuming pubs had the best craft brews, and when the orchestra would be lighting up the whole world out under the stars. Maribel, who had opened up his own universe to hold so much more love and magic and possibility than he’d dared let himself hope for. Maribel, who had miraculously agreed to be his partner—for life. Maribel, whom he’d just wanted to see for himself against the one remaining big, beautiful backdrop that he still pictured with another woman in the frame.
He’d been so ready to move on to the next phase of their lives. So ready to kick it off with a new memory on the soft sand of the beach. And so tired. So tired he couldn’t even remember having fought with his closing eyelids before he drove across that double line and ruined everything, forever.
To commemorate this anniversary of his greatest regret, he’d chosen to let himself wallow. There was no other way he could fathom to function. He’d called off work. Waved away Caitlin’s offer to sit with him, though he knew she meant well. Drawn the shades. Bought the bourbon. He’d stayed in bed for most of the morning and waited until exactly noon to start drinking, as if that somehow mad
e this approach more respectable. He’d sat Maribel’s picture in a club chair across the coffee table from him and poured her a glass too. Hers still sat untouched. His had been refilled so many times he’d lost count.
“I’m only haunted by what happened to you,” Finn told her now, running his fingers through his hair. “I’d rather be haunted by you. If you could materialize here—” He shook his head, his eyes never leaving her photograph. In it, she had just looked up from her sketchpad at the sound of him saying her name. Her hand was held midair, a piece of charcoal in her grasp, and her eyes were wide, bright, expectant.
“I guess I should be glad that you’re at peace. Or if you’re not, maybe you’re too angry at me to show yourself here. I wouldn’t blame you for that.” His bitter laugh seemed to echo under the high ceilings of the old living room. “Hate me as much as you want. You’ve got nothing on how bad I hate myself. Show up here and yell at me. It would be so much better than this—being alone here without you. I miss you so much…”
Stating the obvious aloud did not make Finn feel better. He’d thought he knew loneliness after his parents died. He’d thought he knew longing. He’d thought he knew regret. He’d known none of those things. It was the natural order, after all, to bury your parents, no matter how prematurely that day came. That was real, valid grief, but it only scratched the surface of the true depths grief was capable of concealing when it came not as a scratch but a puncture wound straight to the heart—efficient, yes, fatal, probably, but only after a slow bleeding out of everything that gave him life.
The room was going out of focus, and Finn’s stomach churned. He couldn’t even get drunk without screwing it up. He should have at least bought a frozen pizza, something to sop up the mess in his gut so he could keep drinking, prolong this haze throughout the day without ending up heaving on the cold, cracked tile of the dirty bathroom floor. This nausea that was taking over wasn’t painful enough to feel cathartic. It was just an enhanced degree of the sick feeling he felt every day when he awoke and looked at himself in the mirror and thought about what he’d done and why he would be this alone forever and why he deserved things to be that way.
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