“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!”
“Is it? Put you and him together and what have you got?” She counted off on her fingers. “Obsessively punctual, times two. Compulsively well dressed, times two. Perfectionistic and rigid, times two. Should I go on?”
My eyes narrowed. “No. These are stabs in the dark. You don’t even know the man—”
“Exactly. And neither do you. Yet you live in such a fantasyland that after one date you’re practically planning the wedding.”
“Says who?”
She flashed me a knowing look, and I felt heat rush to my cheeks.
“Whatever,” I muttered, leaving the room and ending it there. That was the problem with sisters, I decided as I mounted the stairs. Sometimes they knew you a little too well.
Over the course of the afternoon, we managed to come to a truce and recover at least somewhat from our argument. Still, the clash had left a bad taste in my mouth, and I had a feeling it had done the same for her. She took a brief nap, and that seemed to help, as did ending the evening in front of the TV together, something I rarely did but which seemed about all either of us was up to tonight.
As I was putting her to bed, I grappled for something to say, for the right words that would ease the lingering tension between us. But before I could think of anything, my sister beat me to the punch.
“You do know I love you, right, Stupidhead?”
“Yes. You know I love you too, right, Uglymug?”
“Yes.”
We shared a smile, and I headed upstairs feeling much more at peace.
On Monday morning, I called Austin and told him I was sorry, but I wouldn’t be able to go to the party with him on Saturday after all. Ever since yesterday, I hadn’t been able to get the image of poor Nicole out of my mind, struggling to transfer herself in and out of her wheelchair while he and I were off sharing a picnic lunch in the sun. As much as I would have enjoyed another date with my handsome suitor, spending that kind of time with him was going to have to wait until my sister’s casts were off and she could maneuver a little more easily.
“But I’ve already ordered our costumes and everything,” he said, his disappointment tinged with anger.
“Costumes?”
“Yes, did I not mention that? It’s a costume party.” His sigh was audible. “Can’t you get someone to watch her? A friend? Your parents? Hire an aide if you have to. I’ll pay for it.”
Something in his tone rubbed me the wrong way.
“Thank you, but no,” I replied, trying not to sound sharp as I told myself he had a right to be peeved. “If it helps, you’ll be taking her casts off in another week or two, hopefully. After that, caring for her will be easier. I’ll have more flexibility.” Even after the casts were off, I knew, she would continue to need a lot of care as she graduated slowly from wheelchair to walker to crutches to cane to eventually nothing at all. But there was still a big difference between tending to her needs now, which was difficult, and tending to them once her knees could bend and she was able to bear at least some weight on her legs.
We ended the call soon after, but it wasn’t until I’d hung up that I realized he hadn’t mentioned what our costumes were going to be. How odd that he would make arrangements for such a thing without even checking with me first. I chalked it up to his gifts for efficiency and organization. Better the kind of person who gets things done than one who dithers around until it’s too late, even if that did mean making decisions for the both of us once in a while.
When I got home that evening, Greg was there working with Nicole, and I was pleased to notice that she didn’t seem to be gasping and grunting quite as much as before, despite yesterday’s near fall. Later, I found out why when she showed me her new TENS unit, a small device that helped control discomfort by sending electrical signals directly to the affected nerves.
“I still hurt,” she explained, “but this thing dulls the pain somehow. It seems to make it more of an ache than a stab.”
On Tuesday, she and I were just sitting down to supper when she got a call from our father, who said he’d heard from the lawyer and had the final word on Nicole’s sentencing. She put the phone on speaker, and we listened together as he explained that the judge was giving her two options. The first was two years in jail—of which she would serve ninety days—plus two years’ probation. The second was no jail but three to four months in rehab, plus five years’ probation. Regardless of which option she chose, she was to undergo regular drug testing starting next week, she would be required to see a counselor for a minimum of ten sessions during the probationary period, she would have to pay a $1000 fine, and her driver’s license would be suspended for one year. He suggested she talk to the lawyer herself tomorrow, just to get all the details, but that was basically it.
Nicole seemed to take the news well, though once we ended the call, she was subdued. She asked to go to bed earlier than usual, and I complied without comment. More than anything, she probably just needed a little space and privacy to process her fate.
On Wednesday, I got tied up at work and arrived home a bit later than usual. By the time I walked in the door, Nicole’s PT session was pretty much over, and she and Greg were just talking. The curtain was half closed, and they didn’t seem to notice me, so I hovered in the kitchen without disturbing them, thinking they would be finished soon.
I could tell by the conversation that she’d shared the news with him about the sentencing, which didn’t really surprise me. They had been working together for a while now and had established a nice relationship, not to mention this was something he’d undoubtedly helped other people deal with before, considering his area of specialty.
What did surprise me—shock me, really—was when I realized she wasn’t sure which of the two options she was going to choose. In fact, at the moment she actually claimed to be leaning more toward jail than rehab, just because the total time involved would be so much shorter.
“With jail, I get two years’ probation,” she said to him. “With rehab, I get five. I don’t think I could do that, Greg. Five years of probation? That’s horrible.”
I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to run in there and scream, You’re choosing punishment over the chance to heal, the chance for a new life? But somehow I managed to hold my tongue. From the sound of things, he was handling it far better than I could anyway. For the moment I would stay out of it—though I couldn’t listen to another word or I’d explode. Quietly, I grabbed my peacoat from the hook and slipped back out the door. Then I sat on the patio in the evening chill and simply waited.
About ten minutes later, Greg emerged, his backpack slung over his shoulder.
“Maddee?” he asked in surprise when he spotted me. “What are you doing out here?”
“I overheard part of your conversation,” I explained in a low voice. “My choices were either this or go in there and clobber my sister.”
He gave me a look of commiseration and then joined me at the little wrought iron patio table.
“Good choice,” he said as he plopped onto the other chair and set down his backpack. “If I were you, I’d keep staying out of it for now. We have time. She said she doesn’t have to give them her decision until next month.”
We grew quiet as the night sounds surrounded us. A car honking in the distance. A garbage can being rolled to the street. A light wind rustling the treetops.
“What can I do in the meantime to knock some sense into her?”
“What you’ve been doing all along. Taking care of her and being here for her. I promise, Maddee, your part has a bigger impact than you know.”
“Didn’t sound like it to me.”
He shook his head. “She’s just reacting to the news right now, that’s all. Did you know something like eighty percent of addicts pick jail over rehab when given the choice?”
My eyes widened. “Seriously?”
He nodded. “But Nicole is different. I think once she’s had time to
think things over, she’ll make the right decision. I’ll help her get there.”
I thought about that for a moment, hopelessness swelling within me. Was it possible that I could go through all of this with her now, only to see her turn her back on rehab—her single biggest chance of ever staying sober—in the end?
“I’m so scared for her,” I whispered, a catch in my voice.
Greg studied me, his eyes searching mine. “Love casts out all fear, Maddee, and faith moves mountains. I know you’ve been praying for her and that you love her very much. She loves you too. The way she talks about you—you’re her hero.”
I bit my lip, knowing I was anything but a hero. I’d been the one who had let her down all those years ago in the first place, the one who hadn’t protected her at the cabin, who had caused the start of all her problems.
Still looking at me, Greg tilted his head. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Don’t know what?”
“How valuable you are in this.”
For some reason, his words struck me hard. Tears sprang to my eyes. I brushed them away quickly.
“Sorry. I think I needed to hear that.”
He didn’t reply. He simply reached out and placed a warm hand on my shoulder. We grew quiet after that, just sitting there together, in silence, as I got my emotions under control. Something about his presence was so comforting, and I realized he was becoming a friend.
After he was gone, I went inside to hear Nicole in the bathroom, brushing her teeth. By the time I’d changed out of my work clothes, come back downstairs, and heated up a serving of Inez’s lasagna, my sister was ready for bed.
She was quiet as we went through our routine, and I was glad. Tonight at least, if I couldn’t talk to her about the things I wanted to, it was probably better not to talk at all.
It wasn’t until the lights were out and I was leaving the room that she said, “I don’t need it, you know.”
“Need what?”
“I’ll be fine without it. It will all be fine.”
I wasn’t sure if she was talking about rehab or meth, but before I could respond, she was asleep. It was just as well. I didn’t know what I would have said anyway.
The next day, I was waiting to go into a county meeting when I heard from Detective Ortiz. She was calling to say she’d just received the results of the phenotyping report she’d told us about, the one that included a computer-generated drawing of what our victim probably looked like. And though a part of me didn’t want to see that drawing for fear it would stir up old memories, a bigger part couldn’t wait to get a look. Fortunately, she was allowed to share it, and by the time I got back to my office two hours later, it was sitting in my email’s inbox.
My heart pounded as I downloaded the file and opened it up. Right there on the page was the image of a man’s face, and I stared at it in fascination. Though I had vivid memories of that day in the cabin, I couldn’t recall anything of the dead man’s features, so whether this was accurate or not, I just didn’t know. The artwork was definitely done by computer, the image looking like a character in Sims or Call of Duty. Beside it was a summary of the face shape: Narrower than average jaw, prominent nose and cheekbones.
Beneath that was more detailed information about each particular feature shown in the image. It said the man had been of Jewish ancestry with brown hair, either hazel or green eyes, a medium to olive complexion, and probably no freckles.
I’d asked the detective if I could call her back once I’d had a look, so I dialed her now and we went through the results together, starting with the fact that he’d been Jewish.
“‘Of Jewish ancestry’ is the more accurate term,” she corrected me. “Why do you mention it? Is that significant to the case?”
“No, I just like the specificity of it. That narrows down the search quite a bit, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, though not as much as you might think. Richmond has a substantial Jewish population, something like twelve or thirteen thousand people. Even twenty years ago, the percentage was relatively consistent.”
She went through the rest of the form, but before hanging up she said there was one more thing, and by the tone of her voice, I could tell it was important.
“I made a few calls, like we discussed, to put in a good word for your sister.”
“Thank you,” I said earnestly. I was about to add that we’d received the final word on her sentencing yesterday when she continued.
“Anyway, I learned one thing I thought you might want to know. Hector Edgemont is back on the street. His parole hearing was last week. He got an extension on his parole but no jail time.”
“I’m sorry, who?”
“Edgemont. The man who was in the car with Nicole when she had the accident.”
“What? There wasn’t anyone with her. She was alone—”
“No, Maddee. She wasn’t. She claimed to be at first, but it was clear to the responding officers that someone else had been in the car with her but ran off before the police got there.”
“How did they know that?”
“Blood, not hers, on the passenger door. Fresh footprints in the mud. They think he pulled himself out through the busted window.”
I sucked in a breath. “Is that how they figured out who he was, from the blood?”
“Nope. Fingerprints provided a quick match. It was Hector Edgemont, all right. He goes by the name of ‘Hedge,’ and he’s a twenty-five-year-old ex-con from Schooner Pass. Apparently, he’s a friend of Nicole’s.”
“Why did he run away?”
“My guess is that he was committing some sort of parole violation—under the influence or maybe in possession—when they crashed, and he took off so he wouldn’t get caught.”
I closed my eyes, pressing a hand to my forehead. “He just left her there? To die?”
“Not completely. Turns out he was the one who made the anonymous call to 9-1-1 to report the accident from a gas station about half a mile away. He must have hitched a ride out of the area soon after that, though, because the police looked for someone on foot and never found him.”
“Does she know the police figured it out?”
“Oh, yeah. She had to revise her statement in the hospital. The only reason her original lie didn’t count against her with the judge was because it had been said in the immediate aftermath of the accident. They had to allow some leeway, though I’m sure she knew exactly what she was saying.”
My mind was spinning. “I don’t understand. Why did she lie about it in the first place?”
“He’s a friend. She probably didn’t want to get him in trouble.”
I let out a deep breath. “Wow. I can’t believe this.”
“Well, I thought you might want to know that he’s back out on the street just so you can keep an eye on things. You definitely don’t want him sniffing around and getting Nicole into trouble, you know? She seems to be doing really well. I’d hate to see all that hard work derailed by some dirtbag.”
That night I felt almost nauseated as I looked at my sister across the dinner table. When Ortiz and I finished our call, the detective had emailed me the man’s mug shot so I would know whom to watch out for. I’d stared at the picture for a long time, memorizing his face. Hector Edgemont was in his twenties, skinny, with a scraggly black goatee. A real winner.
Sitting here now with Nicole, still astounded that she’d never mentioned him, a verse from Jeremiah kept coming to mind, The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?
Definitely not I.
Trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, hoping she would tell me about this guy on her own, I brought up the accident in conversation, asking for more details about how it happened and if it was scary and what it had felt like. She seemed perfectly willing to talk about it, almost overly so, the way people do when they’re lying.
“That must have been terrifying,” I said, “to go through something like that all by yourself.”
/> Without missing a beat, she replied, “It was, Maddee. Thank goodness some good Samaritan called the police, or I probably would have bled to death.”
For once, I was the one who wanted to go to bed early. My heart heavy as I went through our nightly routine, I never challenged her on her lie. I just let it sit there between us, like a dead animal rotting in the road.
Later, as I lay in bed unable to sleep, I told myself this was a sobering—and probably necessary—reminder of truths I’d already known:
Believe what addicts do, not what they say.
Addicts lie.
Never trust an addict.
Not even your own sister.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Celeste
What did you do?” Emmanuel asked Celeste, stepping closer. She still couldn’t see his face, but she was overwhelmed with humiliation.
“Are you Jonathan?” a second voice asked, and then her humiliation was complete. It was George Barré, her old sweetheart, the man she’d lost all interest in the moment she met her handsome soldier. He and Emmanuel must have come here together in search of her and Berta. Unbelievable.
“No, my name is Spenser Rawling.” He went on to explain that he’d met Celeste and Berta on the ship.
“He’s been a good friend to us,” Celeste added. “Especially to Berta.”
“Nice to meet you then,” George said. “I’m a friend of the family.”
Celeste cringed at the thought of him standing there, witnessing her humiliation. He was another person she needed to ask forgiveness of.
“And I’m her brother,” Emmanuel said. “The oldest son in our family.”
“Right,” Spenser said. “Emmanuel. I’ve heard a lot about you.” As they shook hands, George ducked down to look Celeste in the face. She couldn’t read his brown eyes, but she was dumbfounded by his presence. Why had he come too? Did he still care for her even after what she’d done to him?
George stood up straight. “Where’s this Jonathan you wrote your parents about? Have you married him already?”
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