"You sure?"
She bites her bottom lip, and glances down. "It was tough going home for Christmas."
Oh, God, she's hurting. And she needs me. That's why she called. Unable to stop myself, I curl my hand around the nape of her neck, not in a sensual way, but to show my support. Whatever she needs, I'm there for her. "You want to talk about it, sweetheart?"
With a soft sigh, she gazes up at me. "Yeah. I guess I do."
I've missed this vulnerability of hers. This need for a shoulder to lean on while she's going through a tough time. God knows I have two strong shoulders. She can have either one. Besides, I know next to nothing about her. So this will give me a chance to get to know her better.
"Come in, please." She offers opening the door wider.
"Okay," I say, stepping through. "I brought wine."
"The stew's almost done. I made fresh bread too." Her smile's not the smile of old, but a new sad one. What on earth happened to her back home?
Right here and now, I make it my goal to make her feel good. Whatever it takes. "Smells great. And here I thought I was the cook."
She takes my coat and hangs it in the foyer closet before leading the way to the kitchen. Rosco and I follow along. Truth is, I'd follow her anywhere.
"Why don't you decant the wine while I ladle the stew?"
"Great idea."
Once she's done plating the bowls, she walks into the dining room. "Bit too much, isn't it?"
The space reminds me of one I saw in Texas when I worked as a caddy at an exclusive golf club. Embroidered chairs and an extension table, crafted in a rich, red oak, blood red paint on the walls, and a black-iron chandelier to shine over it all. Everything in the room matches the opulent decor, from the embroidered place mats, to the exotic china and crystal and the ornate silver flatware.
"Not my style, but I appreciate its beauty," I say, setting down the other plate. "I'll grab the wine."
"And I'll get the water."
As before, we seem to have a perfect rhythm during a meal. And that's not the only place where we pair up well.
She returns to the table with a pitcher of ice water and the fragrant bread and butter, and I pour the wine. Soon, we're sitting down in the gorgeous dining room to enjoy our meal. "It adds a certain cache, though, don't you think?" she asks, looking around.
"I do." Don't have any idea what cache means, but if she thinks so, I'll agree with her.
As if she's reading my mind, she says, "Elegance. The room adds elegance to my simple meal.”
"Nothing simple about it." I slather the bread with butter and bite into it. "Ummm."
"You like it?"
"Like it? I fucking love it." I tear off another piece, slather more butter on it, and pop it into my mouth.
She props her elbow on the table and her head on her hand. "I love watching you eat. You do it with so much gusto."
"I enjoy food, that's for sure."
"Well, you are a big guy."
"Well, the big part is true, as well you know." I wink at her.
Predictably, she blushes. "I walked right into that one, didn't I?"
"Yeah, you did." I point at her plate. "Eat."
She dips her spoon in the stew. Pretty soon she's cleaning up her bowl with a piece of bread.
After a second bowl, I fold my napkin. "It was very good. Your stew."
"Yeah, if I do say so myself."
"Since you cooked, I'll do the dishes."
"We both will."
Within ten minute, we're done. After she puts the leftovers in some plastic containers to take to the office. She offers me some, but I turn her down. "We'll be eating at the compound all week. Part of the playoffs schedule."
"Even dinner?"
"Yes. Even dinner. They only allow us to go home to sleep. That way, we can't get into trouble."
She folds up the kitchen towel and hangs it on its hook. "Platinum trouble, you mean?"
"Something like that. Not that I've been there lately."
"You haven't?"
"Nope."
"How about we have coffee and pie in the living room?"
"What kind of pie?"
"Pecan."
"Be still my beating heart."
"You're silly." She grins. I take a towel and snap her butt, and she snaps me right back. Somehow she slips, but I catch her before she falls.
"MacKenna. God, I've missed you."
"Me too."
"Why are you staying away?"
"You know why. Because of the article."
"When are you going to finish that damn thing. I want you back in my bed."
"Ty.” She pushes away. “I found out some things."
"What things?"
"Let's take the coffee and pie to living room, and I'll tell you."
She tells me about her trip to Nebraska State and what she found there. About Emily Suarez and the night of the assault. About Coach Gronowski strong arming the newspaper. About Ryan and me being at the party.
"You knew her."
"Emily? Yes, I knew her. She followed me to Nebraska State."
"Why?"
"She had a crush on me. But I only saw her as a friend."
"You never dated her?"
"No. I was too busy with football and school. I was one of those rarities in college. A player who studied and attended classes."
"You were?"
"Yes. Sure football was important, but I knew enough about the sport to know that one day, I'd need more than that. I make a lot of money, MacKenna. An investment firm manages it for me. By the time I'm thirty, I should be set for life."
"Is that when you plan to retire?"
"If I don't get injured before then. Or if my arm gives out."
"The night of the party—"
"I never saw her. I swear to you I'm telling the truth."
"Where were you?"
I take a deep breath, let it out. "Upstairs in my room with two girls."
"Girls?"
"Women. Two women. A junior and a senior, definitely older than me."
"I guess I don't have to ask you what you were doing."
"Getting drunk and having sex. They both vouched for me when the police questioned my whereabouts."
"How old were you?"
"Eighteen."
"Did you know Emily was coming to the party."
"No. If I had, I would have told her to stay away."
"Why?"
"We came from a very small town in Texas. She was pretty naive. So was I for that matter. I learned fast. She . . . didn't. When I found out the next morning, I felt responsible. Even though I had no idea she was coming, I should have known."
"Why?"
"She was dating somebody in the frat house. She kept mentioning it. But when I asked her his name, she wouldn't tell me. I thought it was just Emily trying to make me jealous or something."
"Did you ever find out?"
"No. I never did. Whenever I tried to talk to her about that night, she’d end up crying. She went to counseling for a while, but her grades suffered that semester, and then she stopped going to classes altogether."
"Did you know she was pregnant?"
"God, no. If I had, I would have—I don't know, done something."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Told her I'd be there for her. If she needed me. But she never gave me the chance."
"I'm flying to Texas to talk to her mom. Once I do that, I'll write your story."
"Good. Mrs. Suarez is a nice sort. You can count on her to tell you the truth."
"What is the truth, Ty?"
"That I liked her daughter as a friend, that Emily followed me to Nebraska State because she had a crush on me, that she came to the party and was raped. And that I had nothing to do with it. I swear on my mother's grave. You believe me, don't you?"
Chapter 27
MacKenna
DO I BELIEVE TY? Yes, I do. Everything in me tells me he's telling the truth. I can't see him ignoring hi
s friend at the party, especially a young woman he'd known from back home. Today's interview with Emily Suarez's mother should affirm that belief.
As the plane touches down in Longview, Texas, I take a long breath. The entire trip has taken almost five hours from Chicago O'Hare, with a stopover in Dallas-Ft. Worth, and I still have an hour's drive to Ty's small town. But after leaving the frozen tundra that is Chicago, the fifties temperatures of Texas seems almost balmy. The terrain varies from undulating to rolling, and the mostly farmland is broken now and then by a forest. Much of it reminds me of Iowa.
The small town literally is a one stop sign place. If you blink you missed it. It takes me no time at all to find Mrs. Suarez's house. Dressed all in black, she welcomes me with a sad smile. But it's a welcome, nonetheless. She serves me strong coffee and sweet pasteles that she learned to cook from her mother. Emily was her only child and now she faces the rest of her years alone. Her sister who lives in California has encouraged her to move there. And every year, she loses one more reason not to go.
Once we get past the pleasantries, I start the interview. "Do you mind if I record our conversation?"
"No, of course not."
"Tell me about Emily."
"She was young and beautiful and smart. Did you know, she earned a scholarship at the University of Texas?"
"No, I didn't."
"She could have stayed home. Well, in Texas, anyhow."
"But she didn't? Why?" Even though I know the answer to this question, I have to ask.
"Because of Ty Mathews." His name emerges in a soft whisper, like a memory you wish to forget. "During high school, she developed a huge crush on him."
I can see that. I can only imagine what Ty must have been like back then. Maybe not as fit as he is now, but probably as gorgeous as ever. How could she not fallen for the stunning quarterback with the killer smile? "So she followed him to Nebraska State?"
"Yes. They were just friends. Or at least that's the way he saw her. He never led her on. But my Emily? Hope sprung eternal in her. She thought if she could make him notice her as a woman, he would fall in love with her."
"But he didn't?"
"No. He never did. He remained friends with her, but that was it."
"How do you know?"
"Well, she told me. We talked every week. She'd share her comings and goings with me. Her classes. Her friends. Ty always figured in them prominently. But then she met someone else."
"Who was it?"
"She never told me. A boy she met in one of her classes. He needed help with a paper and she helped him with it. From what she said, I think she did much of the writing." A rictus of pain rolls across her face. "And then one week in the spring, she didn't call. So I dialed her number. Even over the phone, I could tell something was wrong."
"When was that?"
"The first week in March."
Had to have been after the assault. "She didn't tell you what happened to her?"
"No. She couldn't bear to tell me." She wipes a tear from her face. "I wish she had. I would have flown there and brought her home." A shudder runs through her body. "In the end, I did."
But not the way she wanted. She'd brought her daughter home in a casket to lay her to her final rest. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Suarez." Reaching over, I squeeze her hand. I close my notebook and shut off the recorder. I've pried and poked into this woman's pain enough. Even though she hasn't revealed anything new about her daughter's assault, I've confirmed Ty acted honorably. "Well, I better go. Thank you for your time."
"You will write . . . kindly about Emily."
"Of course. Don't you worry about that."
"I wonder . . ." Her hesitation floats in the air between us, like a living, breathing thing.
"You wonder what, Mrs. Suarez?"
"Emily kept a journal."
For a second, my heart stops. "Did she?"
"Yes. I read part of it. The happy times when she first arrived in college. She was so full of hope and dreams then." Looking off into the distance, she heaves a laborious sigh.
Her daughter had been much like my sister. Jeanie had hopes and dreams of her own. She wanted to sing and dance on Broadway. That's how she first caught the attention of Tommy Hawkins. At a high school performance of Oklahoma. After he'd seen her act, he'd applied for a job in our farm as a laborer. And then he'd raped and beaten her, killing off her chances of a happy future, never mind the stage.
I need Mrs. Suarez to know she's not alone in her pain. Maybe that will comfort her, even in some small way. "I have a sister, Mrs. Suarez, who was abused, as well. Much like Emily, she had hopes and dreams. But they were taken from her. So I understand." I squeeze her hand. "Truly, I do."
Her eyes shimmer with tears, even as she struggles to bring forth a smile "Thank you, Ms. Perkins. I really believe you do."
"So you do not know what's in the rest of the journal?"
"No. And neither does anyone else."
"How can that be? Wouldn't the police have looked at it?"
She shakes her head. "Emily had a very nosy roommate who loved to pry into her things. So she glued a book cover around her journal so her roommate wouldn't know what it was. The police must have thought it was a book, as well. I only realized it was her diary two years ago, when I donated some books to our local library, and the librarian pointed out the writing inside." For a couple of seconds, she's silent. And then she firms her shoulders and stares right at me. "I think you should read it, Ms. Perkins."
God knows I want to, but I have to be honest. "What if I find . . . something unpleasant about Emily?"
"You won't. My Emily was true blue. I trust you, Ms. Perkins. Publish the truth. Maybe then I can lay my guilt to rest."
I understand what she means. She's probably blaming herself for her daughter's death. Somehow, she should have known what her daughter was going through even though she was thousands of miles away. She's suffering the same guilt I've felt since that monster raped my sister. Maybe it's the price we pay for surviving. "Thank you, Mrs. Suarez. I won't betray your trust."
After a short goodbye, I head to the Longview airport for the long trip back. During the two-hour layover in Dallas-Ft. Worth, I read the relevant sections of Emily's journal which reveals the great, big ugly truth of what happened that night, including the identity of the person who could have stopped Emily from getting raped. That truth brings me no joy.
Chapter 28
MacKenna
I WALK INTO THE NEWSPAPER OFFICE the next day to discover all hell's broken loose. Mr. Bartlett's holed up in his office yelling into his phone. No one seems to be working. They're either running from one cubicle to another or confabbing in clumps.
"What's going on?" I ask Dotty.
But before she has a chance to say anything, Mr. Bartlett sticks his head out of his office. "Perkins. Get in here."
"Heads up." Dotty nods toward Randy Brennan's cubicle. "It's about the worm."
I don't have much time to interpret that cryptic remark before I find myself in Mr. Bartlett's office with the door slammed behind me. He's been upset many a time, but nothing like this. Steam's practically coming out of his ears. He's so angry, he can't say a word, taking out his frustration on the cigar torn to shreds in his mouth.
"You wanted to see me?" I squeak out.
"You." He points to me. "Him." He points to Randy's cubicle, his hands shaped into claws as if he wants to choke somebody.
"Randy? What about him."
"This." He taps his desktop computer's screen.
"What did he do?"
"He wrote your article on Ty Mathews."
My stomach twists. "What do you mean my article?"
"He has all the details, everything you discussed with me." Before I left for Texas I had to come clean with Mr. Bartlett. I needed his approval for the trip after all. I'd shared with him what I'd discovered and my conclusions regarding Ty. My editor pulls out his chair and invites me to sit before tapping the screen again. "Read this.
This." God, how bad could it be if he can't even describe it?
I hunker into his executive seat and read the article on the screen. Published by a gossip rag that pays by the word, the piece is not long. But the ten paragraphs or so brand Ty Mathews as a seducer of a young, innocent girl, claiming he passed her around his friends like store-bought candy. I recognize most of the details in the story because it's the stuff I learned from my trip to Nebraska State. How could Randy have written such lies? "I never gave that information to him."
"I know you didn't."
"So how did he get it?"
"He must have downloaded the information from your recorder."
"But I've had it with me the whole time." I fish it out of my purse and show him.
"He probably stole it out of your purse when you weren't looking. It wouldn't take long. A trip to the bathroom would give him the time to do it. He could download it to his computer and return the recorder before you missed it."
"That worm." Not hard to see why he did it. He was getting nowhere at The Windy City Chronicle, mainly because he can't write worth a damn. I spotted three typos in this piece of filth article, and his use of the English language is poor at best. So he'd written a scandalous piece sure to get the attention of the media, not giving a damn about the damage he'd do to Ty or the Outlaws. "It's a lie, you know. It wasn't Ty that turned his back on Emily."
"So you found out the truth?"
I dig into my purse and bring out Emily's journal. "Yes. Emily had a diary and she wrote in it exactly what happened that night."
"How fast can you write that article?"
"It's half done. I worked on it on the plane ride back."
"Finish the story and turn it in as soon as you can. It'll be in Sunday's edition. We'll fight lies with the truth."
"Yes, Mr. Bartlett." I'll pour blood, sweat and tears into that article, if I have to, even though the damage's done. People love scandals. Although my article will reveal the truth, some people will prefer to believe the lies in Randy's article. Even though I didn't intend to, I may have damaged Ty's career beyond repair.
Dirty Filthy Boy (Chicago Outlaws #1) Page 18