by Cassia Leo
“Where are the boys?” I asked as casually as I could.
As much as I loved Drea, and Barry was just as witty, my favorite part of staying with them was spending time with Thom and Colin. Knowing Drea, she had probably caught on right away and was being a good friend by not mentioning it. But I loved seeing their little faces light up whenever they saw me.
Just the night before, four-year-old Thom fell asleep on my lap while we were watching Finding Dory. I brushed my fingers through his soft, brown curls until Barry came in to take him to bed. As Barry walked away with Thom’s head resting on his shoulder, I couldn’t help but think of Jack and Junior, and how badly I needed someone who would understand what I was feeling in that moment.
“I think I’m falling in love with your kids,” I said as I held the brine bucket steady while Drea pulled the turkey out and placed it a roasting pan on the counter.
“Most obvious statement of the century,” Drea replied as she picked black peppercorns off the turkey and tossed them into the bucket. “You’re welcome to take them with you when you get a place.”
I sighed as I began quartering more lemons to stuff inside the turkey’s cavity. “I really want to get a place of my own. My nesting urge is even worse than it was with Junior. But I can’t sign a lease until I know whether Jack and I are getting back together. I’m still holding out hope.”
“Pass me the herbs,” she said, pointing at the glass of water behind the sink, which held a bundle of rosemary and thyme. “Have you two talked since your little row?”
“It wasn’t exactly a little row,” I replied, handing her the glass. “He accused me of being a stranger.”
“Right,” she said, making a squeamish expression as she stuffed the herbs into the turkey’s cavity. “Well, maybe Thanksgiving would be a good time to give him a call. You know, do whatever you Americans do on Thanksgiving.”
I bit my lip until it stung, but I couldn’t stop tears from welling up in my eyes as I thought of Jack celebrating Thanksgiving with his parents without me. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, and rushed to the bathroom to wash my turkey hands in private.
I dried my hands and put the lid down before sitting on the toilet. Sliding my phone out of the pocket of my jeans, I stared at the screen for a long while, lost in thought. I tried to imagine what Jack might be doing at that moment. Was he still at home getting ready to leave? Was he helping his mom and dad with the cooking? Or was he sitting on the couch with his siblings, Jessica and John, watching football and drinking beer? Was he wondering what I was doing?
A few minutes later, just as I was about to hit send on a call to Jack, someone knocked on the bathroom door. “It’s me. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay in there?” Drea called out.
I slid the phone back into my pocket and opened the door. “I’m fine. It’s the pregnancy hormones.”
“You sure?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Let’s go finish this stupid American holiday.”
She smiled. “You’re becoming more British every day. Soon, you’ll be apologizing constantly and refusing to look anyone in the eye.”
As I came out of the bathroom, Barry was coming toward us with a grave expression on his face.
“You have a visitor,” he whispered, stepping to the side so I could get past him.
I nodded as I continued down the corridor. As I stepped into the foyer, my heart raced at the sight of Jack standing on the front doorstep in the rain.
“What are you doing out there?” I asked. “Come in.”
He shook his head. “I’m not staying. I just need to talk to you.”
I ignored the sharp pain in my chest, like a knife twisting in my heart. “Okay,” I said, stepping outside.
The eves of the house provided a small amount of shelter from the rain if I stood close to the door. But Jack didn’t seem interested in staying dry. He stared at me for a moment, saying nothing.
“What are you thinking?” I asked, my hand gripping the doorknob to hold myself steady.
He quickly pulled off his coat and put it around me, covering my head with the collar. “I’m thinking about that email you sent me,” he said as he looked down at me, his nose inches from mine.
I swallowed hard. “What about it?”
His eyes were locked on mine for a moment, then he glanced at my mouth for a split second before he took a step backward. “I know that what happened isn’t all your fault. I know I played a big role in pushing you away and making you feel like it was over,” he said, his gaze now trained on the ground. “But I’m still so fucking angry. All the time. I just can’t make it stop.” He looked up and the sadness in his eyes brought me to tears. “But I’m trying. I’m… seeing a therapist.”
I sniffed. “That’s good. That makes me so happy,” I said, wiping my face. “I started going to group counseling. It’s been really helpful, actually. I was afraid they’d judge me, but everyone there has the same fear.” I paused for a moment to collect myself. “There are so many people struggling after losing someone. It’s just… I know it’s a part of life, but it really fucking sucks.”
He laughed as he stepped forward to pull the coat tightly around me. “It really does. Are you still working on the PTSD app?”
I wanted to look up and into those blue eyes I missed so much, but I didn’t want him to step back again the way he had earlier. So I kept my gaze locked on his damp Blazers T-shirt.
“Yeah, I’m still working on it. But I’m thinking of creating an entire suite of apps. Like one for PTSD, another for dealing with grief, and… some other ones…” I said, my voice trailing off as I realized he was still standing so close I could feel the heat of his chest on my face.
“Laurel, look at me.”
I sighed as I looked up. My whole body ached as I waited for him to kiss me. It didn’t have to be on the lips. A forehead kiss or a peck on the cheek would do. But he didn’t.
“I don’t know how to feel about what you did,” he said, reaching up to brush the moisture off my cheek with his thumb. “All I know is that every time I think about it, I’m filled with this rage that feels justified and misplaced at the same time. I’m… really fucking confused.”
“I’m sorry, Jack.”
“I know. I know you’re sorry,” he replied, nodding his head, almost as if he was trying to convince himself that my apology was genuine. “I just need some more time.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I tried swallowing the lump in my throat, but it didn’t work.
“Laurel, are you okay?”
I swallowed again a couple more times before I managed to push the words out. “It feels like you’ll never be able to look at me the same way.”
He sighed and pulled me into his arms, but he didn’t contradict me, which made his embrace bittersweet. I wanted to bury my face in his shirt as he assured me we’d get through this, but that wasn’t what happened. He held me tightly, but he never said another word.
I let go first. It hurt too much to be so close yet so far away.
He accepted the coat as I handed it back to him. “I want to be there for all the baby’s appointments. Not just the ultrasounds. Is that okay?”
“Of course it is,” I replied. “I should get inside. Drea needs my help.”
He nodded, looking somewhat disappointed. “I came here to ask you to promise me something.” His gaze penetrated me as he seemed to contemplate his words. “I need you to promise me you won’t go anywhere alone.”
I shook my head. “Why?”
He drew in a sharp breath through his nose as his body seemed to tense up. “I got a call from Detective Robinson. They verified through cell tower pings that both Brandon and his father were in Hood River that night. They executed a search warrant on both of their homes and Robinson called me today with some disturbing information.”
My heart raced. “What? What did they find?”
“They think it’s highly likely that you were the original targe
t.” He paused for a moment. “They think what probably happened was that they waited until we left. Then, their plan was for Brandon to wait outside in the car while Byron went in to toss the house and make it look like a robbery. Then, he was going to wait for us to come back. But he was surprised by your mom. They’re pretty certain it was Byron who did it because he had knee surgery about a decade ago, which would account for the killer’s distinct gait. And they’re now thinking he might have also killed his wife, Dottie.”
I gasped in horror. “He was trying to kill me? And he’s still out there? But why? What did I do?”
Jack shook his head as he gently grasped my shoulders. “It’s not what you did. It’s who you are and what you represent.” He wrapped the coat around me again as he continued to speak. “After Dottie died, Brandon found out, through her will, that he was adopted. It’s likely Byron told him that your mom had another child that she didn’t give up for adoption. The FBI profiler who’s assisting Boise PD thinks Byron may have stoked Brandon’s resentment toward you, until Brandon believed the only way to make himself feel better would be to kill you to punish your mom. Then, your mom would know how he felt.”
I suddenly felt numb, unable to cry or curse. “I’m so tired of this. When is it going to end? Now I have to take someone with me everywhere I go? For what, so they can be killed, too?” I shook my head. “No, I refuse to bring anyone else into this. And I refuse to live my life in fear of this sicko. I can’t promise you I’ll take someone with me everywhere I go. I’m sorry. I can’t do that.”
He let out a deep sigh. “I know you’re right. I know you can’t spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder. I’m just trying to keep you and the baby safe.”
The tension in my muscles dissolved as I finally understood why we were on the brink of divorce. “You have to stop being afraid of what’s going to happen to me. What happened that night was not your fault. They weren’t killed because you failed to protect them. And if something happens to me, it won’t be because you failed to protect me. We have to stop being so afraid. We’ve spent the last two years being afraid of everything. Afraid the killer will come back to finish us; afraid others will think Junior’s death was our fault; afraid our marriage will be the next casualty; afraid we’ll never be happy again. The fear is killing us. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”
The muscle in his jaw twitched as his gaze locked on my eyes. “Fear isn’t always a bad thing.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to argue with you, Jack. And if you really want to keep me safe, stop pushing me away.”
“Laurel—”
“I know. You need time to figure things out,” I said, handing him his coat. “Take as long as you need. But I can’t stand here and pretend I’m okay with losing you.”
The tension in his jaw was gone, replaced by the pain I’d caused. “You know that no matter what happens between us, I’ll always be there for our child. You know that, right?”
I nodded, unable to fathom what he meant by “whatever happens between us.”
“Happy Thanksgiving, pixie,” he murmured, stepping toward me.
I closed my eyes as he grabbed my face and laid a soft, lingering kiss on my forehead. As soon as he pulled back, I rushed inside, not wanting to watch him walk away. He said something that sounded like “stay safe” as I disappeared inside. As the door clicked shut and the warmth of the house enveloped me, I rubbed my arms to calm the shivers. But the trembling was only replaced with an ache that penetrated down to my bones.
I went through the motions of helping Drea with dinner. I laughed at jokes and pretended everything was okay when she and Barry asked why Jack had come to see me. But in my mind, I was making plans to leave. I couldn’t stay here and put Drea and her family in danger.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I was doing exactly what I had told Jack not to do. I was allowing myself to be a slave to my worst fears.
No, I wasn’t going anywhere. I was going to stand my ground and stay surrounded by the people I loved. No longer would I let the whims of madmen dictate my life. I had to be stronger. I would need that strength if Jack decided he wanted a divorce.
Chapter 10
Isaac
The inside of the lobby at the Greater Stillwater Chamber of Commerce was stiflingly hot. The warm sand-colored paint on the walls and the oak furniture and ceilings only contributed to the feeling that I was being boiled alive. It brought back memories of roasting inside a Humvee under the scorching Afghani sun.
I’d already taken off my coat and hoodie, but dressing in layers was a futile effort in this office. “Excuse me, ma’am?” I said, fanning my face with my hand as I approached the receptionist again. “Do you know how much longer I’m going to have to wait?”
Her eyes widened. “I’m not sure. Susan is still on a phone call. Are you… okay? Your face is pretty red.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I’m just going to wait outside. Can you get me when Susan is off the phone?”
She nodded. “Sure.”
I stepped out of suite 204 and didn’t find any relief from the oppressive heat until I’d descended the stairs down to the small lobby area and raced outside into the blissful 55-degree weather. Chestnut Street in this quaint section of downtown Stillwater was bustling with people shopping and going about their business.
I didn’t bother putting my hoodie or coat back on as I took a seat on the low retaining wall in front of 200 Southeast Chestnut Street. I watched people coming in and out of the U.S. Bank building across the street. Everyone seemed so focused and serious. I wondered if my perception of Stillwater as one of the most beautiful and friendly places on Earth was biased.
The city of Portland certainly wasn’t going to meet either of those criteria, but Portland — like Stillwater — had its own charm. I would miss the variety of local coffee roasters and breweries I had to choose from in Portland. I’d miss the laid back vibe and the fried chicken at Reel M Inn. But most of all, I’d miss the people.
Most of the girls I’d slept with before Laurel came around were downright sparkling. They had strong opinions on everything from the best local coffee to the worst local politicians. Portlanders were fanatical about their sports teams, but it was totally okay to be a man who hated sports. They shunned religion and deified nature, fiercely protecting their natural resources and vilifying anyone who threatened their green culture.
Portland was probably one of the few places in America where you could find tree-hugging Republicans and gun-loving Democrats happily coexisting. Because no matter your political affiliation, the most glaring societal divide was the fault-line separating Portland natives from out-of-state transplants. The city was an experiment in cultural contradictions, yet somehow it worked.
Stillwater was probably almost as liberal as Portland, but the culture was very different. On the surface, it was in many ways your typical quaint midwestern small town with a population under 20,000. Wedged between rocky outcrops on one side and the St. Croix river on the other, the town was picturesque. A storybook village complete with Victorian-style bed and breakfasts and a historic district brimming with antique shops. A great place to raise a family.
But underneath the apparent need to cling to its history, Stillwater was a place that embraced change. The former logging town was young at heart. A place where you could take an historic tour of the city on a Segway, or ride around downtown on a beer bicycle. While I would miss Portland greatly, and I looked forward to settling down in Stillwater at some point, I needed to get out of here and explore what the rest of the world had to offer. And today would be the first day of this new adventure.
“Mr. Evans?” a female voice called to me.
I followed the receptionist back inside and up the stairs to suite 204. She led me to an office where a woman with graying blonde hair, almost exactly like my mom’s, was sitting at a round wooden table. Her gold-rimmed glasses rested on the tip of her nose as she removed a bi
nder clip from a half-inch stack of legal size papers.
She looked up as I walked in. “You must be Isaac Evans,” she said in a pleasant Minnesota accent.
“Yes, ma’am. Are you ready for me?”
“I sure am,” she replied enthusiastically, motioning to the chair across from her. “Please have a seat.”
After signing my name, and her notary log, a total of about twenty different times, I began to get a cramp in my thumb.
She giggled as I wiggled my fingers before signing the final document in the stack. “I know. It’s a lot of paper. And, to be honest, I think this is the most paper I’ve seen for a cash sale of a house. Must be strict regulations in Oregon.”
I flipped the final piece of paper over onto the stack of signed documents and smiled. “Is that it?”
“It sure is,” she replied, straightening the documents and affixing the binder clip to the top. “Oregon requires that the funds from the sale of the property be held in escrow for seventy-two hours, while they verify that you’re not a terrorist or something. The funds will be in your account within seventy-two to ninety-six hours. If they’re not, you should call the seller’s agent. Her number is on the copies I provided you. Congratulations! And good luck figuring out what to do with all that cash.”
I smiled as she held out her hand for a shake. “Thank you.”
As I roamed the rows of headstones and grave markers, searching the names of the dead for my brother’s name, I tried not to look at the dates. I didn’t want to know which of these graves bore the remains of dead children.
In Afghanistan, I always felt conflicted and angry with myself when I learned that a child had been hurt in one of the raids I participated in. But, on the outside, it seemed most of us were able to brush it off as an unfortunate consequence of a necessary operation. Those children wouldn’t have been hurt or killed if their relatives weren’t terrorists, I told myself.
Having spent the last few months in the company of a mother who lost her child to violence, I didn’t think I’d ever again be able to detach myself from the consequences of war.