“I know where you live, work, and play,” she said. “How else do you think I’ve stayed out of your comfort zones for the last three years? You’ve been drinking?”
“What was your first clue?” He raised his eyes along with the bottle of moonshine.
Delaney was staring at the green screen. “Curious choice for a wall, bilious green.”
“It’s a color no one wears, which makes it ideal for filming.”
“Is that a fact? Learn something every day.”
She turned, and he stumbled backward until he was resting against the support beam in the middle of the space. Then he slid to the floor, bent his legs, and draped his arms across his knees. Created his very own island.
“So, it finally happened,” she said. “The thing we both dreaded. Katie won’t get out of bed. I had to let myself into her apartment.”
“Callum won’t answer his phone.” He swallowed. “I wasn’t sure you’d answer yours.”
Delaney sat next to him, then shuffled aside until a respectable six inches fell between them. “I nearly didn’t, but you never used our code unless there was a real Maisie emergency. The sex was always a bonus.”
“Remind me again why we broke up.”
“There wasn’t anything to break up, Jake. We couldn’t be alone without ripping off each other’s clothes.”
She crossed her legs and pulled at the frayed hem of her scarlet jeans. Did they have to be skintight?
“I hate to point out the obvious, but—”
“I’m spoken for.”
“That doesn’t normally stop me,” he lied.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire.” She took a deep breath and sat up straight. The chitchat was over. That was one of the many things he loved about Delaney. She always got to the point. Although mostly they were naked when she did.
“How the hell did Maisie find out? My sister won’t say anything except ‘She knows.’”
“Lilah Rose is one wily woman. She kept digging until she found the suicide letter.”
“Please tell me Maisie didn’t read it. Please.”
“No, thank God.” The skink fled from one side of the studio to the other. “Katie isn’t suicidal again, is she?”
“I’m hoping not, but Patrick’s my backup plan. He’s watching over her until I return. And before you ask, yes, he knows where I am. And who I’m with.”
Jake offered her the moonshine.
She shook her head. “We both know what happens when you and I mix with hard liquor, and I can’t stay long. I just needed to put eyes on you, make sure you weren’t doing anything stupid.”
“No, ma’am.” He placed the bottle on the floor, pushed it away, and told her everything.
When he was done, he hung his head. “I want to punch through drywall, hit something solid. It’s been years since I’ve felt this outta control.”
“Is this worse than when Maisie stopped sleeping through the night and you wanted to throttle her?”
He nodded.
“Worse than when she broke her arm and you felt responsible?”
He nodded again.
“Worse than when I told you we were done?”
“That one was earned. I have, as you so kindly pointed out, commitment issues. But this? I can’t even articulate the fear swallowing my sorry ass right now.”
A sinister thought slithered into play: Had he lost Maisie? Ten years ago he would have sworn on his parents’ grave that kids weren’t part of his future and neither was the picket fence. Maisie had changed that. Well, not the picket fence part. Owning the business was bad enough. The idea of not being tied down, of being able to pick up and leave anytime he wanted, had always anchored him. But being needed was a powerful drug. Delaney had never needed him, but Callum did. And until today, so had Maisie.
“I guess you finally understand what Katie and I went through. Pretty sad this had to happen first.” She stood, he didn’t. “I have to get back to my sister. Jake, you can and will hold it together. That’s what you do best, and it’s what Maisie will always need from you. We both know Callum’s too fragile in a crisis.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “For my part in—”
“Well, bless your heart, darlin’. I know that.” She grinned down at him.
“I shouldn’t have asked you to come, but I’m sure glad you did. Thank you.”
“Let’s not make a habit of it, okay?”
She walked toward the door, then stopped. “Remember that night you snuck me into the house when Callum was out of town, and Maisie woke up screaming? She wasn’t calling for her dad. She was calling for you.”
Then she left, and Jake pulled out his phone to try Callum again. Weird, the things a mind could remember. Like how Delaney never, ever said goodbye.
TWENTY-FOUR
CALLUM
One by one, lights turned on in his leafy neighborhood, and a herd of deer slid silently between gardens. In his mind, Callum was not sitting in his car, spying on his family: he was walking into his house; he was kissing his wife; he was hugging his daughter; he was saying, “I love you both. Tell me about your day.”
Tell me about your day.
You failed us.
The car doors were locked, but noises of the night tapped for entry. Bugs dive-bombed his windshield. Splat. Frogs, crickets, probably even a few rabid bats were out in force. Temperatures had cooled somewhat with the beginning of September, but not substantially. Could he suffocate if he didn’t crack open a window? Would it matter if he did?
The persistent ache in his lower back ramped up to actual pain, and hunger became nausea. His hands were clammy; his T-shirt had sweated into his skin. An owl hooted, fell silent, hooted again, and one of the neighborhood dogs barked. He pictured Ringo. That poor creature used to shake if anyone but Katelyn came close. Once, Ringo had lashed out with a warning bite that shocked both of them—man and dog. Callum never told Katelyn. He hadn’t respected the dog’s boundaries; the mistake had been his.
The mistake is always mine. I’m pathetic. A second-rate father, a worthless husband, a deplorable human being. Maisie would be better off if I did suffocate and Lilah raised her without me.
Another text popped up on his phone. A variation on a theme.
I’m going to keep bugging you until you tell me where you are, Jake had texted.
Raleigh. I’ll call you in the morning. I’m fine.
Like hell you are.
Night.
Then he muted his phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat.
Were the raccoons on the back deck, foraging through his recycling bins, dragging empty yogurt containers down into the creek? Last week he’d found tiny paw prints on the outside of the sliding glass doors, as if the raccoons had been begging to come inside. Maybe tonight they’d come and sniff around him. Chances were high he smelled of human garbage.
In the house that used to be his, Lilah lowered the blinds, starting with those in Maisie’s bedroom. Finally his girls had joined the same team, but he wasn’t even benched. He’d been evicted from the stadium.
Twiddling his wedding ring, Callum replayed the scene in the living room. How could Maisie use that word to describe herself? Faulty? She was strong, confident, and adventurous. Could swing a baseball bat as well as any boy—he’d made sure of that. She was ’Mazing Maisie, the little girl who stood up to bullies. The child who would never be a victim.
And Katelyn had ripped it away. Callum tugged on the back of his neck. No, he had ripped it away. He could be mad at Katelyn for moving back to the Triangle; he could be mad at Lilah for kicking him out. But there was no one to blame for today’s events other than himself. If he needed additional proof of being a lousy father, Maisie had snuck out of the house in broad daylight, and he didn’t even hear the stairs creak. Suppose she hadn’t had the phone Jake insisted she carry at all times? Suppose she hadn’t called Katelyn?
A van pulled into his driveway, and the porch light came on. Lilah opened the door and
smiled at the pizza delivery kid. Then the door closed and she was gone. Did she not see his car, or had he already become invisible?
Evening wore on; lights turned off. Callum relieved himself in the forest, not caring if the neighbors saw him marking out territory like a tomcat. He returned to his station wagon. A sensible car, a family car. The car a good father would drive. Not a father who’d been banished.
Callum closed his eyes and remembered.
He’s happy.
The flight landed twenty minutes early. There was no traffic; he’s home to his girls. And he’s made a decision. He’s going to cancel classes and take time off to help Katelyn. Maybe she’s on the wrong antidepressant. Maybe she needs a different psychologist. Maybe he needs to go with her; maybe tonight they’ll make love. It’s been months.
Studying up on PTSD was harder than he’d imagined, but he wanted to understand her diagnosis. What he discovered was a revelation. Information that could help both of them. Never before had he considered she wasn’t the only one still running from her childhood. He’s pumped, he’s primed. He’s no longer afraid. They’re going to pick their lives apart to put them back together. Together. They’re going to tackle this together. Unlike Katelyn, he’s not religious, but he’s been thinking about Ecclesiastes. There is a time for everything.
It’s time. Time to tell her what happened to him.
He puts the key in the lock and opens the front door. The words “Darling, I’m home!” die in his throat. The house is too dark, too hot, too quiet. His shoes are too loud on the hall floor. Tensing, he puts down his bags, turns on the hall light. The living room is empty. His heart pumps a one-word beat: danger. Maisie screams. Breathing hard, he runs. Two stairs at a time.
There she is in her crib! Safe. He reaches for Maisie. Holds her, rocks her, protects her. She smells of baby powder and everything he finally got right. She will giggle through her childhood. She will never know the darkness.
He fiddles with the Winnie-the-Pooh lamp—clearly the bulb is going—smiles, and turns.
Why is his wife huddled on the floor with the dog? Why didn’t she pick up the baby? Why is she crying? Hair greasy and matted, clothes loose and dirty, huge bags under her eyes, Katelyn looks half-wild.
He pulls Maisie closer. Katelyn rants about setting the house on fire. Instinct tightens like a trip wire. Has to get away from the dog he can’t trust, away from the woman who is threatening to burn down his house, burn his family alive. There is danger here. Danger for Maisie. Danger for him.
The devil breathes, “You’re mine.”
Callum jolted awake, heart racing, clothes damp from sweat, and cracked his knee on the steering wheel. He was safe; he was inside his car. And Lilah was standing outside, knocking on the window, wearing one of his T-shirts and a deep scowl. She leaned against the door, preventing him from opening it.
He turned on the ignition and lowered the window.
“You’ve been here all night?” She handed him the paper, as she did every morning.
“Yes.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “I didn’t like the idea of the two of you here alone.”
“We weren’t alone. We had each other.”
“Please, let me come in. I need to talk to Maisie. I need to explain to you both.”
“No, you don’t. Maisie doesn’t want to listen, and neither do I. Stew in your own juices for a while. I’m keeping her home from school today so we can meet Ian for lunch and then hit the mall for serious retail therapy. On your credit card.”
“But you can’t—”
“Can’t what? Take her shopping, take her to see my psychologist friend, or be the only parent who hasn’t let her down? And shouldn’t you be prepping for class?”
“I handed it off to my TA.” He swallowed the dry fuzz in his mouth and reached for the door handle. “If you move, I can get out and explain this to you face-to-face.”
“We are face-to-face, and I’m not moving. I do have a question for you, though: Is our marriage legal?”
“Of course it is. Katelyn and I are divorced. What do you take me for?”
“A stranger who lied to me. So think carefully before you answer this: Do you still love her?”
“No.”
Back in the forest, a hawk cried and another hawk answered. A pair of hawks. Mates. The new neighbor from the end of the block walked by with her sandy-colored Labradoodle and called out, “Morning!” Lilah waved.
Callum watched the woman and her dog disappear. “Did I love Katelyn? Yes. She’s the mother of my child. Was the mother of my child. Was. But the crack that opened up between us after Maisie’s birth kept widening until she ran away. And yes, when she resurfaced in a mental hospital after a year and a half, I left her to her sister and hired a lawyer. He warned me she could return at any time and demand full custody or snatch Maisie. He suggested I go after her parental rights, and I listened because I was terrified.”
Grabbing the sides of his head, he collapsed into his seat, forgetting he’d tilted it back.
“Let me get this right. Your first wife had a breakdown, and your response was to strip her of motherhood?” Lilah was far too composed.
He jerked back up.
“The night she ran away, she was someone I’d never seen before. Half-wild, half-mad.” He shook away the remnants of the nightmare. “I didn’t want to believe the woman I loved was capable of the stuff she told me, but the facts? You want facts? Both her parents were crazy. Her mother stabbed her father in front of Katelyn when she was a child. A child. And then he vanished. Abandoned his family. What was I supposed to think when she talked about burning our house down, ran away, and didn’t contact us again until she sent Maisie a suicide letter nearly two years later? Life is about tough choices. Did I put my daughter’s well-being first? Absolutely, and so did Katelyn.
“She didn’t contest the terms of the divorce, because she knew they were in Maisie’s best interests. And we agreed that when Maisie was old enough to ask, I would tell her Katelyn was dead. What was the alternative? To tell Maisie that her mother had threatened to kill her and attempted suicide?”
“From the letter it didn’t sound as if she’d threatened anyone.”
“You’re taking her side?”
“Callum, I’m about to have our baby, and what does this tell me? That if I get postpartum depression, you’ll dump me and trade up for a newer model?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Go back to Jake’s.”
“No—” He reached through the window and grabbed her arm.
“Take your hands off me or I will scream.”
He let go, and, rubbing the small of her back, she waddled toward their house, disappeared inside, and closed the front door.
Callum turned the key in the ignition. He would park out of sight, and the moment Lilah and Maisie left for lunch, go home to shower and pack a bag. Then check into the nearest motel and figure out how to win his family back.
This time he was not going to be passive; this time he was not going to accept defeat.
This time he was going to fight.
TWENTY-FIVE
KATIE
Wrapped in sweat-stained sheets, Katie opened her eyes and stared at nothing.
Despair creeps, crawls, slithers. It starts out small, a nugget you can’t quite define in the pit of your stomach. Slowly, steadily, it rises until it settles in your face, in your jaw. In the way it solders your teeth together. In the way it steals your appetite, your oxygen, your hope, and finally time itself.
What day was it, Wednesday? Morning or afternoon? The light across the cracked photo on her nightstand told Katie it was daytime, but there was no sun. Her world had shrunk to this room, to this bed, to the faded baby picture that was her only possession worth an emotional dime.
She should have died that night on the overpass. It would’ve been better for Maisie. Saved her from the biggest trigger of all: abandonment. What if Maisie didn’t have OCD before, but d
oes now, thanks to me? What if I don’t love her? How can I, after all I’ve done?
The searing pain above her right eye had flatlined into the dull residue of a migraine. Her stomach was hollowed out, scraped clean, but her mind kept churning. A mental ticker tape spat out images of her daughter’s bedroom as she’d last seen it: the red metal crib, the mural of the cow jumping over the moon, the Winnie-the-Pooh lamp.
Grief the first time around had almost killed her. Only working alongside Ben had lugged her back into the world of maybe-I-give-a-damn. But how could anyone survive losing the same child twice?
Katie scratched a bug bite on her leg. A mosquito must have come in during the night. She pulled her hand away. Blood. There was blood under her fingernail.
What if it’s Maisie’s? What if I stabbed her and didn’t realize? What if it’s not Maisie’s blood? What if I hurt someone on the drive back from the house, a drive I barely remember? What if the police are on the way to arrest me?
If she huddled here, alone, if she didn’t go out, if she reverted to her “stay in the tent” philosophy, she couldn’t hurt anyone. The experts told you avoidance was bad, very bad, but they never sat on the other side of therapy. They didn’t know how it felt to open your veins and say, “This is the color of my blood; watch me bleed.” They didn’t know how hard you had to cling to the dream of recovery. How many times you had to gaze up at Mount Everest and think, I have to climb that without oxygen, in a blizzard, and I’m terrified of everything that stands between me and the summit. Because it came back. That’s what they didn’t tell you. The monster always came back.
Her phone rang. Ignoring it, she pulled the damp sheet and blanket over her head. The phone rang again, stopped. Rang again.
Singing. Muffled singing. Was she hallucinating? She lowered her bedclothes and listened.
“Katie, you are my sunshine,” a chorus sang down in the street.
Dragging herself out of bed, she forced up the lower half of her window, one of the few in the apartment that opened. Ben and Delaney were below, and so were Trent and a few others from the studio. Delaney had her phone in her right hand, and her left arm was looped through Ben’s. He stood still, staring up with a slight frown. He didn’t get it, but why should he? She’d let him in only to slam the door in his face.
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