Every Last Fear

by Alex Finlay

  He needed to swallow his medicine and tell Liv himself. He needed to be honest with his wife, otherwise the magic of this trip wouldn’t be real.

  “I have something to tell you,” he said.

  Liv sat next to him at the dining table.

  He took a long gulp of water, stalling, thinking how he’d explain. “I haven’t been totally honest with you about the trip.”

  “When you said we could afford it? Yeah, I kinda figured.”

  “No, not that.” He told her about the call from Charlotte, or at least the person pretending to be Charlotte. About Maggie tracking the phone. About the couple who had set him up. He felt foolish. He braced himself to tell her the rest—about his job, about their finances, about him taking the pills.

  Before he could do so, Liv said, “Well, I have something to tell you too.”

  Evan tilted his head to the side.

  His wife went to the bedroom and came out with a thin file folder. She handed it to him.

  “Ron Sampson’s wife gave this to me when I was in Nebraska. Her husband told her the file proved Danny was innocent.”

  “Why didn’t you—” Evan stopped himself. It didn’t matter.

  “I knew we were here because of Danny,” Liv said. “I didn’t know what exactly you and Mags were up to, but I knew. And I’m sorry I didn’t give you the file earlier. We were having such a good time, you guys didn’t seem completely consumed by the case, so I thought it could wait. Sampson’s wife seemed out of her mind, and it looked like just random papers, and I thought there was nothing we could do here anyway, so I—”

  “It’s okay,” Evan said softly. He opened the folder, which held three sheets of paper. Examining the first two pages, he said, “It’s blood work. It looks like tests of samples of Charlotte’s blood and Danny’s.” The file assigned numbers to the samples. Charlotte’s 4215, Danny’s 5094.

  Evan inspected the third document, realizing it was a page from an evidence log. Why would Sampson have these in his files? Then it hit him. What if Charlotte’s blood work had been switched out with someone else’s? Because the murdered girl wasn’t Charlotte. He caught himself. He was doing it again. And the separate log—a police chain of evidence record—didn’t show anyone having access to Charlotte’s sample. Then Evan realized that it did show someone—Ron Sampson—gaining access to sample 5094, Danny’s blood.

  Evan pointed to the log. “It looks like Sampson had access to Danny’s blood sample for some reason. And he must’ve stolen the page in the log, not wanting anyone to know.”

  “So what’s it mean?”

  Evan shook his head, mad at himself. He’d spent thousands of hours combing through the files, pulling every thread, testing every theory. But he was drawing a blank. A complete and utter blank.

  Liv said, “Why’d they test Danny’s blood anyway? His blood wasn’t found at the crime scene. There was no DNA evidence against him.”

  “To prove he was the baby’s father. His supposed motive,” Evan said. Then it struck him like a bullet. “Holy shit. Holy shit!”

  “What?” Liv said, not containing the excitement in her voice.

  “Danny wasn’t O negative blood type.” He pointed a finger to sample 5094 on the report.

  “You know Danny’s blood type?”

  “No,” Evan said. “But I know he couldn’t be O negative. Because I’m type AB.”

  Liv shook her head. She didn’t understand.

  “A parent with Type AB blood can’t give birth to an O negative child.”

  “How do you know that? What—”

  “Tommy’s appendix,” Evan said. His son’s emergency surgery.

  She was staring at him, confused.

  “Tommy needed blood.”

  “Right, they got it from the blood bank when we were freaking out.”

  The terrible memory came back to him, that day in the ER. Evan rushing in late, the doctor explaining that Tommy’s blood type was rare—type O negative—and he’d ordered some blood, but it would be faster if Evan could be the donor. Liv couldn’t because she was type A positive.

  “They asked me to give my blood,” Evan said. “Tommy is O negative.” He pointed at Danny’s blood sample, which had the same blood type as Tommy.

  Liv turned white.

  “The doctor pulled me aside, said he didn’t know how to tell me this, but I couldn’t be a donor. A type AB cannot give blood or even be the parent of a type O negative.”

  Liv’s eyes were wet. “You knew? All this time, and you knew?”

  He nodded.

  “But why?”

  “Because he’s still my son,” Evan said. He’d long considered telling her that he knew Tommy wasn’t his biological son, but he could never bring himself to do so.

  Tears spilled from her eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so—”

  Evan put his hand on her shoulder, made a quiet shh sound, looking toward Maggie’s room.

  Liv didn’t look well. She took a gulp of water. “I don’t know what to—”

  “Do you love me?” Evan said.

  She looked at him.

  “Olivia Pine, do you love me?”

  “Yes.” She searched his face, her own set in despair and confusion.

  “Then there’s nothing you need to say.”

  They sat in silence, Liv quietly trying to catch her breath, her hands shaking, her body quivering as if she were cold.

  “I want us back,” Evan whispered, not wanting Maggie to hear. “Like we were. I want our family back.”

  Liv sobbed, “That’s all I ever wanted.” She wiped her face with her hand.

  They heard a noise from Maggie’s room. Liv wiped her face and Evan focused again on the computer, trying to act naturally.

  Then Liv said it, the thing that caused the world to tilt: “If it wasn’t Danny’s blood—if he’s not blood type O negative—then whose is it?”

  Evan looked at her for what seemed like a really long time until her face drained of color again.

  “Noah?” she said.

  “No, his son. It explains why no one saw Charlotte after the party. It explains the rumors about another boy. It explains why Sampson would change the blood—he’d been friends with Noah. They switched Danny’s blood for Kyle Brawn’s.”

  “The baby wasn’t Danny’s,” Liv said. “It was Kyle’s.”

  Just then Maggie emerged from her bedroom. “What’s wrong?” she said, looking at her parents. “What’s going on?”

  “We got him, Magpie,” Evan said. “We got him.”

  CHAPTER 62

  MAGGIE PINE

  BEFORE

  Maggie looked at her parents. “I can’t believe it. Dad, you did it.” Her voice broke; she was nearly vibrating with excitement.

  Her father looked dazed. He squeezed Mom’s hand, and said, “No, we all did it. And you get the most credit, Magpie. You.”

  Maggie felt a welling in her chest. “But Kyle Brawn. Why? I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t know why. Maybe he got her pregnant, and maybe he didn’t want to let that get in the way of his life.”

  Her mom chimed in: “And maybe he had help covering it up.”

  “You think his dad…” Maggie didn’t finish the words. Noah Brawn had been on their side, a Free Danny Pine warrior like them. She felt a wave of betrayal. He wasn’t trying to help; he was creating a diversion. Kyle’s friend Ricky was who’d identified the Unknown Partygoer. Noah Brawn was the one who got the filmmakers to focus on the Smasher.

  “Who’s the guy with the scar on his lip, and the lady?” Maggie asked.

  “Maybe scam artists or weirdos. Or maybe someone Noah hired to pull us off the trail when Detective Sampson’s wife gave Mom the evidence.”

  Maggie still wasn’t quite sure. Why would they lure them to Mexico? Why the elaborate ploy pretending Charlotte was alive? But those questions could wait. “I’m gonna go text Matt!”

  Maggie was so excited, she felt almost light-headed. She d
arted into the bedroom and flew onto the bed. She pulled her phone from the charger and opened a text to send to Matt. Where to begin?

  All at once, her thoughts were jumbled. The room was wobbling. She wasn’t feeling well, and tried to sit up.

  But she couldn’t move.

  What was happening?

  Then she nearly leaped out of her skin.

  A figure. A man stepping out of the closet! Maggie tried to jump up, tried to scream, but she was incapacitated. What the hell was going on? Her heart was banging in her chest, but it was as if she were paralyzed. Her body wouldn’t listen to the commands of her brain. Get up. Get up! But she was motionless, petrified wood. The man moved in her line of sight.

  Holy crap, it was him. Help! Dad! The words wouldn’t come out. A terrible panic enveloped every part of her.

  Maggie could still feel the phone in her hand. Her eyes could still move and they went to the glowing screen, the open text to Matt. Her thumb. She was having a hard time controlling it, but it moved. She managed to tap on the photo reel. Up popped all of her photographs. The last one, the couple. The man in her room! She tried to tap it, but her thumb wasn’t listening.

  She felt far away. She told her thumb to move again, and it bounced on the screen. The photo of the couple was attached to the text to Matt. She just needed to press send.

  The man ran over to her. Just before he grabbed the device out of her hand, she thought she heard the swish of a departing text.

  The man cursed to himself when he examined the phone.

  She was drifting.

  The man lifted her arm and then let it go. It fell like a rag doll. He crouched down, looked into her pupils. He had a plain face, forgettable except for a scar that went from his nostril to his lip.

  Maggie’s eyelids were heavy. She watched as the man took her water bottle and put it in a trash bag he was carrying. He was fiddling with her phone, connecting it to some type of handheld device. Then he wiped it down with a rag, positioned it back in her frozen hand.

  The terror left her.

  She felt warm and calm and loved and proud.

  We did it, Daddy. We did it.

  CHAPTER 63

  OLIVIA PINE

  BEFORE

  The elation at uncovering the truth, that her son wasn’t a murderer, the forgiveness from her husband for her infidelity, the pride in her daughter for never giving up, were overcome by a pain in Liv’s chest.

  “I feel strange,” she said to Evan.

  Evan examined her. His face turned to concern.

  Her eyes closed. “I’m not—” When she opened them, she was on the floor. She tried to get up, but her limbs were frozen.

  Her head fuzzy, she saw Evan stooped forward on the dining room table, his water bottle on its side, dripping onto the floor.

  She didn’t understand what was happening. She tried to speak, but her mouth wouldn’t oblige.

  Liv tried to reach out for her husband. But nothing would move. It was as if she were buried in sand.

  Her thoughts were muddled. She started praying, but she didn’t know why. A blessing for Evan and each of her children.

  She felt a stabbing pain in her abdomen, then a jolt of fear when she saw a pair of feet. The shoes were covered in surgical booties.

  She was a puppet with its strings cut.

  More darkness, then spots before her eyes.

  Her thoughts floated away in the blue ocean. She looked at Evan again. Despite all of my mistakes, all of the grief, I would do it all over again.

  And then things went black.

  CHAPTER 64

  EVAN PINE

  BEFORE

  Evan was a pile of deadweight strewn across the table. He could feel water on his arm, dripping on his leg, but he couldn’t move. He felt the wood from the tabletop on his cheek and watched in anger, in rage, as the man fiddled with his computer, his phone. Like he was running a program to wipe them clean. It was him, the man he and Maggie had tracked to the house. Evan tried to follow the man with his eyes, but even they wouldn’t move. The man bent down, out of Evan’s field of view.

  When he rose, Liv was flung over his shoulder.

  What are you doing? Let her go! The words were trapped inside him.

  The man slowly lowered Liv to the couch, which was directly in Evan’s line of sight. The man folded her hands, which were limp. Lifeless.

  No. No!

  The man grabbed a book on the end table and positioned it on her chest.

  Evan needed to find the strength, the will, to overcome whatever drug, whatever poison he’d ingested. He felt dampness on his legs. Then he understood. The water bottles. The man had drugged them all. He remembered Tommy’s sudden fatigue, Liv collapsing. His own blackout. His arm was spread out in front of him. He saw his fingers move. He realized that if he concentrated, put every bit of thought into it, he could move his hand. But he also knew he was fading fast. A pen was near his right hand. He watched his hand twitch. He needed to focus. His brain told his hand to grab the pen. He closed his eyes, visualized it. When he opened them, the pen was in his grasp.

  The man was gathering the file Detective Sampson’s wife had given Liv. He put the file and water bottles in a trash bag. He wore latex gloves.

  Evan’s vision blurred.

  The man disappeared down the hallway, then returned.

  Evan felt a wave of remorse. A wave of panic. A wave of consciousness fading.

  He felt a poke on his shoulder. Evan’s body had no reaction, no reflexes. He was hoisted over the man’s shoulder.

  Staring at the floor, the blood rushing to his head, he could see his dangling arm, the pen still clasped in his hand. Everything was far away, and for a surreal moment he wondered if the whole scene was a terrible nightmare.

  Evan was feeling the pull of darkness. The world was a Pink Floyd video. He focused every cell in his brain on his right hand.

  Then he told his body to do it, use every remaining muscle under his control. And he stabbed the pen into the man’s side. He heard a yell—“goddammit”—and the man dropped Evan to the floor.

  The man’s face twisted in anger. He kicked Evan in the head. Evan saw stars. Blood was dripping into his eyes. The world was fading.

  The man staggered out of Evan’s view again. When he returned, he had a kitchen towel pressed to his side, a large knife in his other hand.

  He held the knife to Evan’s neck, the cold blade under his Adam’s apple. Terrified, Evan couldn’t even close his eyes now to brace himself for what was next. But then the man moved away from him, and Evan no longer felt the steel on his neck.

  The man seemed to be examining the mark he’d left on Evan’s head from his boot.

  He stood, hands on hips, studying Evan and the blood trail.

  Then he seemed to make a decision. He carried Evan outside and dropped his limp body on the patio.

  On his side, Evan could see everything. The man looked around, as if surveying whether Evan was visible from outside the property. He was gone again, but returned with what looked like food from the refrigerator. He poured leftover spaghetti meat sauce all over Evan. Dumped mac and cheese and bread near the gate. With his latex gloves covered in red from the spaghetti, he unlatched the gate for some reason, opened it a crack.

  “I’ll give you that,” the man said to Evan. “You’ve got a lot of fight in you. We’ll see how you do with the dogs.”

  Evan didn’t know what he meant by that.

  At that moment, he was in the football bleachers holding Liv’s hand on a cold Friday night in October, the kids—Matt, Magpie, and somehow even Tommy—sitting beside them cheering at the spiral that had just connected and won the game. The quarterback tore off his helmet, his eyes searching the stands until he found them, pointing at Evan and his family, as if it were all for them.

  And it was.

  CHAPTER 65

  MATT PINE

  The front door was open. Matt walked from the foyer to the living room. Wel
l decorated with crown molding and wainscoting, the room was filled with flowers and wreaths on stands.

  Matt went into the kitchen and saw dishes in the sink, half-eaten slices of cake, finger food on plates, the remnants of the wake for his family.

  Kyle Brawn walked into the kitchen, carrying more dishes.

  “Matt! Oh crap, you scared me,” he said. “We were just cleaning up. We had so many people wanting to pay their respects, your family was so loved, it was just so—”

  Matt charged him.

  Kyle Brawn flew backward, his arms flailing, the dishes flying, crashing to the floor. Kyle’s back slammed against the large stainless-steel refrigerator. Matt’s forearm jammed against Kyle’s neck. Kyle’s eyes bulged, wild with fear.

  Matt screamed, “You thought you got away with it!”

  Kyle clawed at Matt’s forearm, trying to wedge his fingers in, relieve the pressure, allow himself to breathe. He looked Matt in the eyes and shook his head.

  Matt felt hot tears on his cheeks. He told himself to calm down, get ahold of his emotions. If he pressed any harder, he’d crush Kyle’s windpipe. But why shouldn’t he?

  Kyle’s eyes were wet too, his hands still tugging at Matt’s arm. He tried to speak, his voice little more than a rasp.

  And then Kyle did something unexpected.

  He gave up.

  Kyle’s arms fell to his sides, any fight in him gone. As if he were awaiting—welcoming—Matt to snap his esophagus.

  Just a little more pressure, and Kyle would get what he wanted. But if he died, so many answers would die with him. Matt yanked his arm away.

  Kyle raised his hands to his neck, then bent over, coughing. A sickening barking cough. He finally stood, his back still against the refrigerator door, and he slid to the floor.

  For a moment Matt thought he’d exerted too much force and that Kyle’s windpipe was destroyed. That Kyle was dying. But sitting amid the broken dishes and leftover food on the floor, Kyle started weeping.