Azzan pushed me further into the car as he slid in beside me. And just as it occurred to me to reach for the opposite door and climb out into the middle of the street, his hands grabbed me. “Drive,” he said to the other man, who had already closed his own door and started the engine.
“What are you doing?” I asked as the streets of Harkness began sliding by. My heart was pounding and I tasted bile in my mouth.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Shannon. We’re your ride back to New Hampshire.”
“But I’m not going!” I wailed. Except it seemed that I was.
My phone began ringing.
“Don’t answer that,” he said immediately.
I checked the display. It was Bridger. “Why not? Afraid I’ll say you just kidnapped me off the street?”
“Don’t be cute.”
“I don’t need to be. My boyfriend just watched you stuff me into a car and take off. He’s probably calling the police right now. Maybe he’s the sort of guy who writes down license plate numbers.”
He swiveled quickly, slapping me. The sound of his hand hitting my face was almost as surprising as the sharp sting of pain. “I said don’t play cute.”
I tasted blood in my mouth where my teeth had caught on impact. But the slap actually did me a favor, shaking off my confusion. I felt a steely calm settle over me.
Not that I had a plan. Only a clearer head.
The only person within a fifty-mile radius I could trust was Bridger, even if he was in the process of discovering my ugly secret.
The phone bleated again. “He saw you drive off with me, and he wants to know why.”
“There was nobody with you,” Azzan said.
“He was about ten paces behind.” My voice was icy calm. With the phone on my palm I held it out to him. “If you don’t want me to answer, I won’t. But you might be hearing from the cops.”
He sighed. “Tell him you’re fine, and you’re on your way home for the weekend.”
I hit ANSWER. “Hello?”
“Scarlet,” he gasped. “What the fuck just happened?”
“Well,” I cleared my throat. “My father’s bodyguard decided to drive me home for Thanksgiving.”
“What? That’s sure as hell not what that looked like. I got the license plate number. Are you really okay?”
My heart contracted. “I think so.”
“That’s not good enough. When are you coming back?”
“Azzan,” I said. “He wants to know when I’m coming back.”
“Sunday, just like every other kid in America.”
“Every other kid in America plans her own trips home.”
“Shut up, Shannon. Get off the phone now. You’re going to lose him in the tunnel anyway.”
“I got all that,” Bridger said into my ear. “Scarlet, we have to talk.”
“I’m sorry.” As I said it, the car rolled into the West Rock Tunnel.
“No — I want you to know…” Bridger said. And then the call was cut off.
I was staring at my phone when Azzan grabbed it out of my hand. “Give that back,” I complained.
I heard my phone chime twice. “Aw, what a guy.” He held up my phone so I can see the text.
BRIDGER: I love you no matter what.
“I’m going to hang onto this for the weekend,” Azzan said, pocketing my phone. “You can have it back after you do the meeting with the lawyers, and eat turkey with your family.”
I spent the next hour and a half breathing through my nose, trying not to cry.
The media presence outside our house was down to a skeleton crew, because jury selection was still a month away. I counted only two TV vans.
Azzan’s driver pulled the car into the driveway, but he stopped well shy of the garage.
“Get out here, Shannon,” Azzan said. He wanted the bored TV people to see that I’d come home for the holiday.
I think I surprised him by not arguing. Instead I jumped from my seat and ran into the garage. I didn’t stop to wonder whether anyone snapped a photo or not. I’d been photographed countless times already, as the press rushed to cover every angle of the story about the famous hockey player and philanthropist who was secretly Satan.
My mother opened the mud room door as I approached it. “Come in, sweetie.”
I pulled up short in front of her. “Was this your idea?”
“You haven’t answered my calls in a month, honey. How were we supposed to discuss it?”
“He slapped me,” I said, pointing over my shoulder toward Azzan. “And he threatened me.”
Her lips pulled tight. “You look all right to me, so why don’t you come inside.”
I heard Azzan’s footsteps behind me, so I walked past her and into the dining room. The top of my father’s head was visible in his chair by the TV. Turning away from him, I ran up the stairs to my room.
My mother — her wheels were always turning — didn’t even try to coerce me into sitting down to family meals. The first night, she brought me a bowl of chili in my room. “You should say hello to your father,” she said.
But I’d had two hours alone in my little suburban cage, stewing in my misery. And I didn’t have it in me to be civil. “Let’s not pretend this is an ordinary visit,” I said. “When am I sitting down with the lawyers?” I’d realized that agreeing to meet the lawyers was my only move. And since I knew nothing, it would get them off my back.
“Friday,” she said, setting the tray down on my desk. “The day after Thanksgiving.”
“I want to go back to Harkness afterwards.”
She shook her head. “Azzan will take you back on Sunday. This could have all been easier, Shannon, if you’d driven yourself home for the holiday. If you’d spoken to your family.”
I said nothing, because there was nothing to say.
Somehow I passed twenty-four hours there by myself. I used the time to catch up on my sleep. But the waking hours were awful. It was hard not to obsess over Bridger. He’d had an entire day now to catch up on the newspaper articles about my family.
I didn’t even have Jordan to take my mind off things.
After a long shower on Wednesday night, my mother knocked twice on my door and then pushed it open. “I got a phone call for you about fifteen minutes ago.”
“Really? Was it Anni?” I doubted that my only remaining friend from High School would make the trip from California just for a long weekend.
She shook her head. “It was the Baschnagel boy. He wanted to tell you that he was going to the hockey game tonight. He asked if you were going.”
“Andrew Baschnagel,” I repeated stupidly.
“He’s at Harkness too?”
“Right. He’s a junior.”
“I’m glad you’re making friends, Shannon. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t enjoy the game. They’re playing Quinnipiac.”
I laughed. “There’s no reason I shouldn’t go? Do you think they’ll even let me in the building?”
“Don’t be catty,” she sighed. “In a few months, when this is all over, your father will have his team back. Go to the game and hold your head up high. Or not. It’s your choice.” She turned away.
“Mom?”
“Yes?” she paused.
“I need my phone back.”
“Sunday,” she said. Then she went downstairs.
I was their prisoner. And they weren’t even trying to hide it.
Brushing out my wet hair, I didn’t know what to think. Andy Baschnagel’s phone call was a surprise. Yesterday, I’d literally run from the room when he’d said hello to me.
Only ten days ago (although it felt like millennia) Bridger had told me that his fire door neighbor had invited him for Thanksgiving. My heart wanted to jump to all sorts of romantic conclusions. And even though optimism was probably a bad idea, I found myself staring into my closet at seven o’clock, taking an inventory of the clothes I’d left behind.
On the top shelf I found what I was looking for — a baseball cap w
ith my high school’s mascot on it. I also put on a baggy hooded sweatshirt, shoved my wallet in my jeans and went downstairs.
My father, the source of all my life’s misery, was pouring himself a scotch. “Hi,” I said. My voice sounded scratchy and underused.
“Well hello there. How’s school?” His gray hair glinted in the kitchen lights. He touched his finger to a drop of scotch, which had escaped down the bottle, and then licked his finger. The lines around his mouth had lately become canyons and valleys. And his pants hung off his butt in a way that they never had before.
The most demonized sports star in network history was looking older and more pathetic by the day. Even his voice sounded wobbly. Looking at him, it wasn’t pity that I felt. And not revulsion, exactly. It was confusion.
To encounter my father in the kitchen was to experience the same disconnect I felt every time I looked at him now. Did he do it? Probably. But then why didn’t I notice?
And these familiar questions were chased by an equally familiar answer. You’re guilty, too. Only a self-centered idiot could miss something that.
Clearing my throat, I answered his question. “I like everything about school.”
He looked up at me for the first time. “That’s really good, kid. I’m glad to hear it.”
“I’m going out for a little while. I’ll see you later?”
He nodded. “You need any money?”
“I’m okay. Thanks.”
He nodded one more time, picking up his drink. Then the man — who was either the world’s worst pedophile or the most wrongly accused man in sports history — shuffled back to the den.
Before I got out the door, my mother came through. “You’re going to the game?”
“Yes.”
“Did you speak to your father?”
“Yes I did.”
She squinted at me. “Do you want a ride…?”
“No,” I said quickly. “And I have my house keys. Bye.”
Out in the garage, I pulled the hood of the sweatshirt up over the baseball cap, and pulled the brim down low. Azzan and the other goons were nowhere in sight. I left the garage via a side door, into the darkness of our double lot. When I was seven, my parents bought the house next door and tore it down, granting us the biggest yard in the neighborhood. My father had built a small ice rink there at the side of our house. It wasn’t quite cold enough yet for my father to fill it, and now I wondered whether he’d bother this year.
I sprinted around the rink, heading for our side property line, and away from any TV cameras that might be camped out front. Nobody chased me, but still I ran. As a kid, I’d never liked the distant corner of our big property, and I felt a latent childhood chill as I crashed through the shrubberies and onto the sidewalk beyond.
It was a ten minute jog to the arena, and I didn’t stop until I’d reached the drive circle. Walking the last few yards to catch my breath, I eyed the brightly lit building. I hadn’t been inside since the college placed my father on leave pending an investigation. If I had to pick a spot in town where I would be least welcome, the Sterling Hockey Arena was clear winner. But curiosity about who I might find in there, coupled with a desperate wish to get out of the house, were enough to make me step over the threshold.
I bought a ticket at the window and went inside.
Scanning the crowd for Andy really wasn’t that easy, because I didn’t know what he was wearing, or whether he’d donned a hat. I walked slowly around the top level. There were dozens of familiar faces in the crowd. My dentist was in his usual spot behind the penalty box. My middle school hockey coach was sitting with her husband near the student section.
Not one of these people would be all that happy to see me, or anyone else from my family. Last year I’d spent hours attempting to make sense of their blanket hatred. And I’d come to understand that my father’s Stanley Cup ring made everything worse. The people in my town couldn’t live with the fact that maybe they’d boasted to their friends that they knew J.P. Ellison, or that they often saw him in the coffee shop.
They’d been duped by someone they’d praised. And they felt guilty for admiring him. My face was just a reminder of it.
Of course, I’d been duped, too. But there was no room in their disapproval for nuance.
Because old habits die hard, I found myself checking the scoreboard. It was 2-1 in Quinnipiac’s favor, with the first period just half over. Time for a comeback, my brain said before I remembered that I really didn’t give a damn.
— Bridger
When I saw her, I’m ashamed to say I didn’t recognize her right away. There was a girl standing atop the mezzanine walkway, scanning the crowd. She wore a baseball cap and a hoodie, in which she seemed to drown. I almost disregarded her. But then she moved, and the gait was pure Scarlet — shoulders back, spine straight. There was something strong about her that even sloppy clothes couldn’t hide.
I tracked her around the edge of the arena, prepared to wave if she would only look our way. But when she finally spotted me, the look on her face made my gut twist.
It was fear.
For a second, she just stood there, shrinking inside herself. I shook off my surprise and beckoned to her. And as she began to accelerate toward the bench where Andy and I sat together, I felt the first whiff of relief. I’d called her all last night to no avail. I’d texted. I’d emailed. And she’d said nothing. Today, Andy had finally pulled out the old high school directory and offered to call her house, just to put me out of my misery.
And now here she was, picking her way past a few people to come over to us. Biting her lip, she sat down on the other side of Andy. It was way too far away. And my throat picked that moment to close up. “Scarlet,” I choked out. “Thank Christ… you have no idea what I thought. When I saw them… that car.” God, I was going to lose it if I wasn’t careful. But the image of that asshole pushing her into the sedan was burned on my brain. It was just the way things happened in nightmares — when the person you’re trying to reach is suddenly snatched away. And then you’re running, but the car is faster…
I had that dream all the time, actually. But usually Lucy was the star.
Andy made to stand up. “I’ll just move…”
“No,” Scarlet grabbed his hands and pulled him down again. “You’re fine where you are.” She looked skittish, and the sight of her looking over her shoulders made my skin prickle. “Where is Lucy?”
“At my house,” Andy said. “Hanging with my sisters.”
“Good,” she said quickly.
I leaned toward her, and it was all I could do not to take her face in my hands. “You have to tell me what the fuck is going on. Why did they make you come home?”
She sighed. “They want things from me.”
“What things?
“I don’t want to talk about it, Bridge. The trial…” she shook her head.
I smacked my hands on my thighs. “Please don’t be that way. I watched a couple of goons haul you off the street yesterday. What do they want?”
There was a blast of Queen’s We Will Rock You from the PA system, and the players took the ice for the second period. “I’m getting popcorn,” Andy announced, standing up. He climbed over me and went for the aisle.
“Scarlet, look at me,” I demanded. She dragged heavy eyes from the floor and up to my waiting gaze. I didn’t know how she was going to take what I had to confess. “I already knew,” I whispered. “I knew who you were.”
A wave of disbelief washed across her face. “You did?”
I nodded, feeling miserable. Because I’d meant to come clean about it since the moment I discovered it two nights ago. But instead, like a caveman I’d dragged her home to my lair and had sex with her instead. “I figured it out Monday night.”
“How?” she whispered.
“Well, sometimes I still hear the hockey gossip, you know? I heard that a kick-ass women’s goalie who just happened to be J.P. Ellison’s daughter was going to join the team, but s
he didn’t show up this fall. And you seemed to know too much about hockey for a Miami girl, and I wondered why. But it wasn’t until I saw another newspaper article about the trial that I put it together. So I Googled Shannon Ellison,” I paused, taking one of her hands in mine. “…And your pretty face popped up on the screen.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, staring down at the concrete floor again.
I slid closer now, wrapping one arm around her back. “You don’t have to be sorry, Scarlet. I understand why you changed your name.”
“Do you? It didn’t even work,” she said, close to tears. “This is ugly. It’s all so ugly, and I’m stuck in it. I tried hiding, but…”
“Deep breaths, okay? We’ll get you through it.” My lips grazed her eyebrow. “There’s only one question I need you to answer for me right now. Just one.” My hand tightened on her waist. “Scarlet, are you safe in that house?”
I could feel her body go absolutely solid at the question. And my own heart practically stopped beating, because I was so afraid of what she was about to say. Although I needed her to tell me. Even if the answer gutted me.
“Scarlet,” I whispered. “I need to know.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I am.” But even as she said it, her eyes filled with tears.
“Then what’s the matter?” I asked, my voice close to cracking. “This is important.”
“Nothing, Bridge. Nothing is the matter.”
But I still had a prickle of unease. There was no room for error here. Because if I thought there was any chance of her being hurt by anyone in that house, there was no way I was letting her go back in there. “Scarlet, have you always been safe in that house?”
“Yes,” she said quickly.
“You would tell me if you weren’t, right? It’s important that I, of all people…” I didn’t have any experience with this. But I’d taken Scarlet to bed. Twice. And if she’d been abused as a child, then it wouldn’t have been easy for her.
The Year We Hid Away Page 12