“Scarlet?” Bridger arrived, his arm coming around my shoulders. Brian joined us, too, flanking my other side. “Who is this?”
“The prosecutor,” Brian supplied. “She interviewed me two months ago, after which J.P.’s security team followed me around Massachusetts for three days.”
“I can’t talk to you,” I repeated. If I did, Azzan would find out, and then he’d threaten Bridger again. And I would do anything to spare him that heartache.
“Your father won’t find out,” Ms. Teeter said, reading my mind. “We’re never putting you on our witness list.”
“You can’t promise me that,” I protested. “Besides, I’m already on the list.”
She shook her head. “That’s just a front the defense is putting up. They’ll never call you to the stand.”
“Why not?” I asked.
The prosecutor rubbed her hands together. “I’d prefer to explain it to you in the office I’m borrowing downtown.”
“Explain it to her here,” my Uncle Brian said.
“Fine.” She trained her serious blue eyes on me. “I’m not putting you on the stand, because asking a daughter to testify against her father looks desperate. Unless the daughter has something crucial to say.”
“Which I don’t,” I put in.
“I’m sure that’s true,” she said kindly. “If you did, your father’s legal team wouldn’t dare make you available. But they’re not going to call you either, and I can prove it.”
“Go ahead,” Brian said.
The prosecutor pulled a file out of the elegant leather satchel she carried over her arm. Under the other arm was a paper tube, as if she were toting a poster around. “If your father puts you on the stand as a ploy to defend himself, I’m going to call a witness by the name of David Clancy.”
That made no sense. “My hockey teammate’s father? Why?”
“Because he — and several others, too — gave a deposition about your father’s behavior toward you during hockey games. And it is not the kind of thing your father wants a jury to hear. Your father filled in as your team coach for a couple of games two years ago. Do you remember that?”
I nodded, steeling myself. Our regular coach had been out of town for a funeral. And with Dad in charge, I’d been a wreck. Those games did not go well for me, and now both my boyfriend and my uncle were going to hear the gory details.
“The witness said that you gave up two goals within three minutes, and your father was heard to shout…”
This next part was going to be even more humiliating than my hockey errors.
“…You stupid little bitch. Only a whore could get herself fucked so hard as you just did.”
Beside me, Bridger’s body went absolutely solid, and Uncle Brian cursed under his breath.
“That sounds really bad out of context,” I said, my face getting hot.
“Out of context?” Bridger’s voice was tight. “There is no context in which that is an acceptable thing to say to your child.”
“I was sixteen,” I said, pointlessly. I don’t know why I gave even a half-hearted defense of my father. Maybe because I felt like an idiot for living with a man who would say those things to me without realizing that he was capable of far worse.
Beside me, Uncle Brian bent down to put his hands on his knees, dropping his head.
“Are you okay?” Bridger asked, looking down at him.
“Give me a minute,” he muttered.
“Please, Scarlet,” the prosecutor said. “I will only ask you questions about the layout of your home. And your uncle can sit in on the interview. If you don’t like the questions, you can just get up and leave. But I need this. And the boys who were victims need this.”
My father had called me a whore in front of a few hundred people. But those boys got much worse.
“Okay,” I heard myself say.
“The office is on South Street,” she said.
“We just came from there,” Bridger said.
Brian straightened up, his face red and strained. “I guess we’re going back.”
Ten minutes later, I found myself sitting in a little government conference room, which the prosecutor had borrowed from her colleagues in the Harkness County prosecutor’s office. The tube she’d been carrying under her arm proved to be a detailed architectural floor plan of my New Hampshire home. She and her assistant spread it out on the table.
“I need to ask you about your basement,” Ms. Teeter said. “It doesn’t seem very basement-like.”
“Well, it’s a walk-out,” I supplied, pointing at the drawing. “These sliding glass doors open into the back yard. The house is on a slope, so only one side of the basement is really underground.”
“And there aren’t any walls or partitions down there?” she asked.
I shook my head. “The drawing is accurate.”
She nodded. “Tell us about this utility space.” She pointed at the little mechanical room under the stairs. “Is it roomy?”
“Not at all,” I said. “You can barely get in there. My mother has always kept her Christmas wrapping paper in there, but I discovered it when I was in the second grade.”
Brian let out a strangled chuckle and pinched the sides of his nose.
“Is it insulated?” the prosecutor pressed. “If someone was in there, could you hear it?”
“There’s no way it’s insulated,” I said. “Why are you asking me this?”
She sighed. “There are some old stories about a basement. Or a dungeon. But there’s nothing dungeon-like in your house. In fact, there isn’t even a door on your basement.”
That was true. It was all very airy and open.
“This has bothered me,” the prosecutor confessed, “because I want rock-solid details in court. And — no matter what people say about lawyers — I want my complaint to be completely truthful. I don’t have time for exaggeration. And this dungeon bit doesn’t ring true to me. Has the basement changed at all in the last ten years? Did your parents have any work done down there?”
I shook my head. “The only renovations in the house that I can remember were the kitchens and bathrooms.”
“The basement wasn’t touched?”
“No. It was finished and modern when we moved into the place. That’s why they chose to knock down the other house when they bought that second property. That one was really old…” I broke off that sentence. Something bothered me about that idea, and I couldn’t figure out what.
“A second house?” the prosecutor asked, her voice hushed.
“Yes…” Again, my brain snagged on something. “My father wanted a big yard, so he could have an ice rink…” I pictured the rink and the yard. And the dark, shadowed corner of the property where I did not like to walk, ever since our yard had doubled in size.
“There are doors,” I croaked, surprised at myself.
“What doors?” the prosecutor asked.
“There are…” I swallowed hard, and my throat was like sandpaper. “…Those doors in the ground. Like in The Wizard of Oz.” I slapped my hand down at the edge of the floor plan. “Over there. Off the edge of your map. They were part of the old house.”
The prosecutor locked eyes with her assistant. “Call the investigator. Check the search warrant to make sure that outbuildings are covered.”
The assistant bolted out of the room, and a terrible shiver ripped down my spine. Those doors had always scared me. I never wanted to go near them. When I was eight or nine, I thought that monsters lived down there.
“Oh my God,” I gasped, shoving my hands in front of my mouth.
“Whoa,” Brian asked, standing up from his chair so fast that it fell over. “This interview is over. We’re done here.”
The prosecutor held up two hands in a defensive position. “Okay. No more questions. And I’m going to step out. The room is yours. Scarlet, you’ve been very helpful.”
I didn’t answer her. Because there were tears stinging my eyes. I’d heard something in that a
bandoned old cellar. I was in grade school, and I was dawdling outside when I was supposed to be doing my homework. And I’d heard muffled shouting from that corner of my yard. “Oh my God,” I said again. “Oh my God.”
“Shh, shh,” Brian said, righting his chair and pulling it close. He sat, wrapping his arms around me. “Shh. I’m so sorry.”
“I think there was somebody down there once,” I squeaked.
Brian swiped at my tears. “Sweetie, were you ever down there?”
Violently, I shook my head. “Never. I didn’t really know. I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”
He pulled my head into his shoulder. “You didn’t know,” he whispered, rocking me. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not!”
“You didn’t hurt anyone, Sweetie. You were a child. Just breathe for me. Deep breaths.”
Slowly, I forced myself to calm down. “Can we leave, now? I really want to go.” Maybe if I just got out of this room, the world would stop tilting.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Brian said. “Let’s go and eat somewhere. We need to decompress.”
“Decompress,” I repeated, stupidly. When I looked up, I saw Bridger standing very still across the table from us. His head was cocked to the side, as if trying to solve a puzzle. “Bridge?”
He stared for another long moment. “Sure, Scarlet,” he said eventually. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Nineteen: Take a Look at the News
— Scarlet
Bridger took us to Capri’s, which was a hole-in-the-wall pizza joint where the hockey team often hung out. But it was too early for the bar crowd, so we had a booth in the back corner all to ourselves. We ate a pie with sausage and olives. Bridger drank a beer while Brian and I had Cokes.
I snuggled against Bridger’s shoulder, feeling worn out. I didn’t know what to do with the suspicion that I’d heard something potentially terrible. And so long ago, too. I’d been Lucy’s age when I’d started avoiding that corner of the yard.
“The dean said I’ll have an apartment over on Osage Street before Christmas,” Bridger said. “Apparently, things always turn over during the holidays, because some people depart over the semester break. Until then, Lucy will stay one more week in Beaumont, and maybe a week at Hartley’s if we need it.” He loosened his tie. “This week has been my worst nightmare. Thank you both for talking me through it.”
“You are welcome,” Brian said. “I’m happy for you.” My uncle began to play with the straw in his drink, then. His face became somber. “But now we need to spend a little time talking about my worst nightmare.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
My uncle turned serious eyes on me. “There are some things you need to understand about your family.”
“Okay?” I watched his eyebrows knit together.
“Did you know your father and I were adopted?”
“No. Really?”
“Really. Your grandparents aren’t your blood relatives.”
“He never said anything about it.” But that wasn’t surprising. My father wasn’t a sharer. Not about anything.
“Your so-called grandfather…” Brian cleared his throat. “It was by design that he adopted two little boys.”
Oh.
My insides clenched at the direction that I feared his story was taking.
Brian dropped his gaze to the tabletop. “He wasn’t a good man. And it messed both of us up pretty bad. You already know some of what it did to me. I drank and I stole things. But J.P.…” he sighed. “I thought J.P. had held it together. He was the one of us who seemed to rise above it. He was the big hockey star, with the great big career. That’s what I thought, anyway. Until the news broke.”
Oh.
“Shan…” he cut off the word. “Scarlet, I had no idea. And I just feel sick about this. I need to ask you something very important.”
“Okay.”
Brian looked up at Bridger and hesitated. “I’m sorry, man. But can she and I talk alone for a minute?”
Concern crossed Bridger’s face. “If that’s what Scarlet wants.”
I reached across the table to put my hand on Brian’s sleeve. “No. Whatever you have to say, he can hear.” I was sick of hiding things from Bridger.
“Sweetie, I need to ask you a really personal question.”
“No,” I said. Brian opened his mouth to argue, but I stopped him. “I meant, no, my father never hurt me.”
Brian’s eyes welled up. “Sweetie, it’s really important that you tell me the truth.” His eyes flicked to Bridger again. “If he did hurt you, it would be really hard to talk about.”
“I would tell you the truth. I am telling you the truth. Just like I told Bridger when he asked me the same thing. I’m not lying about this.”
He still looked wary. “Sometimes people make themselves forget.”
I shook my head. “Look, he wasn’t a good dad. But… nothing like that ever happened. He yelled, Brian. About hockey, usually. But that’s the worst thing I ever saw him do.”
The tears spilled down Brian’s face. “God, Scarlet. I hope that’s so. Because that right there is my worst nightmare.”
I felt Bridger squeeze my hand, and I squeezed back.
Brian blew out a long, shuddering breath. “I would never forgive myself…” he let the sentence die.
Bridger was still squeezing my hand. Actually, he squeezed it so hard it was beginning to hurt. “Ouch,” I said gently. Bridger released my hand immediately. But he was staring hard at Brian.
“What’s wrong, Bridge?” I asked.
My boyfriend chewed on his lip. “Dude, I have a question.”
Brian looked up, wiping his eyes with his hands. “What?”
“Are you and J.P. blood relatives?”
At that, Brian grew very still. He didn’t answer Bridger. His gaze fell to the tabletop again.
Bridger looked from Brian to me and back again. “Come on, it’s a simple yes or no question. You and J.P. were both adopted. From the same parents, or not?”
“Why?” I asked, hating the sudden tension at the table. I didn’t understand it.
Brian shook his head at Bridger.
“Well, shit,” Bridger said. “Seriously? Are you going to…?”
“Hey, back off for a second.”
“Why would I?” Bridger challenged.
“Back off what?” I cried.
“Take a good look at Brian, Scarlet. Your adopted uncle…”
Brian smacked a fist onto the table. “Give me a fucking minute, hothead.” His face was red. “I’ll get there, okay?”
“You are both scaring me,” I said quietly.
Bridger forced himself to lean back against the wooden booth. Then he took both of my hands in his. “I’m sorry, Scarlet. Don’t be scared.”
But I was. Because as I studied Brian, and I had a sick feeling that I knew what he was about to say.
“Your mother,” Brian said slowly, each word painful. “She and J.P. made me sign a document as thick as the phone book that I would never tell you this. And when I do, they will try to destroy me. I agreed to keep it a secret, because I was a stupid kid, and I thought it was the right thing to do.”
The edges of my vision got a little fuzzy, because I feared hearing the next part.
Brian flexed his hands against the scarred wooden tabletop and dropped his voice. “I got your mother pregnant when we were nineteen.”
Somehow, I managed not to gasp out loud.
“…And by the time she found out about it, I was in jail.” He stared at me with wet eyes. “Sweetie…”
“So, J.P. isn’t… He’s not…?”
“J.P. is not your father. I am.”
My throat constricted so suddenly that I had trouble asking the next question. “I’m not even related to him?” Never before today had it ever occurred to me that my father was not really my father. At the edges of my shock, I could feel an oncoming wave of relief. I was having the reverse o
f a Star Wars moment. Darth Vader had no claim on me.
Brian shook his head. “That’s the only silver lining here.”
But the emotions were rolling over me, and it seemed they’d never stop. “But… you left me with him?”
“I know, honey. But your mother…” he closed his eyes, looking utterly exhausted. “I’m not excusing it. But it was her idea. She wanted his money, and the lifestyle. And he wanted… I never quite knew what he wanted from this deal. He wanted a family. He said he couldn’t have children. And maybe it’s even true. Now I think he just wanted to be a part of a normal-looking family. He was hiding behind you and your mother. I didn’t ask myself why he wanted this weird bargain. But for years, I thought they knew best. You were doing so well.”
“How do you know? You weren’t even there!”
“I tried,” he whispered. “But they didn’t trust me. One hockey game a year. That’s what they gave me.” Tears ran down his face. “I didn’t know he was going to hurt kids.”
“I could fucking kill you right now,” Bridger said, his voice like gravel.
“I could fucking kill me right now,” Brian spat. “This year has been… I couldn’t find her. I even came to campus here and walked around, looking for you, Sweetie. There was no Shannon Ellison in the directory.” He threw his hands in the air. “I’m so sorry. I went to your house last year, they threw me out. Their thugs threw me out. Their legal team came down on me hard. That asshole Azzan had me tailed on and off, just to be intimidating.”
“Okay,” I breathed. I could feel the stress coming off Brian in waves. I reached across the table and grabbed both his hands. “Okay. It’s okay. Some day the trial will be over.” I was telling myself just as much him.
“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “I was so young, and they convinced me that a rich athlete was a better deal for you than a broke felon.” His voice broke. “They told me I was a shit person, and I believed them.”
Reeling, I wished the world would slow down for a minute so I could catch up. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. When I came here to see you on Friday, I didn’t know if I was going to tell you this or not. Then I thought I’d wait until Bridger’s case was settled, and talk to you about the trial. But we haven’t had even a moment’s peace.”
The Year We Hid Away Page 19