by Sean Platt
Milo woke up, his entire frame furiously thrashing against the bed, his fingers yanking wires and tubes from his body as the steady beeping from the machines beside him rose in pitch and raced in frequency.
Milo reached down and tried pulling the catheter from his penis, but it felt like he was pouring fire inside an open wound. He wanted to scream but couldn’t.
“You’re okay,” a nurse said three-seconds later, rushing into Milo’s room. She placed a calming hand on top of Milo while her other hand fiddled with the monitors and machinery.
She continued to pat him until she was finished tweaking the machine, checking him over, and said, “You’re safe, Mr. Anderson. You’re in the hospital.”
No one called ‘Milo Mr. Anderson,’ except Mr. Heller.
“How did I get here?” he asked, wondering if the crash was a dream, but knowing it wasn’t.
The nurse was young and pretty, with short red hair. Milo had never seen her before. That wasn’t unheard of on the island, but it was slightly unusual. Even if you didn’t know everyone, on an island the size of Hamilton, it was reasonably easy to spot the locals. The nurse’s name tag said, “Betty,” and her voice was almost as pretty as she was.
“What happened?” Milo said.
“You were in an accident,” Betty frowned. “It was bad.”
Hardly an accident when you’re foot’s bricking the accelerator.
“How did I get here?”
“An ambulance, of course.”
“How about Beatrice,” Milo asked, hating himself for the seven or so seconds he wished his stepmother dead.
Betty said nothing.
Milo repeated, “Beatrice, my stepmother. Is she okay?”
Betty smiled, then said, “The doctor will want to speak to you,” and left the room without another word.
* * * *
CHAPTER 5 — Jon Conway Part 1
“How did they find me?” Emma asked the same question in a new way, for the third time in less than five minutes from her spot on the hospital bed.
“Well,” Jon said, “when we couldn’t find you at first, Cass suggested we follow the trail of cookies.”
“What cookies?” Emma asked suspiciously.
“The cookies you stashed in your purse at the dessert table the other day.”
Emma looked at her blanket, then back up at Cassidy, laughing.
Jon continued, “When all the cookies were gone, we found you, standing all alone, with crumbs covering your face. It was terribly messy, awful really.” Jon shook his head. “We had to scrub you down. You were still asleep, but you kept flapping around like a fish. We think that’s what finally woke you.”
Emma was in hysterics, Cassidy smiling beside her. Jon wasn’t sure if she was laughing at the words themselves, or the animation behind them, but was thrilled when she burst through the laughter with the compliment he’d been fishing for.
“You’re funny,” Emma cackled. “You should do funny stuff instead of all the grown-up movies.”
“Just because they’re grown-up movies doesn’t mean they’re not funny,” he leaned into Emma with a giant smile. “How do you know I’m not HI-larious?”
“Because my mom used to cry when she watched them. She only cries at sad movies, except for the time she cried at Snoopy Come Home.”
Jon pulled his head back, almost in recoil, a rock in his throat before he managed to find his line. “How did you know they were my movies?”
“Because your face is always all over the movie covers on Netflix. I could hear my mom crying at night. In the morning, I could always see why when I turned on the TV. Your picture was usually the first picture under ‘recently played.'”
Jon cleared his throat, then mopped his brow and exchanged awkward glances with Cassidy.
Jon had loved, but it had been a long time since anyone had seen the real side of it. Nine years or so. Emma smiling from the far side of his gaze made Jon realize that there was nothing in the world he wouldn’t do for her.
Except maybe be her dad. Because he couldn’t do that.
Jon wasn’t a father. He was a Hollywood asshole — a nice guy sure, but a selfish one. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, and had since the forever ago when he first learned he could. While fans had often applauded his “humanitarian” efforts and his donations to various organizations, those were things he could sign a check and do some good with. They weren’t long-term commitments requiring he actually sacrifice the thing most precious to him — his time. Headline some freedom rallies or concerts, yeah. But raise a child? Every single day?
That had never been something within the realm of a life he imagined for himself. Not since Emma’s mother had left him, anyway.
But as he stared at the girl’s sweet smile, and into eyes that reminded him so much of Sarah, he wondered if perhaps he could be a good father, after all.
While he was self-centered, he wasn’t without thought for others. He did lots of kind things. He often went out of his way to help new actors on the set, to help them feel comfortable. And it wasn’t just the hot up-and-coming actresses he extended the kindness to.
And he’d never been one to shirk responsibility.
Emma is my responsibility.
Jon pictured Emma wearing a pretty pink dress, escorting him down the red carpet at a movie premiere.
He caught Cassidy looking at him, and the smile slipped from her face, as if she were reading his mind, seeing his plans to take Emma as they took shape. Jon looked down, and then back at Emma as she and Cassidy started talking about milkshakes and how Emma couldn’t wait to have one.
While Cassidy wasn’t Emma’s mother, she was still the closest thing the girl had to a mother. She’d gotten by fine without a father forever. Why inject himself into her life now? Was it to help her? Or fill some hole in his own life?
Who the hell was he to come in and take that away now?
No, he couldn’t do that. Not to her, nor to Cassidy. Looking at Emma, Jon knew it was wrong.
It was easy enough for Jon to imagine the two of them together, just a week before; Cassidy sneaking candy to Emma, with a finger on her lips and a twinkle in her eye.
“Hello!”
“What?” Jon blinked his eyes to a staring Emma.
“I said, have you ever made a kid’s movie?”
“No,” Jon shook his head. “I haven’t.”
“How come?”
He shrugged, “I guess I never got a script that interested me.”
“What’s a script?”
“The lines in a movie. They’re written by writers. And as an actor, I get a lot of bad scripts for really bad movies. So I try and do only good ones, or don’t do any at all.”
“And nobody’s given you a good script for a kid’s movie?”
“Not yet. Maybe Hollywood thinks I’ll scare kids.”
“Yeah,” Cassidy said with a smile, “I can see that. He is pretty scary.”
“I think he’s nice!” Emma said, smiling a big smile at Jon.
“Well, my audience has spoken,” Jon said to Cassidy, and then stuck his tongue out playfully at her, “so, there!”
Jon laughed. “Tell you what, Emma. I promise I’ll make a kid’s movie someday if you promise to make Cassidy watch it.” He winked at Cassidy.
Cassidy rolled her eyes, “Sheesh, thanks.”
Jon looked at Emma, “What kind of movie do you think I should make?”
Emma said, “Something in the future, definitely.”
“Like with robots?”
“No, there doesn’t have to be robots. It doesn’t even have to be that far in the future. Just not now. And it can’t be stupid. No flying cars or anything like that.”
“Can’t be stupid. Cars don’t fly. Got it,” Jon said.
As Emma’s voice grew louder, Jon’s heart had to grow larger to fit more of her inside. She must have been as dehydrated as the doctor had said, because she talked herself right into exhaustion, practically falling asleep mid-sent
ence.
“Not often someone can do that,” Cassidy said.
Jon looked at Cassidy. “Do what?”
“Verbally beat the girl into sleep.”
Jon smiled. Cassidy grabbed the TV remote from the bedside table with her left hand, while her right twitched like it was missing a cigarette. She clicked on the TV, then flipped past Dr. Phil’s son to Chief Brady, holding a press conference outside of the police station.
“We’d like to thank private investigator Brock Houser for his help on this case. Mr. Houser, of Houser Investigations in California, was instrumental in this happy ending. Thank you also to Mr. Jon Conway for bringing Mr. Houser here and footing the bill. And I would like to thank Paladin Security for working in conjunction with the Hamilton Island Police Department to locate the missing child.”
A shout from the crowd: “Since Jon Conway hired the detective, what is Mr. Conway’s connection to this case?”
Brady said, “I don’t know of any prior connection between Mr. Conway and Mr. Houser, but Jon once called Hamilton home, and he’s a good man. A child went missing, and he wanted to use his means to help, however he could.”
Another shout: “Is it true that the suspect you had in custody killed himself?”
Brady nodded, “That appears to be the case.”
Cassidy looked at Jon, her eyes wide, “Whistler killed himself?”
Jon stared at the TV in disbelief. “Wow.”
“He must’ve been guilty!” Cassidy said, balling her fists, as her face turned red. “What the hell did he do to her?”
She looked at Emma, eyes starting to well up again. She reached out and caressed the girl’s hair. Lip trembling, Cassidy said, “I’m so sorry.”
Jon wondered why Cassidy had felt so guilty. Did she feel like she’d let her sister down? Or had she really been out that night, partying, and using drugs. He hoped she wasn’t using. While he didn’t want to break up Emma’s family if things were working, he’d change his mind if he discovered that Cassidy was still using.
He made a note to have Houser look into the matter, and hoped not to find anything damning.
“We don’t know that Whistler did anything,” Jon said. “The doc said there were no signs of trauma, right? Maybe he was just disgraced by whatever all the police found in his home. The man worked at a church and he was recording little girls on the church playground! Even if he never touched a one, even if he had nothing to do with Emma’s disappearance, there’s no way his life isn’t over. I’m not surprised at all he did this. And if he did do anything to anyone, let’s just say it’s best that he went out like this rather than force the victims and their families to live through a trial, right?”
Cassidy nodded, wiping the tears from her eyes, hands shakier than before. “I guess so. But if he’s guilty, he ought to suffer, not take the easy way out.”
Jon found himself looking at the scars on Cassidy’s wrists again, and wanting for the millionth time to ask her how they got there. But he couldn’t bring it up now. One more thing for Houser to look into, perhaps.
After Brady talked a bit more about the suicide, parsing out as few details as possible, the reporters were again asking about Jon and his connection — digging for any dirt they could find.
As cameras flashed, Cassidy killed the image. “Fucking vultures,” she said.
“You have no idea,” Jon looked from the black screen to Cassidy. “That was nothing.”
* * * *
CHAPTER 6 — Liz Heller
Hamilton Island, Washington
1:25 p.m.
The morning had been hell.
Liz tiptoed away from Aubrey’s room, thanking God she had finally fallen to sleep for her nap. Hopefully she’d stay down for the next couple of hours.
Aubrey had cried for nearly 30 minutes straight, refusing to sleep. She wanted her daddy, and it broke Liz’s heart to see her little girl’s head turn every time someone came into a room, eyes in search of her daddy.
Liz didn’t know how to explain the situation to her daughter. Aubrey was only six months old, and while she seemed to understand far more than Alex had at that age, Liz didn’t have a way to explain a concept like death. She didn’t want to lie and say, “Daddy will be back soon,” or anything which might use a lie as comfort food.
So she simply hugged her, or in most cases, distracted the child with something else.
And every time she successfully made Aubrey momentarily forget her daddy, it broke Liz’s heart just a little bit more.
Today was particularly rough for them both.
Between waiting on the window guy to replace her windshield, dealing with several more unanswered calls to the medical examiner’s office to find out when in the hell she’d be allowed to get Roger’s body, and wondering what on God’s green Earth could be on the flash drive, she barely had eye contact for Aubrey, let alone undivided attention.
This made Alex’s return to school all the more noticeable, magnifying the emptiness of the house. Now Aubrey was missing both her daddy and her brother, and constantly looking for them, likely wondering why everyone was leaving her. And probably also wondering when mommy would leave?
Liz needed a nap, and decided to sleep in the spare bed in Aubrey’s room.
She headed downstairs to make sure the door was locked, for probably the hundredth time in the past few hours. As she approached the door, she saw movement outside the front window. A chill shot through her body. She went to the window and saw a police officer heading up her sidewalk.
She felt suddenly sick, fearing more bad news.
Relax, he’s just here to follow up on the car thing, or maybe something related to Roger. Maybe he’s gonna tell you when you can get Roger’s body and finally bury him.
She ran to the front door hoping she could get there before the offiver had a chance to ring the bell and surely wake Aubrey.
Liz threw the door open, and saw it wasn’t just a cop at her door, but Chief Brady. Something was wrong. She could feel it in her get and deep in her marrow. She stepped onto the porch.
“Hello, ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat.
“Hello, Chief Brady. How can I help you?” Liz positioned herself between the chief and the slightly ajar door at her back. She would invite him in under normal circumstances, but didn’t want his voice to wake Aubrey. Waking to the sound of a stranger in the house would scare her even more than waking not to find Mommy next to her.
“Is Alex here?” he asked.
“No, he’s at school. Why? What’s wrong?” Liz said, her voice rising in pitch.
“There was an incident at the school,” the chief said.
Liz felt her stomach churn. An incident? Oh God.
“What happened?” she asked, her hands involuntarily clasped over her chest.
“Well, we’re not sure exactly. He seems to have gotten into a fight with two kids. He and his girlfriend, Katie were involved, and they both took off into the woods. One of the boys is in the hospital in serious condition. The other is banged up, but he’ll live.”
“Oh God,” Liz said. “When did this happen?”
“About a half hour ago or so. We’re looking for them, and thought maybe they came here.”
“I haven’t seen or heard from them,” she said, trying not to hyperventilate. “Did you check with Katie’s mom?”
“I’ve got an officer trying to track her down now. She wasn’t home.”
“I think she works at the hospital, in the accounting deparment.”
“Yeah,” Brady said. “He’s on his way as we speak.”
“Is Alex in trouble?” Liz asked.
“Well, I’d like to talk to them both,” Brady said, “to get their side of the story.”
“Alex is a good kid, Chief. He would never start a fight. Those kids must’ve started it. Who was involved?”
“Jake Brewster and Ray Wilson.”
“Oh, God. I had both of them in my class, and I can assure you they were bot
h nothing but trouble, always getting into fights.”
Brady looked down, as if he shouldn’t be discussing their histories with her, then nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I’m rather familiar with them. But I still need to hear both sides.”
“What are they saying?”
“Well, Jake is in a coma, so he’s not saying much.”
“A coma? Oh God,” Liz said.
The reality slapped Liz in the face. The boy could die, and her son could be charged. A murderer, just like her husband.
Brady continued, “Ray says some words were exchanged, and your son just went ballistic. Says he even pulled a knife on them.”
“Bullshit!” Liz said, not giving a damn whether the chief was offended or not. This was her son, for Christ’s sake. She wasn’t gonna sit by while some punk ass kids maligned Alex. “Alex doesn’t even have a knife! And he would never, EVER, ‘go ballistic,’ Chief. They must have provoked him! Hell, maybe they were the ones who messed up my car yesterday!”
“What do you mean?” Brady asked.
“I was at the library yesterday and a Paladin guard came in to tell me that someone had spray painted the word ‘murderer’ on my windshield. I just had the window guy out this morning replacing the window.”
“Did you fill out a police report?” Brady asked.
“No,” Liz said, now feeling stupid for not documenting the event. “With everything going on, I didn’t want to call attention to it, or wind up on the news, again, or anything.”
Her eyes met Brady’s, as if conveying the unspoken part of that sentence . . . you know, what with my husband having gone on a shooting spree.
“My family is being targeted!” she cried. “They must have attacked him. Alex would never hurt anyone unless he was fighting back. He’s a sweet boy, and he’s never been in trouble.”
“I’m not judging what did or didn’t happen, Mrs. Heller. That’s why I need to talk to Alex, so I can get his side of the story and start sorting the facts.”
Brady’s radio beeped. He gave Liz an apology with his eyes, then took the call, “Brady.”