by Alana Terry
Chris’s face is so pained I can hardly breathe. I know I’ll remember that expression every single day of my life. I take one more step back, sidling up to the deck.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” is all I can get out, “but when all is said and done, it’s really for the best.”
Chris reaches out to grab my hand, but I yank it a way with a terse, “Just go away.”
He takes another step closer.
“Don’t touch me.” I push him. Hard. He loses his balance. His hands reach forward, grabbing for me. I reach out, but momentum and gravity are my two worst enemies. I’m falling backward. My head hits something hard.
For a terrifying second, I don’t see anything.
Next thing I know, Chris is kneeling down beside me. “Mia, are you okay? Hold on. Let me check your head. Don’t move.”
“Wait,” I croak. There are tears on my cheeks, but it’s impossible to tell if they’re mine or his.
“Shh.” He whispers. “We’ll talk about us later. Right now, I just want to see if you’re hurt. Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine. I just want to look and see ...”
He puts his hand to the back of my head, and his expression changes from pain to surprise to fear. He pulls his fingers away from me, fingers covered in blood.
“This is my fault,” he says. “Hold on. Let me get my phone. Should I call 911?”
“Just go,” I whisper. I can’t tell if I’m light-headed at the sight of so much blood or if it’s a result of the injury itself. I know how bad this looks. “Just go,” I prompt him. “You need to leave me. Someone’s coming ...”
And then I pass out.
CHAPTER 30
I open my eyes to the sound of someone praying. “Please, God, let her be okay. Please, God, let her be okay.”
I blink up at blinding sunlight boring holes through my eyes to the very back of my skull. The pain is more acute than any dentist drill. “Chris?”
“Thank God,” he breathes. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. This is all my fault. Are you still bleeding?”
He moves as if to touch the back of my head again, but I swat his hand away.
“Listen,” I say, “we’ve got to get out of here.” How long was I passed out for? “Give me your shirt,” I demand.
“What?”
“Your shirt. Let me use it to slow down the bleeding.” I’ve never been good seeing my own blood, but the adrenaline from my terror still hasn’t left my system. I want nothing more than to pass out again and wake up completely pain free, but I know we’ve got to get moving if we’re going to survive. I have no idea how much time we have left.
I try to sit up, but I’m too dizzy. The woods are out of the question now.
“Come on,” I say. “There’s a paddleboat in the shed. I’ll need your help getting it out.”
“Mia, what are you talking about? You’re not going on the water like this.”
“Please.” I hold his gaze. Beg him to understand. “Please,” I repeat, more softly this time. “We have to go.”
“So you’re not mad about your head?”
“Forget about my head.” I use his shoulder to raise myself up. He puts his arm around me to keep me from falling.
“Mia,” he protests, “you need to tell me what’s going on.”
“What’s going on,” I snap, “is we’re both in serious danger. And now I need you to do exactly what I say.”
I stumble toward the shed, Chris supporting the bulk of my weight. I’m dizzy, but I can’t stop.
“We need to get the boat in the water,” I tell him.
“Can’t you tell me what’s going on first?”
“Not until we’re safe.”
He looks at me once, then does what I say. We only find one life jacket, and Chris insists that I wear it. With the back of my head banged up so badly, I probably shouldn’t argue. Besides, there’s no time.
No time at all.
Chris takes the oars. It’s too difficult for me to sit on the platform, so I sink to the bottom of the boat and lean with my back against the siding. It’s not the most comfortable position, not when I’m bundled up in the life jacket like this, but it’s better than falling overboard.
“Mind telling me where we’re going?” Chris asks.
“There’s a trail I know on the far side over there. Once we get to land, I’ll help you hide the boat.”
“Mia ...”
“I know. I know.” The sunlight is piercing through my skull. The pain in the back of my head has started to throb. But Chris needs answers.
He’s going to hate me when he finds out, but I can’t keep this from him. Not anymore.
Because I love him. Because I need to keep us both safe.
It’s time to tell Chris the truth. All of it.
CHAPTER 31
“There’s some things you don’t know about my dad,” I begin.
“Is this the part where you tell me he’s in the mob? That once we get engaged, I’m in his circle of trust or whatever it’s called?”
I’m not sure if he’s joking or not. Right now, it doesn’t matter. I hope Chris isn’t planning to interrupt the whole time. It’s going to be hard enough to explain what’s going on when I’m so terrified. My head feels like my skull’s broken in two.
“That’s not it,” I say. “Dad is ... Well, you know my dad. He’s got some pretty high-up connections.”
Chris doesn’t say anything. I’m thankful for the chance to move forward. To explain as best I can. I’m dizzy, except I don’t know if that’s because I hit my head or because I’m so terrified.
“He, um, well, he’s involved in a lot of stuff ...” I clear my throat. “And I’ve never told you this, but he has a pretty tragic backstory.”
I wait for Chris to laugh and tell me it sounds like I’m talking about a supervillain or something, but he’s focused on his rowing. I feel a little freer to talk as our family cabin gets smaller in the distance.
“I have a half-sister. Had a half-sister, I should say. From my dad’s first marriage.”
“Okay.”
I take a deep breath. My head is throbbing, but I think the bleeding has slowed down at least. “When she was eighteen, she was found raped and murdered on a hiking trail.”
“Geeze.”
I choose to ignore Chris’s one-word responses.
“So, um, we never really talked about her or anything, but I knew my dad never got over it. He tried really hard to figure out what happened. Hired private investigators and everything. The police eventually said it was a cold case, but Dad didn’t give up. There was DNA evidence. It was ... Dad sent it to a private firm then had a friend run it against the police database.” I swallow, having no idea how Chris is going to react to this next part. “It was your dad.”
The rowing stops, but I don’t look at Chris.
“My dad raped and murdered your sister?”
The sunlight reflects off the water, radiating agony through my retinas, aiming it directly to the back of my skull. I can’t tell from Chris’s expression what he’s feeling. Incredulous? Disgusted? Defensive? Chris knows what his father’s capable of, but having a monster of a father doesn’t erase your sense of family loyalty.
Just look at me if you need a living example.
“They can’t prove anything,” I tell him. “If the police question your dad, he can claim their relationship was consensual and that he had nothing to do with the murder. But they aren’t going to question him. My dad’s friend made sure the DNA evidence they had at the station disappeared.”
“Why? With all his connections, he could ...”
“I know,” I interrupt. “But that’s not the way my dad likes to deal with things.”
Chris sets his jaw and doesn’t respond. Now that I’ve gotten this much of the story out, it’s the perfect time for him to interject. Anything. But he’s silent.
We’re getting close now to the bank. Wincing in pain, I po
int toward a spot with enough tree and shrub covering we can hide the boat. Hopefully, it will give us enough time to figure out what we’re going to do next. We’re just a few feet away from the shore when he says in a low voice, “You’ve known this about my dad the whole time we were together?”
“No. My brother just told me today, but he said Dad found out a couple months ago.”
“So if he’s known that long, why are we running away like this?”
I don’t know what to say, and for a minute I’m afraid Chris might not believe anything I’m telling him. I’m not sure I can blame him, but I do have to make him understand. Make him realize how serious the situation really is.
“My dad’s ... my dad’s ...” I search for the right words. The right way to explain it. Chris may understand physical fear and terror, but he has no idea what it’s like hiding the kind of secrets I have. My head has started to throb again, and I wonder if I’m still bleeding.
“There are other things he’s done, too,” I whisper, just loud enough for Chris to hear me over the sound of the oars. “He can be really dangerous.”
“Then you should call the police. You should tell them ...”
“He’s got people on the inside.” There’s no way Chris is going to understand. I’ve uncovered bits and pieces about Dad’s illicit activities for years and still only know a fraction of what he’s done.
Of what he’s capable of.
“So now what?” Chris asks, pulling the boat up to the shore and helping me out. I’m dizzy, the world swirling around me as I try to stand. “My dad killed your sister. Your dad’s known about it for months. What does running to the other side of the lake fix?”
“You talked to my dad this morning, didn’t you?” I need to put my thoughts together more coherently. Need to make Chris see what kind of danger we’re in. He pulls the boat onto the shore, and I try to help him heft it behind some overgrown bushes.
“You talked to my dad,” I repeat, leaning against a tree to support my unsteady weight. “And you told him you want to propose to me.”
“Not that it was that successful of a proposal,” Chris mumbles.
“That was for you,” I tell him. “I was trying to get you to leave. Give me time to talk to my dad in private.”
Chris gives me a scowl. “You’re telling me that your father’s in a murderous rage, and your plan was to just sit down and have a little heart to heart with him?”
I bristle at his tone. “He would never hurt me.” I know I sound defensive, but I don’t care. My dad might be involved in all kinds of activities he’s worked hard to keep from the police and his family, but I know with absolute certainty that he would never raise a finger against me.
Not for anything.
Chris stands up. Sweat clings to his brow. “If your dad’s going to come after my dad, then we need to go warn him. We shouldn’t be out here hiding, especially not with your head bleeding like that.”
And then I realize Chris still doesn’t understand. “That’s the thing,” I tell him, ignoring the pain pulsing between my temples. “My dad isn’t after your dad. Not that way. He wants him to suffer the same way he has.”
Chris throws a few branches over the boat for a little extra cover and wipes his brow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“My dad knows what it’s like to have his child brutally attacked and killed, right?”
“Right.”
“Dad never got over what happened to his daughter,” I say, trying hard to keep my voice steady, “And now he wants nothing more than for your dad to know the exact same kind of pain.”
CHAPTER 32
I’m trying to find the strength to tell Detective Drisklay what happened once Chris and I started making our way down the trail when Sandy rushes in.
“There you are, sweetie. I got here as soon as I could. We had a late start today. Carl misplaced the keys, and Woong couldn’t find his homework assignment, and ... Oh, listen to me babbling. I’m sorry. Mia, it’s me, Sandy. From church?”
“I remember,” I answer, returning her hug. “I remember everything.”
She pulls back and looks at me closely. “Everything?”
I nod slowly.
“Oh, thank you, Jesus,” Sandy sighs. “I had such a hard time sleeping last night, and I was just praying and praying and praying for you and asking God to heal your memory. I’m so glad to hear it.” Sandy clasps her hands together and then gives me another hug. “Oh, it’s a miracle. Officer Drisklay, I’m sorry to interrupt your work, but I’ve just got to tell the Lord how thankful I am.” And right here, with the stoic detective looking on uncomfortably, Sandy prays for me.
“Sweet Savior Jesus,” she breathes, “I bless you Lord for healing sweet Mia’s mind. I bless you Lord for healing her memory and recovering what she lost. And now, Father, we lift up this investigation to you. We pray that whoever’s responsible for the tragedy that impacted Mia and her family would be resolved in Jesus’ name. We pray for justice, Lord. Justice as well as redemption because we know there isn’t a single soul on earth worthy of your love or your grace or your forgiveness. And so I ask, sweet and merciful Savior, that whoever hurt Mia and her family would be punished appropriately according to the law but also find forgiveness and grace through the blood that Jesus Christ shed on his cross to take the punishment for our sins.”
I sense Drisklay shifting uncomfortably and wonder if Sandy’s prayer is about to turn into an altar call. Finally, she wraps it up and gives me one last hug. “I didn’t know if you’d had anything to eat besides Officer Drisklay’s old Danishes, so I baked you some muffins. I’ve got blueberry and chocolate here. Now I have to warn you, they’re not too sweet because of Carl and his health. I have to cook different now, you know. Baking’s a whole new ball game when you have a diabetic in the house. There’s no sugar in here, just a little bit of honey. I’m still not all that fond of whole grain flour either, but it’s so much better for you. At least that’s what they say. So here you are.” She sets an overflowing paper bag on the table in front of me and invites Drisklay to help himself as well.
“I’m fine,” he says, holding up his Styrofoam cup of coffee like a soldier’s salute.
“I can’t stay long,” Sandy says. “I just hated the thought of you waking up here all alone and scared without any of your memories.” Sandy pauses and tilts her head to the side, staring at me as if she’s trying to decide something. Finally, she leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. “Well, darling, I’m just so glad you’re doing better. It’s a gift, I tell you. A true gift. And a miracle too. A real answer to prayer.”
Drisklay clears his throat, and Sandy clasps her hands together. “Well, I’ll leave you two to your investigating, but call me if you need anything. Anything at all. Shall I stop back by around lunchtime?”
Drisklay eyes the paper bag. “I think we’ll keep from getting too hungry.”
“Just remember, a growing girl needs more than cold coffee and danishes,” Sandy wags her finger at Drisklay before bustling out the door.
I haven’t touched the food in the bag yet even though the thought of muffins is deliciously tantalizing.
“She’s got a good point,” I tell Drisklay.
“Who? The pastor’s wife?”
“Yeah. I’m not sure I’ve been this clear-headed since the accident. And I don’t think it’s because that chair is the most comfortable bed I’ve slept in. Think it’s just a coincidence?”
I’m glad Sandy isn’t here. She’d probably think my question was blasphemy. I have no doubt that God could have restored my memory in some miraculous way last night. But if he wanted to do that, couldn’t he have done it months earlier, when the information I have could have helped the investigation along that much faster?
“I have a few theories of my own on that,” Drisklay says dryly. “That’s why I’ve ordered a blood test.”
“Blood test?”
He lets out a sigh. “May as well t
ell you now. When we were searching your home, we found the pills your father was giving you. Your pain medicine. Apparently, you were on very heavy doses of a new drug currently being tested for the treatment of anxiety. One of the most common side-effects, however, especially at the dose I believe you were given, is short-term memory impairment.”
“Wait a minute.” I try to remember. Pain pills? Short-term memory impairment? “My dad was drugging me?”
Drisklay sighs. “I wish it were as simple as that.”
“What do you mean?”
He leans forward. “Miss Blanca, I’m going to need to ask you some uncomfortable questions about your family. Starting with your brother Marco.”
I blink. My brother? But why? How is he involved in any of this?
“Marco?” is all I can think to say.
Drisklay nods. “I understand he’s in pharmaceutical sales.” Oh. That’s what this is about. They think that since Marco might have had access to new and experimental drugs, he’s somehow implicated.
“I don’t think he’d get involved in anything like this,” I say. “He wouldn’t be working for my dad. They don’t even like each other. And he’s the one who warned me and Chris, remember?”
Drisklay passes me an envelope. “Do you know what this is?”
I stare at the file with my brother’s name printed on the tab then shake my head.
“Over the past several years, five different women have come forward with accusations against your brother, all of them quite serious. I can assure you that the evidence against him is more than circumstantial, so do you care to guess why this file is so thin?”
“I don’t know,” I answer, even though a gnawing suspicion has settled into the base of my skull.
“Apparently, your father has quite the list of connections. None of these alleged victims carried through with their reports, and some of the incriminating evidence mysteriously disappeared from our labs as well. Do you get what I’m saying?”
“I think so,” I admit.