by E. C. Diskin
“No mom. Died when Woods was a kid in Chicago before he and his dad moved to Eden. He gonna make it?” Roger asked Wilson.
“Jury’s out on that one,” Wilson answered.
“Maybe someone is jealous of his success,” Donny chimed in.
“I’ll ask around,” Roger said. “But so far, no one other than his dad knew he was here. You find out why he was in town?”
“His dad said he’s prepping for a movie,” Wilson said. “Something he wrote, set in Eden.”
“Well, that’s kind of cool,” Roger said.
“Maybe. Depends what kinda story he wrote.”
“Guess we should get our hands on that screenplay,” Donny said.
“Agreed. Rog, what’d you find out about the dad?” Wilson continued.
“You think Mr. Woods could have done it?” Donny asked, incredulous.
“Just coverin’ the bases. I mean, Woods is some hotshot actor now, and his dad is still living in that crappy old house. What’s that all about? What happened to takin’ care of your own?”
“Mr. Woods didn’t seem like someone who had problems with his kid,” Donny answered. “He seems like a terrified parent, afraid his son’s gonna die.”
“Maybe he’s terrified of the kid waking up and tellin’ his story,” Roger added from the door, like it was a fun conspiracy theory to consider.
“Come on,” Donny said skeptically. “He was there when it happened. Called 911. If he was outside in the rain, taking a shot at his own kid through the window, then called it in . . . well, for one, he’d be soaked to the bone, and two, that sounds nuts.”
“Well, he says he was there,” Wilson said. “Coulda been him. He could have changed clothes and then called it in. And even if he didn’t do it, that don’t mean he had nothing to do with it. Not yet.” He looked at Roger then. “You find out much about the dad’s private life? Maybe Mr. Woods is dealing drugs. You said he was from Chicago.”
“My God,” Donny chimed in, chuckling. “Are we gonna jump to drug dealing because the man is black and from Chicago? He’s like seventy years old.”
“I’m not jumping to anything,” Wilson said. “I’m just asking questions. That’s the job. I don’t assume someone’s good or bad, I just ask questions.”
“Well, I checked, Sheriff,” Roger answered, “and he’s a plumbing parts supplier, nearing retirement, from what I hear. No record, regular church attendee over at First Baptist on Wyland in Hobart. No sketchy connections.”
“Financial issues?” Wilson asked. “I’m guessing he’d get some money if his son kicks it.”
“House is paid for,” Roger continued. “He donates to church every month. Drives a fancy new BMW convertible. Gift from his son.”
Donny smirked at Wilson, as if the car proved the father had no motive to hurt his child.
“Well, that, right there, might be someone’s motive,” Wilson said. “People don’t like that stuff. Driving fancy cars, acting all better than.”
Donny shook his head like he didn’t believe it.
“You never hear of resentment or bitterness up north?”
The edge of a smile emerged on Donny’s face. “No, I guess that’s universal.”
Roger crossed his arms. “People round here been killed for less. Can’t tell you how many bar fights over darts have ended with gunfire.”
Wilson leaned back and propped his feet up on the desk, resting his hands behind his head. “I guess there’s a chance that trouble followed Woods from Hollywood. Maybe he crossed someone. I don’t know how it works out there. Could be corrupt as all get-out.”
“I’ll check out his social media,” Donny said, raising the phone still glued to his hand.
“Good. And Roger, you see if he’s got an assistant or agent or someone who can tell us more about his life and that movie he’s doin’.”
“Got it,” Roger said. “And I’ll dig a little more into who he knew when he was living here.”
“Sounds good,” Wilson said. “I want to know everything there is to know about Darius Woods.”
Roger started to leave the office but stopped, turning back. “Oh, Sheriff, did you hear about John Anderson?”
“Yep,” he replied, shaking his head. “I saw his girl Brooklyn at the hospital.”
“Such a shame,” Roger continued. “I’ll have Bets send somethin’ to the house.”
“You do that. I’m gonna check on him tomorrow. He’s not gonna like being cooped up in that hospital room. I was just with him yesterday after brunch at Mary’s with my daughter.”
“Mary?” Donny asked.
“Mary’s Diner. Town staple. Probably a third of my congregation heads there after church. Try the pancakes.”
“Got it,” Donny said, smiling.
“No Eddie?” Roger asked.
“Eddie’s my son,” Wilson clarified for Donny. “He hit the Saturday Mass.” Roger knew about Eddie’s divorce and that he was living with Wilson, but that was all. It was bad enough that Eddie was broke and rarely got out of bed before noon. Wilson didn’t need Roger or Donny or anyone else knowing that Eddie didn’t even go to church anymore.
“Anyway,” Wilson continued, “I popped over to John’s store yesterday. He was fine. It’s just hard to believe how things can happen in a flash.”
“I guess Ginny called for the ambulance,” Roger added. “Good thing she was there. I mean, what mighta happened otherwise?”
The thought of his friend, broken and unconscious on the floor, no neighbors in sight, made Wilson’s belly flip a little. It was a good thing Ginny was there. A miracle even, given the tension between them. But maybe Mother’s Day had brought out Ginny’s kinder, gentler side. Wilson had watched Ginny scoop up her kids and leave after Bonnie’s funeral without even saying goodbye to her dad.
It had been a rare and heartbreaking admission when John turned to Wilson that day, saying that Brooklyn was all he had left, that he’d lost Ginny a long time ago. Wilson knew the feeling. Eddie was still under his roof, but he and John had both lost their kids after high school, and Wilson had never really understood why.
CHAPTER SIX
BROOKLYN LEFT THE HOSPITAL AROUND eleven that night, driving along Route 60 and exiting onto Main Street. She continued through the center of town in darkness, the same route she’d traveled day after day during her mom’s last week of life, never wanting to leave her side but always wanting to return home to be sure Dad was okay. He had barely spoken during that last week, refusing to stay at the hospital for more than an hour. He said the place smelled funny, complained of hunger, or talked about getting to the store, but each night Brooklyn had returned to the house to find him sitting in his living room chair, staring vacantly out the front bay window, as if he was waiting for his wife to come home, as if she wasn’t really dying.
After turning onto another long country road, she could see the house, still nearly a mile away, looking lonely under the dark star-smeared sky, the only structure for miles around.
The car’s headlights scanned the porch as she turned into the gravel drive. No flower baskets were hanging. Her mother had always planted annuals and hung the baskets on Mother’s Day weekend.
Mother’s Day. Yesterday. Brooklyn hadn’t thought to call her dad. She’d been so consumed by her own grief, so determined to keep herself busy with work, she hadn’t even thought to call. And here he’d been, alone, missing his wife of forty-plus years.
She passed her dad’s shoes, covered in mud and soaking wet, on the porch beside the front door, as she hit the lights and walked inside. Everything about the house looked as it always had: well-worn, outdated, filled with love. The entry hall was still covered in that awful floral-print wallpaper from the 1970s—her mom’s first and most controversial decorating decision. Her dad had refused to remove it, insisting that “we don’t learn from mistakes if we don’t have to live with them.” Rather than resenting his stubbornness, her mom had smiled when she shared the story with Brookl
yn, whispering that she thought he was just being lazy. Every other wall and doorframe in the house was white. Pictures lined the stairwell, and her mom’s needlepoint pillows, covered in Bible quotes and proverbs, still sat along the window seat in the living room.
Brooklyn peered into the study off the front hall. The only change was a newer off-white carpet, shag style, that filled the space between his big desk by the front window and the La-Z-Boy in the corner. She tried to remember if the rug had been there back in December. She couldn’t recall, but it looked cozy and soft, maybe her mom’s most recent attempt to update a little. The previous carpet, one of those circular rope varieties, probably fifty years old, had never been comfortable, certainly never encouraged one to sit on the floor—though maybe that was the point. It was hard to imagine her dad lying in that room, unconscious. Even for Ginny, it had to have been terrifying to find him like that.
But where exactly had it happened, she wondered, stepping inside, looking for what might have caused a stumble. She thought of her dad’s bandage. Twelve stitches. He must have hit his head when he fell, but on what? There was no blood on the carpet. Though maybe he’d hit the corner of his desk.
The squeaking floorboards and stair treads echoed though the empty house as she went upstairs. Standing in the doorway of the bedroom she and Ginny had both occupied, nearly two decades apart, she surveyed the room she’d tried so hard to escape. The teal desk she and her mom had painted together, a hand-me-down from Ginny (and formerly bloodred-horrible), was still covered by Brooklyn’s old books and the jewelry she’d made during senior year when she began dressing like an island beach bum. The first time she left for school with her hair braided, wearing that jewelry, a flowy tie-dyed skirt, and flip-flops, her dad had peered over his newspaper with brow raised, but said nothing. Mom had smiled, remarking how beautiful she looked. She got teased at school, but by then, she’d stopped caring. If she was going to be treated like she didn’t belong, she figured she might as well look like it too. Someday, she figured, those kids would see her on TV or in a movie and regret how cruel they’d been.
Atop the desk was a mason jar filled with pennies, and above it, a bulletin board overlaid with high school pictures—stage shots, mostly, along with a few participation ribbons from her short-lived attempt at track during freshman year. And in the corner, the photo taken during her parents’ mission trip in 1999, which changed all their lives. She’d snapped a digital shot of it with her phone before moving away, so she’d always have it with her: her parents, smiling for the camera, their arms around a young, pregnant Dominican girl they knew from their annual church trips to the town. Her name was Eimy. It was just a week after the picture was taken when the Andersons learned that Eimy had died during childbirth. Ginny was about to leave for college, her mom’s heart and home suddenly felt empty, and they couldn’t bear the thought of Eimy’s baby ending up like so many other orphans. And so they returned to the Dominican Republic—“moved heaven and earth,” as Mom told it—and brought Brooklyn home.
Brooklyn spent years looking at Eimy’s face, wondering what her biological family had been like, wondering what might have happened if Eimy, only fifteen at the time, hadn’t died. It would have been difficult. Dad had once shared that many kids over there were forced to work in the coffee, rice, and sugarcane fields, that poverty was the norm. It was hard for Brooklyn to feel sorry for herself after learning that.
She didn’t quite think of Eimy as her mom, but when she looked at the kindness of Eimy’s smile, she imagined how close they might have been, how Brooklyn might have talked to her about boys or sex or every other topic she knew better than to discuss in her house, where her parents found answers to every question in the Bible. As a child, Brooklyn decided that every abandoned penny she found was a sign from Eimy, and soon she began asking the pennies questions, believing Eimy provided the answers. Even now, she couldn’t pass a penny without asking it a question, despite the fact that she’d long ago lost confidence in the source of those answers.
She collapsed onto the bed, the weight of her exhaustion pulling her toward sleep, but her mind was swirling from the jarring reality of Dad’s condition and being back in this town. Things were changing too fast. She’d felt untethered when Mom died, unsure how she’d manage without the phone calls and encouraging notes that had come every week after she left for college. Her mom had been her anchor. And suddenly Brooklyn was facing the potential loss of both parents, of losing home too. If Dad really was losing his mind, if Ginny put him in a nursing home, he wouldn’t last long. Ginny had never seen Brooklyn as more than some unwelcome intrusion or replacement. She’d have no one.
He needed to be okay. And come home.
None of that could happen if Ginny didn’t help. Brooklyn thought of what Dad had said about forgiving Ginny and holding her secret. She needed to tell Ginny about it. Maybe it would help. Maybe Ginny would explain what that was all about. Perhaps opening up about whatever that meant would bring the sisters closer together.
Ginny sat in a car while raindrops rattled against the glass like gunfire. Suddenly she felt someone pushing her. It was Simon, jostling her arm back and forth, rousing her from a dream. She opened her eyes. His lips were moving, but it took a second to hear him whispering her name again and again. The television and the nearby lamp were now off, the room lit only by the hall sconces. She had no idea how long she’d been out. “Okay, okay, I’m up,” she said, slowly sitting up on the couch.
Simon backed away, and she tried to focus. Even in the darkened room, his disheveled hair and sloping shoulders punctuated the exhaustion on his face. He was holding the empty bottle she’d carefully hidden under cardboard boxes in the recycling bin. She looked at his eyes. It wasn’t just exhaustion, she saw, it was disgust. He was a man without vices—disciplined and unsympathetic to weakness. When they’d met all those years ago, their first date had been to an ice cream parlor. He didn’t drink, which at the time made him seem like some sort of divine savior, sent from heaven to ensure she maintained her still-new sobriety.
Simon wouldn’t understand what led her to the bottle again. There was too much he didn’t know. Tonight it had been Mikey. She’d been standing in the doorway of her son’s darkened room a couple of hours ago, watching him sleep, his belly on the mattress, knees tucked up under him like a peaceful yogi, while hundreds of glow-in-the-dark stars and planets shone down from the fourteen-foot ceiling. And she knew her son would never know such peace again if the truth about what she’d done came out.
She’d grabbed her tools of avoidance—a bottle of Chardonnay, a glass, and a basket of laundry—and plopped herself in front of the TV in the family room. But after folding the clothes and disposing of the empty bottle, she’d melted into the sofa back while staring at the screen, unable to focus on the show in front of her. The wheels were in motion, the police investigation into Darius’s shooting was national news, John might even start rambling. The truth was coming. This beautiful home, this family—it was all her kids had ever known, and it was about to disappear. Like a strobe light of torture, she was hit with images from the night before: blood, rain, EMTs loading bodies into ambulances.
Her world was spinning out of control, and she didn’t know how to stop it.
She looked up at Simon, at his disappointment, the weariness in his expression, and braced herself for the yelling, thankful the kids were sound sleepers.
But he didn’t yell. He sat on the coffee table in front of her, eyes pleading. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked. “I can’t let my kids be cared for by a drunk.”
“I’m not a drunk,” she said, though even she could hear the slur in her words. “It’s just been a difficult couple of days. Tomorrow will be better.” It was the mantra her mother had always provided in the face of Ginny’s distress. It didn’t matter how bad things were, tomorrow would be better.
“And what if Lyla had found you like this?” Simon asked.
“You’re being me
lodramatic.” Lyla, her eight-year-old, had a habit of waking in the night from bad dreams and crawling into bed with her mom. Simon always found the invasions irritating, but Ginny never minded. Lyla would be curled into a tight ball like a roly-poly, and Ginny would wrap around her like a blanket. They fit together like two puzzle pieces.
“I don’t appreciate that tone,” he said, the same way he’d scold Mikey for talking back. “You need help.”
She couldn’t look at him. “You’re overreacting, Simon. I’m a good mother. Look,” she said, waving toward the basket. “Laundry is done. Kitchen’s clean. Kids asleep.”
He shook his head, stood, and walked away.
“Stop acting like I’m such a mess,” she yelled. He gave her credit for none of her success. She’d gone thirteen years without a drop.
He turned back. “You were drunk when you finally came home last night. It was Mother’s Day, for Christ’s sake.”
She closed her eyes, pushing the heels of her hands into the sockets, as if doing so could stop his judgment. “My mother is dead,” she yelled. “And now my father’s in the hospital. Excuse me for struggling.”
As he stepped forward, his voice softened. “When’s the last time you went to a meeting?”
“Saturday night, actually.” She didn’t mention that she got drunk before showing up.
“I think you should start seeing Pastor Gary again,” he said.
Simon was a fool. But then, so was she.
He walked out and flipped the hall light switch before heading upstairs, leaving her in darkness.
“I’ll go tomorrow,” she whispered, oozing back into the seat cushion. And she would. She needed to tell the pastor what had happened. What was going to happen.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DAY SEVEN
7:40 p.m.
BOLINE COUNTY JAIL
AS THE FOOTFALLS CAME CLOSER, Brooklyn backed up, breath held. But the guard stopped before reaching her cell and unlocked a door on the other side of the cinder-block wall. Footsteps followed, and a moment later, the bars closed, a lock clicked, and a cot squeaked under the weight of a body.