by E. C. Diskin
She shook her head and looked him square in the face. “You don’t understand. It wasn’t like that. It was a test . . . He’s not a bad guy.”
Darius didn’t push. He barely knew her.
But when they saw each other again at the start of senior year, he was more insistent. She was crying in the gym when she heard the big metal door burst open, and he strode toward her, looking even bigger and more confident than she remembered.
“Ginny Anderson,” he’d said with a broad smile on his face.
She’d wiped her tears and tried to pretend nothing was wrong, but he wouldn’t play along anymore.
He crouched down in front of her. “This is about that pastor, isn’t it?” When she didn’t answer, he’d continued. “I don’t like that guy.”
His lack of deference was almost funny. “Everyone loves him. He’s like a mentor to all of us. He’s in charge of the youth group, and I’m the teen leader. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I understand that no matter what has happened, he’s too old for you. He’s crossed a line. And I’d like to kick his ass.”
Darius Woods wasn’t afraid of anyone.
Eddie Wilson walked into the gym then, she remembered. “You okay, Ginny? This boy bothering you?” He’d stepped up to them as if she needed protection from Darius, some big bad wolf.
Darius had straightened, towering above Eddie. “Who you calling boy, boy?”
“You,” Eddie said, puffing out his bony chest.
“Eddie, stop,” Ginny had countered, standing and wiping her face again. “Darius is a friend. Back off.”
“If you say so, Gin,” Eddie said. “But I’m watching you,” he said to Darius, pointing at him as he walked away.
She and Darius looked at each other, rolled their eyes, and chuckled. “Family friend,” she said. “He’s an idiot.”
“Obviously.”
She grabbed her books, prepared to leave, and Darius stopped her. “You need to get away from that pastor,” he’d said. Truer words had never been spoken.
She was staring at her bagel now, mindlessly ripping it into crumbs only a bird would enjoy, when someone came and sat right beside her at the table, sidling over until their shoulders touched. She turned, leaning away as the man said, “Ginny Anderson, I thought that was you. I’d know those long blonde locks anywhere.”
He was scruffy, about her age, wearing a baseball cap. His straggly hair, desperate for a shampoo, spilled from beneath it. Despite the fresh wounds and bruises on his acne-scarred face, she instantly recognized him. It was as if her high school memory had conjured him to appear.
“Eddie, hi,” she said. “My goodness, what happened to you?”
He touched his face, gently poking his bruises. “Oh, not much. Just a little scuffle. It looks worse than it feels.”
She recalled Sheriff Wilson’s comment about Eddie living with him and struggling a bit. The dark circles under his eyes, the raw picked-at wounds on his forearms, were typical of meth users. She was in no place to judge, though there was nothing about Eddie that invoked her empathy. “I haven’t seen you in ages,” she said, her tone sunny, as if they were long-lost friends. Her mother had always said that kindness was contagious and should be used even in the face of dark and mean-spirited souls. That was definitely Eddie Wilson.
It had been twenty years since that Sunday night in the Garden. A night that had started so typically, with the sheriff and Eddie at the house for dinner, just as they had been nearly every Sunday since Mrs. Wilson died a couple of months earlier. Eddie had been annoying Ginny for years, always disrupting class with offensive jokes, causing trouble in the halls, but given the circumstances, she’d tried hard to be kinder that night.
After dinner, he followed her to the garage as she was leaving, worming his way into her car. She’d told him she was meeting a friend. “What friend? You have a boyfriend?” he’d asked, getting in the passenger side before she could complain.
“No.”
“Good. Then drive me to the ice cream shop, please.”
She did, and when she parked, Eddie leaned in for a kiss.
“What are you doing?” she said, pulling back.
“Come on, Ginny. Just give me a kiss. Please, I’m so sad.”
“Jeez, Eddie. I can’t believe you’d use your mom’s death to get me to kiss you.”
Eddie pounded his head against the seatback, as if enraged. “Why you acting like such a prude? We both know your good-girl image is a farce. I know you’re a closet wild child.”
The accusation terrified her. He knew something.
He turned and raised his eyebrows, a hint that he knew more. “I’d bet money you wouldn’t want your parents to know what I know.”
She tried not to fall for the intimidation. “And what’s that?”
“Maybe I’ve seen you sitting in someone’s car last summer. Having a few drinks. Maybe more.”
She felt sick. The only time she’d ever had alcohol was with Pastor Gary, and they had been alone in his car once last summer. The thought that Eddie might have seen what happened made her stomach flip.
“Maybe you should reconsider that kiss. Just a little one.” He leaned in again.
“Get out,” she’d said, pushing him back.
“Fine,” he said, before climbing out and slamming the door. “And hey, thank your mom for the dinner. And dessert,” he said, losing his balance as soon as he began walking away.
They hadn’t had dessert. Had he stolen money from the house to buy ice cream? “What did you do?” she yelled after him.
He giggled before walking back toward the car, confessing. “Just enjoying a little after-dinner relaxer I found in the bathroom.”
“Mom’s pills? That’s for her vertigo.”
“Funny,” he said. “Making me feel awfully dizzy!” He laughed as he ran off to join some of the other burnouts on the corner.
Maybe he’s changed, she thought now. But then she looked again at his eyes, and the bruises, the signs of drug use. Probably not.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I’m here for you,” he said, leaning in again and nudging his shoulder against hers.
“What do you mean?” She leaned back, like this was some dance of revolt.
“Well, I heard your dad’s in here. I know you lost your mom a few months back. Obviously, I know what that’s like, and I just wanted to see how the Andersons are doing. I mean, I think of you and your parents like family. Remember how our moms used to always sign us up for activities together?”
“Of course,” she said with a nod, feigning interest. That was back when Eddie was just a sweet, harmless kid.
“So what do you think about Darius Woods?” he continued. “He gonna make it?”
“I have no idea,” she said, suddenly sitting taller, guarded. Eddie probably relished the idea of Darius fighting for his life.
“Well,” he said, lowering his voice, “I guess if he bites the dust, your problems will be solved.” He raised his brow and smirked, as if they shared a secret.
“What are you talking about?” Did he think she shot Darius? The sheriff would not be so unprofessional as to tell his idiot son that he suspected Ginny in the Darius Woods case. Would he?
“That is who you were talking about last Saturday night, right?”
Her mind raced back in time. Last Saturday. She’d rushed out of the house around five o’clock, telling Simon she needed to check on her father. She had to talk to Darius about what he’d written, and he’d said he was arriving in Eden that day. But she chickened out, hitting a bar just outside Eden instead, drowning her panic in vodka, wiping away those thirteen years of sobriety in an instant.
“I was at the meeting,” he said with a wink. “Eight o’clock, First Hope. I don’t think you saw me, but I saw you,” he said, raising his eyebrows again.
The eyebrows, the winking—she hated Eddie Wilson. He was still an ass. But she had to know what he was talking
about, so she just smiled.
“I’ve been trying to do thirty meetings in thirty days, so even though booze isn’t my primary substance of choice, I do the AAs when I can’t find an NA meeting. Sometimes I go after a bout. You know, better than nothing, right? I guess we got that in common. One hour at a time . . .” Another wink.
Suddenly, she remembered. She’d left the bar, disgusted with herself for falling off the wagon and terrified of what was going to happen and how she was going to handle things. She’d convinced herself to do the next right thing and find a meeting. A quick search on her phone led her back to her childhood church. But she’d still been drunk. And she’d shared with the group.
“Anyway, it didn’t take much to know you were talking about Darius Woods. You said someone had written a screenplay that was going to destroy a lot of lives. I mean, who else we know coulda written a screenplay?”
She felt sick. An entire room of people—probably all from Eden—and she’d basically alerted them to the impending revelations in Darius’s story.
“I never liked that guy,” he added. “But, of course, you know that. Frankly, if he thinks he can come back here and exploit all our lives for his own financial gain, well, I say screw ’im.”
Eddie was a master of inserting himself into her business. He had no idea what he was talking about. Though ignorant people were often the most dangerous.
“I’m sorry,” she said, pressing her hands against the tabletop to stand. “It was good to see you, Eddie, but I’ve got to go visit my dad.”
Eddie threw his hand across hers. “Hey,” he said urgently.
She looked at his hand, pressing down on hers.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he said.
Her mom would say the Christian thing would be to forgive, but she couldn’t do it. Everything Eddie had done in high school was with intention. She pulled her hand out from under his.
“Anyway, we’re both struggling, right?” he asked. “Maybe we can help each other. We could go to some meetings together.”
“I’m sorry, Eddie,” she said. “I’ve got to go.” Eddie would never be anyone other than the person he’d been in high school, a drug-addicted burnout who spewed hate and tried to ruin her life.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
GINNY LEFT EDDIE AND WENT back to the fourth floor. Sheriff Wilson had to be gone by now, but she was sure her chest was turning blotchy and red as she stopped, leaning up against a wall before making that final turn to Darius’s wing again.
When she got to the nurses’ station and asked for his room, the nurse looked at the computer. “No visitors, hon. Sorry, it’s in the system. He’s not to be disturbed.”
“He asked me to come.”
“I can’t help you.”
“Is he doing okay? I’m a friend from high school.”
“I’m sorry,” the nurse said. “I can’t share patient information.”
Ginny didn’t know what to do. She pulled out her phone. Maybe she could send him a message through Facebook and let him know she was here, trying to get in.
“Miss? Hello?”
She turned toward the voice. “I’m Martin Woods, Darius’s dad,” the man said. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, hello, Mr. Woods,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m Ginny Smith. Darius and I went to high school together. He sent me a message on Facebook last night. He asked me to come by today.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie, he’s heavily sedated now. Unfortunately, he’s fighting a new infection, but everyone’s watching him closely. You can come back another time. I’ll tell him you were here.”
Martin Woods’s eyes, red and swollen, exposed the fear behind that optimism. Darius might still die.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’ll keep him in my prayers.”
She walked back to her dad’s room, dazed, as the implications of Darius’s condition, of his potential death, hovered overhead like a new storm cloud. Secrets would stay buried forever, but the investigation would be for murder.
John was still asleep. She sat in the chair, watching him. It was the only time he looked harmless. And he’d said he forgave her? What a joke. She did not forgive him. She didn’t know if she’d ever forgive him. The John Anderson she knew was nothing like the one Brooklyn knew.
He began to stir, and she stepped back to the wall, adding several feet of distance between them. She never wanted to be too close to him when he was conscious and capable of inflicting so much pain.
“Where have you been?” he asked. “You gonna get me outta here already?”
Before Ginny could answer, the doctor came in. “He’s actually doing much better this afternoon. I think he’s ready for a move.”
“Works for me,” John said. “I’m ready to go home.”
Ginny ignored him and spoke to the doctor. “The rehab facility will have a bed next Tuesday. Can he stay a little longer?”
“Bad idea,” John said.
“We can keep him here, though I can’t guarantee his insurance will cover the time, since he’s mobile. He’s really recovering quite well.”
“Get me outta here,” John bellowed.
Ginny looked at him. “You can’t do all those stairs.”
“So put a bed in the living room.”
The doctor shrugged. “It’s your decision. The nurses’ station has the number for a medical supplier.”
“I need to keep moving,” John said. “Isn’t that what you all keep telling me? So I do that at home. I go to work, I tend to the garden. I’ll be fine.”
“You need help,” Ginny said.
“So help me, goddammit! You owe me that, don’t you?”
That was the man she knew. She hated him. Turning her attention back to the doctor, she said, “Let’s go. I’ll get that number.”
When Ginny returned to the room after ordering the bed, John was confused again. “There she is,” he said, his tone light and friendly. He hadn’t been pleased to see her in years. It almost felt like a gift, his inability to remember. She couldn’t forget anything despite trying for all these years.
“B,” he continued. “You gonna get us outta here?”
“I’m working on it,” she said. It didn’t seem worth correcting him. Perhaps this would all be easier if he thought she were Bonnie.
“You look worried,” he said.
“Little bit,” she offered sarcastically. He’d be worried, too, if he remembered what had happened.
“Don’t worry, B. Ginny’s not going to say anything.”
She stopped and looked at him, wondering where his mind was in their history. “Really?” she said, playing along.
“Stupid girl,” he continued.
Ginny winced, squeezing her eyes shut, and said nothing. He’d always shut her down. Every time she tried to do the right thing, he shut her down.
“Remember when she was a little girl? She was such a delight.”
Ginny turned away, holding back the tears. She remembered those days—when she idolized him. He would read to her and even sing songs at bedtime in that deep voice. He’d carry her on his shoulders.
“I really thought she could do no wrong, B,” he continued. “I thought that because she was always hanging out with the other kids from youth group, she couldn’t get into any trouble. I guess that was my mistake. No kids are immune from finding trouble.”
Ginny thought again of that morning at the clinic all those years ago and the mere seconds that passed before the doctor hit the ground, holding his stomach, moaning, as blood seeped from his hands, her panic after that woman ran from the front door into the lot, screaming.
She’d heard nothing but her own heartbeat and those gunshots, the moaning, the woman’s scream running like a loop in her head as she sped toward school through a blur of streetlights and passing cars, rushing, drenched in sweat, to her second-period class.
By later that afternoon, she was sitting in a windowless room being questioned. She and her dad never looked at eac
h other the same way after that day.
John stirred now and groaned in the bed. The war hero who’d worked the counter of his general store for half a century, offering help to everyone in town. To Brooklyn, he was still a saint, a hero, a father she loved and respected, but he’d taken the most terrifying time of Ginny’s life and made it worse. She closed her eyes, envisioning a pillow over his face, snuffing him out.
Sheriff Wilson had surely read the screenplay by now. She couldn’t take any of this anymore. Damn the consequences. Tomorrow morning, she would not put her father’s gun back in the safe. She’d take it to Sheriff Wilson. It was time to tell the truth.
When Wilson got back to his office, Donny was sitting at the sheriff’s desk, reading the screenplay. “Suits you,” he said to Donny.
“What’s that?”
“This office. My desk.”
“I’m sorry,” Donny said, rising from his seat.
“Stop,” Wilson said, his hand up, cutting him off. “I’m just trying to get used to this new reality.”
Donny sat back down, and Wilson took the chair in front of the desk.
“How’s Woods doing?” Donny asked.
“Not great, actually. This may still become a murder investigation.”
“And what about the gunman at the hospital . . . You learn anything?”
Wilson shook his head. “Nah. Coulda been anyone.” He looked back at the desks to see what other cops were in the station house. There was no reason to mention Eddie. If he’d been there, it was unfortunately about drugs. Wilson waved over a young officer from the far end of the room. “I think Martin Woods has a point,” he said to Donny. “We better get a guard for his room. At least for the next forty-eight hours.” He was not going to let something happen to that man while he was still in charge. He turned toward the officer he’d beckoned and sent him to take the first shift.
“You get to see your friend while you were there?” Donny asked.
“Actually, I did pop in on him for a minute.” Wilson had gone to John’s room after leaving Martin Woods, in part to ask Ginny why he’d seen her on Woods’s floor, but she hadn’t been there. “He’s doin’ much better.”