by E. C. Diskin
She had to do something. Finally, she had to be there for that girl.
She rushed back to Eden. Driving along Main Street, the turn to Darius’s house came into view. He needed to know.
She pounded on the door. No one came. It was nearly eleven o’clock. It didn’t make sense. Where was his father, Martin?
She looked in the driveway. Neither car was there.
She thought back to Mary’s Diner, sitting there while Darius got up and left the booth. She was certain he’d never want to see her again. She’d been at that intersection when she got the call from the sheriff and noticed Darius’s BMW in the distance. She’d assumed he was headed to her dad’s.
She pulled out her phone and sent him a message through Facebook, the only way she knew to reach him. He hated her, she was sure, but he would want to help Brooklyn.
She sped to the sheriff’s station. The officer at the door wouldn’t let her in. He said it was too late for visitors.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Monday, May 20
WILSON ROSE EARLY FROM A restless sleep. His closest friend was dead, Brooklyn was in trouble, and he’d lost all power to control the situation. It didn’t matter that he found her wiping prints off that gun or that there’d obviously been a fight in the room. John would not want that girl being punished.
It was still hard to believe John had kept this secret for twenty years, why he felt it necessary for the world to believe his grandchild was adopted. No one woulda judged, Wilson thought. But even as he tried to persuade himself, he knew that honesty would have required a reckoning of sorts. Like why, upon learning that Ginny had a baby and that she was in love with Darius, no one pressured the teens to marry. Wilson had known plenty of shotgun weddings in his day. Though none of them looked quite like that. Eden did have lines people never crossed; he’d just never thought about it. He supposed that was the thing about lines. They were easier to see from the outside.
Wilson never considered himself a racist. He’d been offended by those reporters who smeared his former deputy, Tom Delaney. Calling out Tom was calling out the whole force; it was calling out all of Eden, maybe all of Little Egypt. But they were good people, Wilson knew. Good, kind, churchgoing folks.
He thought back to Tom’s trial and his own willingness to accept without question that Tom was in the right when he shot Jaden White on the side of the road. Wilson hadn’t even pressed Tom about it. He’d refused to listen to protesters, to consider whether the outcome would have been different had the man been white. He’d automatically understood why Tom had panicked. But why? What did that really say about him? The man had a gun in the glove box. So did almost every man Wilson knew. The man warned Tom he needed to open the box to get his registration. And that had ended his life.
Wilson never said an offensive word to anyone’s face, but he’d certainly laughed at jokes and even told a few of his own. It seemed harmless because he never did it in mixed company.
He thought back to his wife’s death, his explosion of grief and anger, his desire to blame the other driver, even though the witness said his wife had run the red light. He’d used hate-filled slurs. And then he thought about Eddie, the way he’d treated Woods back in high school—the things he’d said that night in the Garden, and the way Wilson hadn’t even pressed Eddie about that shoulder injury or the fight—just assuming that Eddie was in the right, the black kid was in the wrong. But Eddie had been the villain that night.
Kids never start a life with hate. That stuff was taught. Suddenly it felt like John’s choice, his actions, his lies—they indicted more than himself. They indicted all of them.
And now, Wilson was supposed to sit back and do nothing? Donny’s only parting comment last night was that Wilson still needed to get Eddie out of jail.
Wilson needed to do more. Though when it came to Eddie, maybe less was more. If John had taught him anything, maybe it was that parents, even with the best intentions, could really screw up their kids when they held on too tight, when they tried too hard to protect them and stopped them from living their own lives. Wilson’s attempt at protecting Eddie from consequences had done nothing to help him.
Eddie needed to move out. Wilson would encourage inpatient treatment, he’d even pay for it, but it was Eddie’s decision to make. Live or die. Rise or fall. Wilson was done trying to control that boy’s destiny.
He drove toward the station, letting his thoughts return to Brooklyn. Donny was too preoccupied by the bat, that it could mean intent to harm. Brooklyn wouldn’t swing a bat at John. In fact, he couldn’t imagine where she’d found it. No boys had been raised in that house. No athletes. No sports were played.
As he got closer to town, he noticed an abandoned car on the side of the road. Wilson slowed. It was impossible to turn off his investigative instincts. A black Cadillac SUV. Pretty swanky. He called the station. Roger picked up after two rings. “Hey, Rog—”
“Sheriff! How’s it going?”
It was just what Wilson wanted to hear. He needed those boys to think of him as the sheriff for just a bit longer. “Can you run a plate for me?”
“Shoot,” Roger said.
“Illinois JV9 16T.”
“Got it. Should I call your cell?”
“Please. Did Donny hear back from the coroner yet about John?”
“I don’t think so. He’s been busy dealing with the other thing.”
“What other thing?”
“Didn’t you hear? Ginny called him last night a few hours after we questioned her. Said that Pastor Gary jumped off the rocks at the Garden. After confessing to the Woods shooting.”
“What?”
“Crazy, right? I think they’re still over there trying to get the body, or what’s left of it. I can’t even imagine. Glad it’s in another county. Anyway, so far, her story is checking out. She said he was drunk yesterday, and we’ve confirmed a stop at the liquor store after we called him in for questioning. She said he used her dad’s gun and that he found Woods’s address with his phone. Gun’s with forensics. We’ll get the records on the phone. Just a matter of time.”
“Wow. Well, keep me posted, and let me know about that plate.”
Wilson quickly turned the car around and drove to Martin Woods’s house. It wasn’t Wilson’s case anymore, but he’d promised to keep Martin posted on developments, and Roger’s news would provide some comfort.
There were no cars in the drive at Martin’s house. No one answered the door. Woods had been released from the hospital the day before. Wilson walked around the property, peering into the windows. As he cupped his hands against the glass slider on the back of the house, he saw Woods’s screenplay on the kitchen table.
That damn screenplay. That story had nearly gotten Woods killed. It had cracked open two decades of his friend’s family secrets; his friend was dead, and Brooklyn was in jail. His anger bubbled up and focused on Woods. He wanted to blame him. To create a villain.
But Woods was a victim too.
Wilson headed back toward the car, passing a shed on the way back to the driveway. Its doors were open. A bin of sports equipment had been overturned, its contents now all over the grass.
Wilson was pulling into the hospital parking lot when he got the call from Roger. “Hey, I got that plate run for you. It’s a rental, Avis.”
“And who rented it?”
“Darius Woods.”
Wilson hung up the phone and immediately recalled something Brooklyn had said last night—Ginny had left to tell Darius the truth. And at the time, Wilson realized, Ginny believed her father shot Darius.
Woods had gone to John’s house. Wilson was sure of it. He didn’t understand why he’d then abandon his car on the side of the road, but there was no doubt in his mind. Suddenly, it all made sense—Woods racing over there, a baseball bat in his hand, having learned about Brooklyn and believing at the time that John had gunned him down a week before.
The only one who might have seen Woods at John’s hous
e last night was Brooklyn. There was no chance she’d say anything. Not after everything John had done.
But Wilson could not let her go down for this.
Walking into the morgue, he found his buddy Bennington sitting at his desk, drinking coffee and writing up some notes.
“Hey, Sheriff,” Bennington said. “I take it we got one of yours in here?”
Bennington obviously assumed Wilson was there in an official capacity, despite the street clothes. He was not about to correct him. “Yeah, but he’s a friend too. John Anderson.”
“John Anderson, as in the General Store?”
“Exactly.”
“What a shame. I’m so sorry, Sheriff. I just got on, but let me pull the chart, see what Dr. Anton wrote.”
Wilson sat in the chair next to the doctor’s desk, waiting, while his friend read through the notes.
“So?” Wilson finally asked.
“Gash on head. Mark on his face. Unresponsive at the scene.”
“Right. But he was just released from the hospital yesterday, hours before it happened. I need to know if he simply collapsed or if he was struck. He broke his hip a week ago and hit his head pretty bad then too. But the girl at the scene, she said she heard him fall, and he was dead by the time she got to him.”
“Mm-hmm,” Bennington said. “Yeah. Well, I don’t think this was an aneurysm. See here,” he said, pointing to a photo of one dissection. “Looks like we’ve got a subdural hemorrhage . . .”
“And that means . . .”
“Blunt-force trauma.”
“Can you say what from? We found a bat at the scene.”
“No. No. That would have been a very different kind of injury. The gash is from something sharp.”
“Like maybe the corner of a desk? That’s what the girl thought happened.”
“Maybe. But the scrape on his face,” he said, pointing to another picture, “that looks like the kind of mark we sometimes see after a punch.”
Wilson considered it. There’d been a struggle in that room. The gun had been fired into the ceiling. And John’s face . . . if he’d been punched and then he fell . . .
Darius might have killed him.
“That would be pretty cruel, wouldn’t it?” Bennington added. “If someone actually punched an old man with a broken hip in the face? I mean, you hit someone that fragile, you gotta intend some serious harm.”
“Right.” Wilson could just imagine how a prosecutor might frame the narrative. A break-in, fueled by rage. A fatal blow . . .
“But here’s the thing,” Bennington continued. “These are tricky cases. It’s hard to get too definitive. The CT from last week looked clean, but he might have developed a bleed while he was in the hospital. It happens, especially with older patients.”
“So you’re saying he might have simply collapsed from a brain bleed caused by the fall last week? ”
“It’s possible. But I think a case could be made . . . if you can show violence at the scene, then it’s plausible that someone is responsible.”
He could not let Donny move forward with this case. It wouldn’t be right. The Anderson girls had been through too much. The Woodses too. John’s actions had started it all. “Benny,” Wilson said, cutting him off, “I need a favor. It’s a big one.”
“Well, I do still owe you several hundred from that last card game,” Bennington said. “Shoot.”
Wilson hustled to his car. He was pulling out of the parking spot when he spotted Darius Woods coming out of the main hospital doors, wincing, a phone to his ear, and holding the free hand against his rib cage as he moved, walking too quickly for a man who’d been shot the week before. He was obviously in a hurry to get somewhere.
Wilson moved down the lot slowly, following Woods until he got to a BMW convertible. Wilson pulled up, blocking him in.
“Darius Woods,” Wilson shouted through his open window, “I need you to come with me.”
“Who are you?”
“Sheriff Wilson, Boline County. It’s about Brooklyn.”
Woods still had a phone to his ear. “Ginny, I’m getting in a car with that sheriff. Yeah. I’ll meet you at the station.”
Woods ended the call and walked around to the passenger side, lowering himself into the seat. “Ginny just told me what happened,” he said.
Wilson looked at Woods. “I know you were there.”
Ginny pulled into the sheriff’s station, thirty minutes later, and ran inside. There was someone behind a front counter, ready to stop her.
“I need to see Brooklyn Anderson. She was brought in last night.”
“Okay, just a minute,” the man said. He walked away, and she stepped around the corner, watching. He went inside the sheriff’s office. The wall was glass. Sheriff Wilson was in there, and the new sheriff too. And Darius. She couldn’t wait. She started toward the room, ignoring the clerk’s request for her to stay put. Sheriff Wilson stepped out of the room to greet her.
“Why are you both talking to Darius? And where’s Brooklyn? I need to see her!”
“Calm down,” Wilson said. “It’s okay. Come on.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
WHEN BROOKLYN WOKE UP, THERE was that nanosecond of peace until her mind caught up to the new reality. The only parents she’d ever known, John and Bonnie Anderson, were dead. She was in jail, and everyone had lied.
The door down the hall opened, and she sat up and waited, listening to the footfalls on the concrete, the jangle of keys on the guard’s belt. It sounded like an army was heading her way. She braced herself for the worst.
When she looked up, Darius Woods was standing there. And the new sheriff. And Sheriff Wilson. And Ginny. “Hi,” Darius said, waving at her. She couldn’t speak. She slowly stood.
Sheriff Goodwin stepped inside first. “Brooklyn, I’m sorry we had to keep you in here all night. It’s been quite a long one, but Wilson just came back from the coroner’s office.”
She looked at her dad’s oldest friend. “It was an accident,” Sheriff Wilson said. He glanced at Darius as he said it. She wondered if he knew Darius had been there. “Autopsy confirmed it,” he continued. “The marks on his head and face didn’t come from a bat. Coroner said the gash on his head was consistent with what you’d see from hitting the corner of a desk. He figured that John probably scraped his face during the fall. Fact is, your dad had an internal hemorrhage. Probably died instantly. According to the chart, he suffered a TBI during last week’s fall. Doctor said it can take days or weeks for the bleed to show up. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. He was a ticking time bomb.”
Brooklyn didn’t know what to say. It seemed like she was supposed to smile or react, but it was as if she’d survived an explosion—standing there, intact, but covered in soot, still trying to understand what it all meant. She gazed at Darius.
“We know Darius was there,” Sheriff Goodwin said. “He told us about the struggle for the gun. But after speaking with the coroner, it’s clear he’s not responsible either.”
“I’m so sorry, Brooklyn,” Darius said. “My dad found out what John did and took off with a bat, so I followed him to your house.”
She didn’t know what to say.
“The point is, ” Sheriff Goodwin added, “there won’t be any charges. It was a terrible accident, and I’m really sorry for your loss. I hope you understand why I had to take you into custody.”
She scanned the faces of Ginny and Darius. And then it hit her. She was looking at her parents. And the dad she’d known all her life was gone. Nothing would ever be the same.
“Hello?” Eddie shouted, breaking the awkward silence from the cell next door. “Dad! Come on! These asshats held me all night!”
Sheriff Wilson smirked and waved. “I’ll see you later,” he said.
“Just meet me out at the desk to sign some papers,” Sheriff Goodwin added before leaving. “Take your time.”
Brooklyn looked at Ginny, then Darius.
“I’m gonna be outside,” Ginny
said, walking away.
“Wanna sit for a sec?” Darius asked, waving toward the cot.
Brooklyn nodded and sat at the edge of the mattress, staring at the cinder blocks in front of her as he sat beside her. “You and I have both been given an extraordinary amount of new information in the last twenty-four hours,” he said.
Brooklyn nodded, unable to figure out the best response.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I didn’t know. They told me you wouldn’t speak and that you were wiping down the gun when Sheriff Wilson arrived.”
She opened her mouth to answer, but the sounds came out in a whisper. “I was in the hall. I heard you.”
Darius nodded. “I shouldn’t have hit him.”
“He said some awful things to you. He had a gun. I didn’t blame you.”
Darius nodded. “I’m guessing you feared I was responsible?”
She looked at him finally. “I feared it didn’t matter. You said it in that screenplay. It’s a stacked deck when a black man is in trouble with the law. And it didn’t look good. Who’d believe me, anyway?”
Darius took her hand. “Thank you for trying to protect me, a stranger.”
“You’re my dad,” she said, shocked by the words as they spilled out. The rush of emotion came at her with the same speed as one of her panic attacks, but this time she felt overwhelmed by the moment, this reality, of something good coming out of this nightmare. “And Martin’s my grandfather.”
Neither of them spoke as their new connections hung in the stagnant air.
“It’s been the strangest twenty-four hours of my entire life,” she finally said.
Darius smiled. “You should come see him with me. It would make him feel so much better.”
“Martin? Is he okay?”
“Yes, but he’s in the hospital. That’s where I’ve been. It’s why I never heard what happened to you until this morning.”
Her eyes widened, but he put his hand on her knee.
“He’s okay, he’s just not supposed to get that worked up. He’s got a bad heart.”