The Way We Are
Page 34
My head snaps to the side when a voice as quiet as a mouse squeaks, “Ryan didn’t kill his father.”
I glare into my mom’s eyes, begging for her to be silent as she has done for years. It's lucky I am seated, as the faintest shake of her head has the floor falling out from beneath my feet.
“Don’t do it,” I beg, not even caring that Regina is eyeballing our exchange like a perv at a peep show. “He won’t survive, Ma. This will kill him.”
That's why I took the blame for Damon. He's barely functioning as it is. He would never survive incarceration.
“I know,” my mom replies as her frail hand reaches out to touch my cheek. She brushes away a tear I didn’t know was balancing precariously on my cheek before forcing a weak smile on her face. “You are such a sweet boy, Ryan.” Her smile fades a little when she murmurs, “He used to be the same.”
Before my brain can register any panic that I’m following in my father’s footsteps, my mother’s eyes drift to Regina as she says, “Ryan didn’t kill his father. I did.”
43
Ryan
Over four hours have passed since my mom falsely testified to killing my father. She was formally charged, fingerprinted, and has given numerous statements to both Regina and our lieutenant. One glance at the bruises across her torso resulted in the death penalty being removed from the table. A second glance at her extensive medical records from the past decade downgraded the charge from murder to manslaughter. Even then, the DA was hesitant to prosecute.
“Did you see her extensive injury list? I would have killed him years ago,” she murmured as she paced past me in the corridor.
I’ve sat in a daze for much of the past four hours. I’m in shock, but I’m also pleased. For once, my mother chose us. She protected Damon and me as we protected her our entire lives. She stood up for her children. Although I wish it were done under better circumstances, I’m hopeful this is a step in the right direction.
The man who caused her years of torment is dead—and there's only one way up from rock bottom.
I stop staring at my bare feet when Regina enters the waiting room I’ve been sitting in the past hour. As she hesitantly paces across the room, I search her face, seeking any signs on the outcome of my mom’s confession.
I exhale the breath I am holding in when she mutters, “They’re not going to prosecute. If she hadn’t killed him, he would have killed her. Eventually.” She whispers her last word.
I nod in full agreement. “So what happens now? Can I take her home...?”
I stop talking when Regina shakes her head. “She needs help, Ryan. She's a very sick woman.”
Even knowing what she's saying is true doesn’t make it any easier to hear.
Regina sits in the empty seat next to me before gesturing for me to sit back down. When I do, she explains, “Your mom has agreed to attend an in-house program in New Orleans. They specialize in rehabilitation for victims of abuse. She will learn all the basics again. How to love without fear. To accept praise without anticipating a repercussion. She will heal mentally while also giving her body the nourishment it needs to rebuild her strength.”
The program sounds ideal, but I’m still apprehensive. “How long is the program?” I ask, my tone wary.
Regina runs her hand down my arm, pleased I am still concerned about my mom. That will never change. Never.
“As long as it takes. Some patients are in and out in weeks. Others take a little longer.” The dip in her tone indicates which category she's placing my mom in, the latter.
I lick my bone-dry lips before asking, “Can I see her before she goes?”
Regina smiles. “Of course you can. She was very adamant she wasn’t going anywhere before seeing you.”
“Will you visit me?” My mom’s voice is almost childlike, so weak and frail. “And water the garden. You know how much your father loves to see the lawn green in summer...” She stops talking as her face scrunches up.
“I’ll visit you as soon as I can,” I promise, happy to pretend she didn’t say her last comment.
Regina was upfront when she said visitation was limited at the rehabilitation center my mom is being admitted to. It isn’t that they want to discourage family connections; they just need to ensure they are severing unhealthy ties. Considering I confessed to a murder I didn’t commit, I may not be the best candidate.
After placing a final kiss to the edge of my mouth, my mom slips into a van. Her crying face is the last thing I see before the door slams shut and the van careens recklessly out of the underground garage at Ravenshoe PD.
Regina waits for the taillights to disappear before her eyes drift to me. I try to keep my face impassive. I can see the blue sky literally feet away from me. It has never looked more sensational. There's only one thing that could compete with it: Savannah’s gorgeous face.
“You’ve still got a long way to go, Ryan,” Regina warns when she spots the spark of excitement blazing through my eyes. “The discharge of your weapon resulted in a death. IA is going to be all over your ass in the morning.”
“I know,” I reply, nodding. “But that’s not until tomorrow. That leaves me tonight.”
Regina smiles, hearing the determination in my voice. My father is dead; my mother is on her way to a rehabilitation center, and I’ve left numerous messages on my brother’s phone the past five hours. There's only one bridge left for me to cross. I’m just praying my lie didn’t burn it beyond replacement.
“Go,” Regina murmurs under her breath.
“I can go?” I double-check, wanting to ensure I’m not breaking any protocol. Although all charges against me have been dropped, I don’t want Regina getting in trouble.
Regina laughs. “Yes, Ryan. You can go.” She throws the key for our police cruiser into my chest.
I’m halfway to our patrol car before she can change her mind. “Don’t use the sirens until you’re out of town,” Regina shouts, her voice barely heard over the roar of an engine. “And she better not forgive you without making you grovel first!”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m planning to grovel.”
Regina’s hearty laugh is barely heard over the rumble of my motor when I floor the gas pedal. Even the prospect of being arrested for the second time in twenty-four hours doesn’t slow my pace. With Savannah refusing to answer my calls the past several hours, I’m beyond eager to see her. It's probably for the best that she's giving me the silent treatment. Everything I plan to say should be said in person.
I make the trip to Savannah’s family mansion in record-breaking time. I even manage to slice an additional two minutes off the time I made eight months ago.
Ignoring the absurdity that I’m sweating like a pig on a cool fall day, I take the stairs two at a time. “Savannah,” I call out, knocking on the large wooden door. “I just want a chance to explain. I swear, nothing is as it seems.”
I continue knocking for another thirty seconds before I devise a new tactic. “I’m not leaving until you talk to me. I’ll camp out here all night if I have to.”
When my threat to set up shop in her front yard doesn’t work, I jingle the door knob. “Please, Savannah. All I want is a second of your time...” My plea ends when the door swings open with a slight creak.
“Savannah?” I step into the eerily quiet space. With Thorn needing round-the-clock care, her home is rarely void of noise.
Worry smacks into me hard and fast when I walk into the empty space. I’m not talking empty like someone started spring cleaning a few months early. I’m talking empty empty. There's even less furniture now than there was when Savannah sold all her family’s possessions to fund Axel’s ruse. Nothing but dust bunnies float across the expensive wood floor.
“Savannah!” I call out again, this one more of a panicked scream than a plea.
When my yelp is met with silence, I race up the curved stairwell, my heart rate as manic as my steps. My stomach knots when I notice all the paintings of Savannah that lined the hallway
last month have been removed.
This isn’t good. Something is horribly wrong.
I don’t bother stopping to check Savannah’s room. There's only one room in this house that will give me the answers I’m seeking.
I push open Thorn’s bedroom door with hesitation, wishing I had my gun. I don’t know why I feel the need to be armed, but there is a peculiar feeling twisting in my stomach that has nothing to do with the events that occurred tonight.
“Savannah? Are you in here?” I ask, stepping hesitantly into Thorn’s bedroom.
My heart falls from my ribcage. His room is even emptier than his house.
Fuck.
This isn’t good. Thorn has displacement issues. He hasn’t left his room in years. Something is wrong—very very wrong.
It takes me three attempts to yank my cell phone out of my pocket since my hands are shaking so hard. While standing in the bare bones of Thorn’s bedroom, I dial a number I know by heart.
“If she’s already forgiven you, I’m going to have a word with her about postponement,” Regina cackles down the phone, her voice half-teasing, half-stern.
“She’s gone,” I choke out. I run my fingers through my hair as I spin in circles, taking in empty wall after empty wall. “Savannah’s gone.”
“Gone?” Regina repeats, sounding confused.
The torment in her voice displays she's not being facetious; she is just as lost as I am. Regina is aware of Thorn’s condition, so she knows as well as I do that Savannah wouldn’t just pack up and leave.
“Are you sure she’s gone, Ryan?” All the playfulness in Regina’s voice has vanished, set aside for concern.
Even though Regina can’t see me, I nod. “Thorn’s room is empty. She’s gone, Regina. She’s fucking gone.”
Regina sighs heavily down the line. “Stay where you are. I’ll send a crew right over,” she instructs before barking commands at officers surrounding her.
“We have suspect activity at Coulton Road, Ravenshoe. Victim is a Caucasian female, age nineteen.”
It’s the last thing I hear before I slump to the floor.
Savannah is gone. The girl of my dreams is gone—vanished without a trace.
* * *
To be continued...
Don’t fret, the second half of Ryan’s book is available NOW!
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Finish the duet with The Way We Were
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Brax and Isaac stories have already been released, but Brandon, Regan, and Cormack will be getting their own stories at some point during 2020.
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