This time is different. He’s just got to do it, man up and gut it out. He doesn’t need a damn pill to get through his day.
That’s over.
Everything is over. He’s done lying, done covering for Gee.
He’s going to the cops, and whatever happens, happens. If he lands in jail, c’est la vie. He deserves it.
It’s the thought of Holly and the boys and his mother, the sense of their shock and disgust, that makes him light headed. He pulls to the curb a few blocks from the school, and getting out his cell, he punches in his wife’s number. He can’t blindside her; the least he can do is give her some warning, but she doesn’t answer, and his resolution slides. He’s afraid to leave her a message, scared his voice will break. He stares out the windshield. Neither Kyle nor Connor will be home until later. Kyle’s in the weight room at the high school, and Connor’s at baseball practice at the junior high. They won’t be home until after five. He tosses his phone into the passenger seat. Holly must be with a client. There isn’t any knowing when she’ll be home. She doesn’t keep him advised of her schedule anymore.
He thinks fleetingly of Zeke, that if he were to go see the old man, Zeke would write him a script. He might even have a few of the fentanyl patches on hand, save Harris a trip to the pharmacy, where he risks running into someone he knows. Catching himself, Harris pinches the bridge of his nose. Dumbass. You’re quitting, remember?
After a bit, he shifts the truck into drive. Turning down his street, his gut clenches on seeing Holly’s Navigator in the driveway. He parks, picks up his cell, and exits his truck, steeling himself, knowing he’s got to confess, lay it out, all that he’s involved in. He’ll leave afterward if that’s what she wants. That’s the thought in his brain when he goes into the house.
He calls her name from the mudroom. “Holly?”
No answer, but he can hear footsteps overhead in Kyle’s room. Harris goes to the foot of the stairs. “Kyle?”
“Harris? I’m up here.”
Hearing Holly’s voice, he takes the stairs two at a time. He pauses on the threshold of Kyle’s room, looking in at her.
She’s got an armful of dirty clothes, and when she sees him, she drops them on the floor. “I don’t know why I’m picking up after him. He’s seventeen years old, for heaven’s sake.” She gestures, the broad arc of her arm encompassing the mess that Harris has likened to the city dump. The family joke is that Kyle’s room could qualify as a Superfund site. They’ll say there are probably clues to who knows how many unsolved crimes in the rat’s nest of his belongings.
“He’ll be moving out soon,” Harris says.
“Not soon enough,” Holly mutters.
“Does he know you’re in here?” He’d be mad as hell, Harris thinks.
“He asked me to come in here. He forgot his wallet this morning—again. He’s at the gas station—the Exxon on 1630? He’s on fumes, but he’s got no money with him. What are you doing here, anyway? Don’t you have practice?”
“I asked Tim to handle it. I was hoping we could talk.”
“Now?”
Harris could have laughed at her look of incredulity. The history written into her expression . . . he wants to talk now? When every other time she’s asked, begged, to have a conversation, he’s stonewalled her?
“I wish you’d called me.”
“I did. You didn’t answer.”
“I must have been on the phone with Kyle. Now I’m late. I’ve got a client waiting to look at eight hundred acres near Burnet. Can you take Kyle his wallet?”
“Sure. Where is it?”
“He said he left it either on his bed or on the top of his dresser. I looked both places and didn’t find it.” Holly crosses the room, and before she can get by him, Harris reaches for her. He wants to delay her, if only for a moment. He has in mind to tuck the loose tendrils of her hair behind her ear. He wants to cup her cheek, to hold her gaze, to brush the soft curve of her lower lip with his thumb. He wants to kiss her. But she only wants to go, to put distance between them. He steps aside.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be,” she says, heading down the stairs. “I’ll call you.”
He listens to her footsteps as they fade, crossing the living room, the kitchen, the mudroom. He hears the back door close. She’s done with him already, he thinks, regardless of what he says or how he excuses or explains himself, how much he might beg for her mercy. It’s possible she’s involved with someone else by now.
Some guy who talks to her.
His phone dings, signaling a text, and he pulls it out of his pocket.
Mom says ur bringing my wallet? Kyle has typed.
Harris texts back: Looking for it now.
He toes piles of stuff on the floor, moves through them to the bed. The tangle of bedclothes has been shoved to the bed’s foot, probably by Holly. There’s nothing resembling a wallet in the mess on top of Kyle’s dresser either. Opening one of the two narrower top drawers, he tentatively probes the contents with his fingertip. He doesn’t like going through Kyle’s things. It feels invasive, as if he’s snooping. He’s on the point of shutting the drawer, thinking he’ll go to the station and pay for Kyle’s gas and Kyle can pay him back, when he sees the ring.
At first he can’t accept that it’s there. It’s only when he picks it up and feels its weight in the center of his palm that he knows for sure what ring it is and to whom it belongs. And the knowing sinks his belly and weakens his knees. His phone dings again.
You find it?
Harris stares at Kyle’s text, heart pounding. He stabs the phone’s face. No. Wait there. I’m coming.
Like I could go anywhere? Kyle texts back. He’s added a laughing emoji.
Harris’s jaw clenches at the sight of it.
After pulling into the gas station twenty minutes later, he parks behind Kyle’s Jeep. He can’t get out of the truck; he feels nailed to the seat. Regret mixed with disgust is a bitter taste in his mouth. Given his track record, who is he to accuse Kyle of anything? So what if the kid took the ring? Let someone else—someone with integrity, a leg to stand on—call him on it.
Kyle walks toward him from the gas station storefront. His face is in shadow, but Harris admires the broad, confident set of his shoulders, the careless grace of his walk. He doesn’t look as if he’s got a single troubling thought in his head. But Kyle has never been that kind of kid. He’s never been the sort to mouth off, challenge authority, break rules. There’ve been a few exceptions, but without them, he might have come off as too good, the kind of good that makes you wonder if it’s real. He has Holly’s integrity, her character.
Harris isn’t fit to wipe the spit off his shoe, much less confront him about the theft of Zeke’s ring. But Kyle doesn’t know of Harris’s unfitness, and even though Harris does know, and it sickens him, he’s still got to act like a dad. He gets out of his truck.
“Hey, Dad. Thanks for coming—”
“Yeah, listen, we need to talk. Follow me home?”
“I can’t. I’m going over to Sam’s to study. Chem test tomorrow.”
“No. You’re coming home—” Harris’s phone goes off, and he jerks it from his pocket. Looking at Kyle, he says, “Hold on. It’s your mom.”
“Dad, I need to go. Can you just give me—?”
“Holly, I’m here at the gas station—”
“Harris?” Her voice is high; his stomach knots. “The hospital called. Connor’s coach has brought him into the emergency room. Evidently he’s broken his finger.”
“God, are you serious? What hospital?”
“Wyatt General. Can you go? I’m halfway to my appointment. It would take me more than a half hour to get back there.”
“Yes, sure. Is he all right, other than the finger, I mean?”
“I think so. Mad, the nurse said. He’s afraid he’s out for the season.”
“Poor kid. Okay. I’m on my way.”
“Call me when you’ve talked to the doctor, will you?”<
br />
Harris says he will, and ending the call, he pockets his phone.
“What’s up?” Kyle asks.
“You got lucky. That’s what’s up.” Harris pulls out his wallet, and extracting some bills, he shoves them into Kyle’s hand.
“God, what is wrong with you, Dad? You’re so weird lately.”
“Your brother’s at Wyatt General. He broke his finger, and I’ve got to check on him, but we aren’t done, you and me. You understand? We’re going to have a chat as soon as possible.”
“Yeah. Okay, Dad. Whatever.”
Harris climbs into his truck, and looking out his windshield, when he sees Kyle staring at him, challenge hot in his eyes, a feeling he can’t name crawls through his gut, something coldly prescient and eerie, like footsteps over a grave.
9
Caroline—Thursday, January 11
Caroline and her mother were in the breakfast room, dawdling over coffee and slices of apple strudel her mom had bought from Neilson’s while Caroline was still sleeping. The neighborhood bakery was an institution. As a little girl, Caroline had walked there with her dad to buy strudel, or some other breakfast treat, almost every Saturday morning he’d been in town. Mrs. Neilson had always given her a doughnut hole. A bite of sweetness for the sweet, she would say. Caroline asked if her mother remembered the ritual.
“I do,” she answered. “Mrs. Neilson had a soft spot for you. She had five sons and told me once she missed having a little girl.”
“Is she still working there? She and her husband must be in their eighties.”
“Their sons do most of the work now, but the old folks still go in every day.” A silence lingered. Her mother broke it. “I know your memories of your dad are different from mine, kinder for the most part . . .”
“But?” Caroline met her mom’s glance.
“You have a life, Caroline, a business and a husband who needs you. Whatever has happened with you and Rob—I know it’s none of my business—”
“No, Mom, it isn’t.”
Her mother averted her gaze.
“It’s hard to talk about.” Getting up, Caroline stacked the dishes, took them to the sink, and rinsed them. Hard didn’t begin to describe it, she thought, and if she could think of any way to avoid it, she would. But there wasn’t. “Rob has been lying about our taxes and the workers’ comp, and I don’t know what else.”
Her mom came to the counter and opened the dishwasher. Caroline handed her a plate.
Settling it into the rack, she said, “He told me.”
Caroline stared at her mom. “When?”
“While you were going from Omaha to Wichita, chasing after your dad.” Her mother straightened. “You might as well be chasing a ghost, Caroline.”
She didn’t know which issue to address first: that her mother knew of Rob’s fraud and was apparently intent on defending him, or that her mother thought her dad was a ghost. Annoyed, she shut off the water, harder than was necessary. “Are you saying Dad’s dead?” she asked, picking up a towel.
“No. I don’t mean ghost in that sense, although we both know it’s possible.”
“You mean because he doesn’t want to be found. What if you’re wrong?” Caroline folded the towel, keeping her eye on it. He could be dead. Her brain lingered on the idea. It wasn’t as if it was new. Anything was possible. But until now she hadn’t dwelled on where he was or what might have happened to him. He’d been gone so many years from her life, by his own choice, or so she’d believed. That she’d caused their estrangement by refusing to accept his second family was an old and worn source of guilt and shame. She’d never known how to work it out, how to fix it—what she would have done even if she had managed to find him. What would she have said?
Didn’t he bear some responsibility? Having her own daughter, Caroline knew she’d never have walked out on Nina, or if she had, she would have ultimately circled back. She’d have given Nina a chance, a hundred chances. Caroline’s dad had given her none.
But this now—her mission to find him—wasn’t about her; it was about Lanie, for Lanie.
“I think Dad was in some kind of trouble, that he might still be, and that’s why he disappeared. Tricia wondered why I was talking to her and not the police.”
“What in the world can the police do after thirty years?”
“Did you ever hear that Dad might have taken money for recruiting Brick Coleman, that he—or the boosters, his uncle, somebody—paid Brick to play for Tillman State?” Caroline had told her mom some of what she’d learned about her dad in the last couple of days during their phone calls and when she’d arrived home last night, but she hadn’t mentioned the recruiting issue. She’d been uncertain whether it was wise; her mother had enough to feel bitter about when it came to her dad. But her mom surprised her.
Slamming the dishwasher door, she defended him. “Not your dad. He might not be the most honorable man when it comes to his wedding vows, but he would never compromise his professional relationships. Who told you that?”
Caroline set down the towel, heartened to hear her mother’s defense, which matched her own sense of the situation. But maybe they were both naive.
“Let me guess. Tricia.” Her mother’s disgust was palpable. “I guess she’s also the one who gave you the reporter’s name.”
Not only his name but a possible location. Tricia had told Caroline she’d heard Kip was living in Miami and working for the Miami Herald. Caroline had been on the phone, speaking to a woman in personnel there, when her mother had gotten back from Neilson’s. The woman had indicated she didn’t know of a reporter named Kip Penny. On a whim, Caroline had asked if the woman would take down her contact information. In case, she’d said. Of course, once she’d been forced to explain what she was doing, her mom had declared it was crazy.
“I don’t know how you can trust a thing that woman’s told you,” she said.
“You don’t know the sort of woman Tricia is,” Caroline answered, her tone every bit as clipped.
“I know she didn’t think twice about sleeping with someone else’s husband.”
Caroline turned to the countertop. “If I could talk to Kip—”
“Another ghost.”
“Probably,” Caroline said. It was easier than arguing.
She spent the remainder of the morning going through the rest of the boxes stored in the linen closet, but she found no further correspondence from her father or about him. After lunch while her mother was napping, she did another internet search of Kip’s name, and she was surprised when she came across an entry noting an article from a few years ago that he’d written about a local Texas athlete, a high school football star who’d been recruited to play for the Denver Broncos. The city of Conroe was practically in the neighborhood, a thirty-minute drive north of Houston. Compared to the Miami Herald, the Conroe Courier seemed like small potatoes. Still, what were the odds that there were two reporters named Kip Penny?
Picking up her phone, Caroline punched in the number for the newspaper, fingers mentally crossed, but like the woman at the Herald, the woman in personnel at the Courier had never heard of Kip either.
“His name isn’t in the directory, but neither is mine. I’m new,” she explained. “He could be too.”
“I could leave my contact information,” Caroline said. “Maybe you could ask around? Someone who’s been there awhile might know him. They could pass my name and number on to him.” It was ridiculous, a total long shot, imagining she’d get a call back from Kip Penny.
Pocketing her phone, she went back to the linen closet to finish packing the contents, but she couldn’t focus. Getting out her phone again, she dialed her aunt Lanie’s number. “Do you feel up to having company?”
“Yes, if it’s you coming to see me,” Lanie said. “When did you get back?”
“Last night,” Caroline answered, and she went on breezily, as if her aunt sounded healthy and strong, like her old joyful self. But she didn’t. Her voice was thi
n and reedy, as if the horrid cancer weren’t satisfied consuming only Lanie’s cells, her bones and muscles and tissue. It would consume her voice too. In the end it would devour even her will to live. “Do you need me to pick up anything? Like Blue Bell chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, maybe?” It had always been their shared favorite. “We could have it for lunch.”
Lanie laughed. “I would love it. Haven’t had any in ages.”
Caroline left a note for her mom. Having lunch with Lanie. Don’t worry about dinner. I’ll pick up something. If Lanie’s up for it, maybe I’ll bring her home with me. Caroline didn’t know how that would go over. But, she thought, of all times, now was when old hatchets should be buried.
Martha answered the door. “She’s waiting for you on the sunporch.”
“I brought ice cream.” Caroline held up the sack.
“Well, maybe that’ll tempt her. It’s for darn sure I’m not having much luck.” Martha jabbed stray gray hairs into the bun atop her head. She was older, probably in her seventies, like Lanie. The women had known each other before Lanie’s cancer, having met at the library several years ago, where Lanie had been a librarian. Martha was a regular patron. She and Lanie had the same taste for mysteries, quirky literary fiction, biographies, and physics. They were both widowed and lived alone. When Martha, who was a retired RN, had found out Lanie was ill, that she was in fact terminal, she’d called Lanie and offered her assistance. Lanie had resisted at first. She wasn’t accustomed to accepting help from others. She called her cancer “that bastard.” In low moments she would say it had robbed her of everything, including her independence.
“The chemo still ruining her appetite?” Caroline set down the grocery sack and shrugged out of her jacket.
“She’s stopped the chemo.”
Caroline looked at Martha, startled. “She only started treatments in December, I thought.”
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