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- A hit and run on a deserted country road.
- A woman over the edge, a husband with secrets.
- And a 911 caller with a murder no one saw coming.
Excerpt:
The old Topaz spurted and shuttered as
Maggie drove home. The rusted muffler, holding on by a wire, vibrated
and shook the floor inside the car. Her ears were buzzing from the
loud rumbling, which she supposed announced her arrival from blocks
away. “Sorry!” she called, wincing as she waved to her elderly
neighbors, who frowned as she passed before pulling in to her
driveway. The necessary repairs were fast approaching critical, but
on Maggie’s budget, not even an oil change would happen right now.
She blinked as she stood outside her
average box-style house and stared at the front door. She turned and
looked back at the faded blue car, realizing she couldn’t remember
the route she’d taken to drive home. How many times over this past
year had she done this?
A familiar scratch and whine yanked
Maggie from her funk. She fumbled in her bag for keys while Daisy
barked and scratched at the door. Maggie’s best friend and
companion, who shared her deepest pain without judgment,
unconditionally, always there, was a black and white dog with golden
highlights—a sheepdog, lab, retriever, and a few other
unmentionable mixes thrown in. The all-American mutt. Not much of a
watchdog, but what she lacked, she made up for in spades with
comfort, trust, and loyalty. Ten months ago, Maggie had driven to the
SPCA. At the time, she didn’t know why she’d stopped, but when
she saw Daisy lying quiet, rejected, and unresponsive in that tiny
cage, she knew she couldn’t leave without her. Even the girl at the
counter was shocked when Maggie specifically asked for the old dog.
The lady asked her three times if she was sure she wanted a geriatric
dog—one slated to be put down at the end of the week. Maggie was
convinced the dog had been sent to her. From the first day of her
depression, when she couldn’t get out of bed, Daisy had stayed with
her.
Maggie opened the door. “You need to
go outside?” she asked.
Daisy barked and pranced in front of
Maggie and then raced to the back door, which opened into a small,
fenced yard. Daisy was quick in her old age, with the way she darted
out into the cold and then rushed back in.
“It’s too cold for you,
sweetheart?” she asked. The dog yipped in agreement, and she patted
her head and wandered into the open kitchen to brew a hot coffee. The
message light flashed on her cordless phone.
She didn’t plan on returning anyone’s
call, but she replayed the messages.
“Just checking to see how you’re
doing, Maggie. Call me.” Her mom, at times, was irritating with how
she kept calling and, when she was in town, dropping by unannounced.
But that had been in the beginning, after Lily died. Thankfully, over
the last few months, this behavior was decreasing.
The second message was from Richard,
her soon-to-be ex. “I’m picking up Ryley from school today and
keeping him through the weekend,” he said. Maggie shut her eyes and
pressed her fingers to her forehead when a heavy fog of confusion
muddled her thoughts. Finally, her memory clicked: Today was Tuesday.
She blinked again. Or had she lost another week? She shuffled through
the stack of papers, bills, overdue notices, looking for her
calendar.
“No, no, no. I don’t think so,
Richard,” she muttered. Fury pushed the blood through her veins
while she looked at the date on the coffee-stained Day-Timer. She
punched in the numbers to his cell phone, knowing he’d be somewhere
on the forty-acre property and not in the beautiful two-story cedar
home he had built after Ryley was born.
“This is Richard. Leave one.”
“Voicemail, you jerk? You’re
screening your calls. You knew I’d call back.” Maggie didn’t
think as she threw the phone down on the counter. She grabbed her
purse and keys and tore out the front door, slamming it so hard the
front window shook. She gunned the engine and backed out of her
narrow, paved driveway. A horn blasted behind her, but she didn’t
stop to look. Somehow, she made the twenty-minute drive out of town
to the Gardiner acreage in just under ten minutes.
Traces of snow scattered the sides of
the long driveway, and a big pile had been dumped close to the barn.
She jammed on her brakes, and, for a second, doubt cut through her
anger. Before thinking it to death, she hit the gas and drove past
the double-paddock barn, parking outside the West Coast cedar
home—her home, their home, the home she had once loved.
Maggie stared at the brown grass where
her babies had played, the half-acre she’d dug and seeded alongside
Richard. Old growth trees surrounded the perimeter, with a crop of
Douglas fir hiding a small tree house—the one Richard had built for
Ryley. Across the front yard, past the whispering willow, was the
road that had killed her Lily.
Her cheeks were wet from the tears that
wouldn’t leave. She roughly wiped her chapped cheeks and shut her
eyes as she leaned back, wishing she could fall into sleep and
oblivion, the only place she could forget for a while. But she
didn’t. Instead, Maggie crawled out of her car as if she’d aged
twenty years. And there stood Richard.
The gray blue of his all-seeing eyes
now held an edge of hardness. His dark hair had lightened to a sandy
gray, and he wore it longer, the unruly waves whipping around in the
wind. Maggie couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something
different about him, something solid, like a survivor, that wasn’t
there before. He was tall and broad shouldered, and even wearing his
old, torn barn jacket, she knew he could still turn every lady’s
head.
How long had it been since she was
here? With effort, she remembered: She hadn’t been back since the
day she loaded Ryley up with their suitcases and drove away.
Watching Richard stare at her in his
frigid, unforgiving way, all she could remember was how much she
missed the strength of his arms when he enfolded her in them. There
was a time when he could have protected her from anything. But not
that. Blame had been passed around, the agony—grief. At
thirty-seven, the weather-etched lines around his eyes had deepened.
His solid jaw now held a bitter edge, and the tiny scar down his left
cheek had been her parting gift.
She was rocked by all of it, the
regrets. Why was she here? She closed her eyes to blank out his
image, but it was too late. She felt the link, the connection to him,
and no matter how she tried, she couldn’t sever it. However, she’d
made her choice—or maybe it had been made for her?
“Richard, I …”
He said nothing. He left her standing
there as he climbed the steps and went inside. The door clattered
when it smacked the wood frame, dragging Maggie out of her hypnotic
stupor and shocking the fury back into her. She marched after him
filled with passion or hate, she didn’t know which, that drove her
until she stood in the center of the open kitchen, facing the
brickwork of the stovetop island in the center of this once inviting
room.
“Maggie, what do you want? I left you
a message.” Richard stood at the kitchen sink. He kept his back to
her and, from what she could tell, stared out the window at the
old-growth forest dotting the perimeter of their property.
“It’s Tuesday. You can’t pick up
Ryley and keep him through the weekend. We have an arrangement. You
get him on the weekends, not before. He has school and a routine, and
it’s important—”
“I don’t give a crap about your
perception of routine. The boy belongs here. He’s my son, and it’s
time he came home for good.”
He cut her off in a way that was
unbending, and she knew it was meant to overpower her, but she
wouldn’t cave, not this time, because she felt something vital
being yanked away. “You can’t do that! You agreed—we both
agreed that Ryley would be better off with me in town. I’m his
mother. You can’t take him away from me.”
Richard pushed away from the sink and
stalked toward her. As he moved closer, his face softened. Panic
expanded in her chest. There was something different about this man
she’d once loved so deeply. It was as if he had peace, or was it
resolve? Whatever it was changed her scattered focus—her
determination. Her belly ached because she realized he’d healed and
left her behind. How could he? His strong hands surrounded her
shoulders. Tears clouded her clear vision when she looked up and
tried to speak. But nothing would come.
“Oh, Maggie, you have to get past
it.” His words were soft, but she sensed they were merely his
shield.
“I can’t. I still see her running
around. If I could have just gotten there sooner … Why did you
let her go out? I should have gone with her.”
He didn’t push her away this time. He
pulled her against him, surrounding her with his arms—strong arms.
She breathed in the piney spice of the trees. He’d been chopping
wood. She pressed her cheek against his chest; her head didn’t top
his shoulders. She gazed up at him, and her fingers traced over each
weather-worn line on his face. Her breath mixed with the warmth of
his, and his head came down hard. The kiss was brutal, needy, as he
backed her to the wall. He unzipped her coat, pulled open her shirt,
scattering the buttons on the floor and lifted her bra, skimming his
rough hands over both breasts.
Maggie unzipped his jeans, aroused and
ready. Her own jeans loosened, and Richard pushed them down, but the
pant legs stuck—her shoes, dammit. She struggled to kick them off,
freeing one leg from her jeans. Richard lifted her and stepped
between her legs, thrusting hard. She closed her eyes and wrapped her
legs around his waist, caught up in the frenzy of need, life, and
desperation to feel something, anything, again. He filled her over
and over, her mouth on his, fast and hurried. There were no
passionate or frilly words, just a physical need followed by
Richard’s muffled curse, and he was done.
Reality was a bitch. Her jeans dangled
from one leg, and there he was, still buried inside her. Both of them
panted as if they’d just run a marathon, and the dark intruder of
truth smashed through the illusion. His eyes closed, and he rested
his forehead against hers before gradually pulling out and setting
her down.
Richard moved back and zipped up his
pants. Awkwardness rushed in. Her jeans were inside out on one leg,
her underwear bunched and twisted. It took her a minute, like a
clumsy first-timer, to right her jeans and pull down her bra. The
blue buttons on her cotton shirt were spread on the cream-colored
floor along with her jacket. Maggie pulled her shirt together and
glanced away, an unbearable sense of strangeness lingering between
them. She shut her eyes and took a breath. What was the big deal?
He’d been her husband for eleven years.
“Um … sorry about the blouse.” He
gestured to the lost buttons. “Some of your clothes are still
upstairs.”
Avoiding his eyes, she held the
tattered cloth closed over her breasts and hurried through the living
room. The open wood beams gleamed as she looked up at the pitch of
the high ceiling. The post and beam theme continued up the L-shape
staircase. The solid planks had once seemed to vibrate with their
love and passion. Nine years ago, side by side, Richard had built her
this beautiful house. Eleven months and seven days of sweat, sore
muscles, love, tears, joy, short tempers, and fierce lovemaking had
created this house.
She froze at the top of the stairs.
Clasping her hands in front of herself, she fought to hold back the
ache that pitched from some place deep within. Her ribs, stomach,
throat ached. Whoever said time healed all wounds had lied. The solid
wood door was a banishment. She turned the knob and pressed open the
door, stepping in.
The twin bed with a pink Cinderella
bedspread nearly brought her to her knees, as if someone had rammed a
fist into her stomach. The dolls and stuffed animals were assembled
neatly on her pillow. The six-drawer dresser with hand-painted
rosebuds on the drawer fronts hadn’t moved.
When Lily was six months old, Maggie
had painted each pink flower as a token of her love. She picked up
the silver framed picture of Lily in her arms moments after she was
born, tracing the outline of her baby’s head, her eyes wide open
and filled with a spark of light. But even then, she had gazed into
shadows, as if not entirely seeing. Maggie shut her eyes, pressed the
picture frame against her chest, and tried to resurrect some remnant
of her precious girl, some piece of her now lost from that horrible,
fateful day.
“Oh, God, how could you take her?”
Her voice trembled. She ached just being here in this room, except
something was different. It was as if Lily was here with her now.
Maggie didn’t know how long she lay
on Lily’s bed, her back pressed into the soft plush mattress,
remembering all the nights she had lain cuddled next to her tiny
daughter, holding her through one of many night terrors.
How many nights after the accident had
she lain here, never leaving this room, while the rift between her
and Richard grew wider than the Great Divide? With the blame they had
heaped on each other, Richard had spent weeks drunk, disappearing
during the day. At night, he’d come and go until the memories and
pain of this place became too much to bear.
The furnished house in Gardiner had
appeared in the local paper for rent, and Maggie believed it was
meant to be. She had phoned, met with the property management
company, and signed the lease all in one day. Then she had packed up
her and Ryley’s belonging in two suitcases and pulled away in their
SUV while Richard was gone. She hadn’t left a note. Ryley, at nine
years old, had screamed and cried as far as the main road before
sulking in the backseat.
“It’s going to be better, I
promise,” Maggie had told him, and she believed that by leaving,
she’d finally be able to breathe without the burning ache ripping
her apart.
The eruption from Richard when he
tracked her down through the school, and the ensuing fight, had been
ugly. She had clawed his cheek with her nails. He seized her SUV and
canceled her credit cards. She had obtained a lawyer and filed for
legal separation, and he had gotten his own lawyer, too. Hers, as she
looked back, had been good. He hadn’t been in it for the money, and
he had warned her from the beginning to play fair. She and Richard
had both been grieving from a terrible loss, but his lawyer had been
dirty, only in it for the money.
Her local lawyer, Peter Sullivan, older
and balding, had counseled her briefly on their first meeting. If she
lashed out in anger and tried to lie or cheat Richard, she’d have
to find another lawyer. Maybe some lawyers played that game, but he
believed in fair play. That had gotten her attention, but not her SUV
back. It was pointed out that the house, the vehicles, and the credit
cards were, after all, in Richard’s name. The joint bank account
had ten dollars left in it. Smart man, he had stashed his money
somewhere else.
She had a savings account with a few
thousand in it—one her mother had set up for her years before. She
had bought her older junkyard Topaz for a few hundred dollars, and it
ran and got her from point A to point B. Richard had agreed to child
support and minimal spousal, and although not generous, it had been
enough for her to buy food and pay rent. Ryley would go back to his
dad’s on weekends, and weekdays he would live in Gardiner with her.
The agreement had been created by lawyers and signed in a cold,
sterile legal office on a bleak day filled with torment, blame, and a
fine line between anger and love. How had it turned so ugly?
She wiped her face with her ripped
shirt and left Lily’s room, only this time, she didn’t shut the
door. She hurried to the master bedroom next to Lily’s, the one
she’d shared with Richard. Nothing had changed. The same light
green floral duvet covered the large bed, flanked by the same oak
night tables. The wide dresser was still flush against the wall,
where she’d shoved it five years ago. She was drawn to the large
bare windows, no curtains, just the way she’d once preferred. Now,
her rented house came complete with blinds and heavy drapes to shut
out the world.
She glimpsed her red, tear-stained eyes
in the dresser’s large mirror, her limp, tangled, dark hair, and
her now ruined blouse—thanks to Richard. She rested her forehead
against the mirror and squeezed her eyelids shut. “We’re as good
as divorced. What were you thinking, Maggie?” She pushed away,
gazed at the disheveled stranger in the mirror, and was shaken from
her confusion by the soft murmur of voices downstairs. She dropped
her torn shirt on the floor, opened the closet door, and reached for
a bright red sweatshirt stacked on the shelf. Richard was right;
she’d left many clothes behind.
Maggie pulled the warm sweatshirt over
her head and dashed down the stairs into the dim living room. How
late was it? She stumbled and grabbed the railing when she heard
Ryley laugh. Pots banged and clattered, utensils rustling as she
watched from the shadows. Father and son were illuminated in the
kitchen. Richard hovered beside Ryley. They were chatting, laughing,
and Ryley was chopping what? This wasn’t her quiet, shy boy. He was
relaxed and joking with his dad. Ryley never joked with her. He
hadn’t laughed since … well, since she couldn’t rightly
remember.
Ryley didn’t help in the kitchen with
her; Maggie did all the cooking for him. They had a routine: eat,
homework, watch TV, and then bed. Whatever this was with Richard,
there was no place for her.
“Hey, are you making dinner?” She
tried to sound happy. They both looked up. Richard blinked, and she
wondered for a moment if he’d forgotten she was here. Unease filled
the room. “Umm, I should go,” she said, pointing to the back
door. Her hand shook. Where had she put her coat?
“Maggie.” His voice was soft and
low when he touched her shoulder and rubbed his hand down her arm.
“Stay for dinner. Please.”
She looked up. Awkwardness lingered. He
dropped his hand and stepped back. A fork clattered on the counter,
and Maggie blinked. “Richard, I should go.” She dropped her gaze
to the floor. She couldn’t look at him. She stepped around Richard
and attempted a smile for Ryley—something that felt more like it
had been painted on.
“Are you staying, Mom? We’re making
tacos.” He held a wooden spoon, hovering over the fry pan, and
looked almost hopeful for a second. Then something flashed in his
eyes that had him stepping back. That carefree easiness he’d had
moments ago with his dad, before she walked in, was gone. He appeared
nervous and uneasy.
Was it just her? A knot tightened in
her stomach, and she felt the dark basement swooping up to drag her
back to the pits of despair. She couldn’t bear to lose another
child. She reached out and hugged Ryley. He was stiff and pulled
away. She looked down before she spilled any more tears. She forced a
fixed smile again for Ryley. “No, not tonight. I’ve got to go.
But you have fun with your dad.” Maggie turned and froze. Richard
held her coat and helped her into it. This time, his hand didn’t
linger.
“Ryley, I’m going to walk your mom
to her car. Turn off the burner till I get back.”
“Okay, Dad,” he said. She heard a
relaxed, carefree tone ease back into his voice, as if everything was
all right. Of course, she wondered if this was because she was
leaving.
Richard’s hand touched the small of
her back when she walked out into the dark night. The porch light
glowed softly, lighting her way as Richard walked her out. He didn’t
say a word as he opened her door and rested his hand on the roof of
the rusty car. “Maggie, about earlier—”
She couldn’t bear to hear regrets.
“Please, Richard, I just need to go. Please let me go.” She
climbed in and pulled the door closed. Starting the car, she watched
him step back before he turned, hesitating a second, and walked back
into the house. Maggie drove away and glanced in the rearview mirror
just as the porch light went out, feeling a dreadful loss. Except
this time, the loss was different, and she didn’t know why.
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