“I was thinking about the last time…” I couldn’t get the rest of the words out.
He gently cupped the back of my head and pushed my face toward his shoulder. I gave in to the sobs, in to the comfort of leaning against another body, solid and real. No one had held me for seventeen years. One of his hands was resting on the back of my neck, the other arm wrapped around my back, holding me close, safe and secure. Finally my sobs eased, and now embarrassment settled in. I lifted myself off his lap, and his arms let go, but slowly, reluctantly. I sat on the passenger side and wiped my face on my sleeves. We were both quiet for a moment, staring out at the dark night.
“I don’t want it to be like this,” he said, “in a truck like we’re still teenagers hiding out from our parents.”
I turned to face him, not sure what he was getting at.
He said, “When this is over, I want to take you out for real, on a date.”
“I don’t know, Ryan, so much has happened. Maybe we can’t get past it.”
“We can, and we will.”
I remembered how much hope he’d had when we first went to prison, how none of those hopes had ever come true for us. I wondered if anything would be different this time. And just like back then, I was scared to let myself go there in my mind. I needed to focus on the moment.
I looked out the window again, turning away from him, trying to shut myself down. “I should get back.”
He was silent for a few beats, and I thought he might say something else, but then he flashed up the truck. Neither of us said a word until we got back to the woods behind my cabin. I didn’t meet his eyes until I climbed out of the truck.
“We’re not finished,” he said. “If we are, we’ll find out on our own, but I don’t want us to be finished because of them.” His voice turned hard and angry. “They aren’t going to take anything from me again.”
I watched him drive away, hating the way his voice had just sounded. It made me think of the look on his face when he was gripping that drug dealer’s throat. Like he wanted to keep squeezing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CAMPBELL RIVER
JULY 2013
The next day I bought a disposable phone and drove by Kim’s old house, then parked on the side of the road while I tried to figure out if her mom still owned the place. I noticed that the front yard was overgrown, the grass and weeds more than a foot high. Nothing looked like it had been watered or pruned for years. The house was also run-down, the siding stained and the windows filthy. But I could see a statue of Jesus on the sill and remembered that Kim’s mom was a religious fanatic. She’d also been tidy, from what I remembered, so she must’ve been sick for some time. There was a car in the driveway, probably hers. I ducked low when I saw someone come out the door. I peeked through my steering wheel.
Kim still had long hair and a dancer’s body, lithe and trim in her capris and fitted tank top that showed the sinewy muscles in her shoulders as she reached down for the newspaper that was on the doorstep. I thought about her other life, with her dance studio, her partner. Did they have children? Were they married? I remembered Kim at the trial, the empty look in her eyes. Was it guilt?
After she went inside, I considered going up to the door, but decided it would be better to wait until there were no possible witnesses. Her mom probably went to bed early, and if she was on pain meds she’d be a heavy sleeper.
Around nine-thirty I made my way back to Kim’s, keeping an eye on the road behind me. I didn’t see any cops, but they could be using ghost cars. I made lots of turns and stopped at a few stores, gathering receipts—I’d been doing that lately, in case they tried to pin anything on me again.
When I got to Kim’s I parked down the road, taking another look around before walking down her driveway and under the carport. From inside I could hear faint sounds from a TV. I peeked through the side window. Kim was curled up on the couch, with a book opened in her lap and a healthy glass of wine in front of her. She rubbed her forehead, yawned. There was no sign of her mother.
I went to the door and knocked softly. Silence, then unsteady, cautious steps toward the door.
A tentative whisper. “Who’s there?”
She didn’t sound surprised. Maybe she’d had other late-night visitors.
“An old friend. I have some information you might be interested in, something about Shauna.”
I thought for sure she’d ask for my name, but she opened the door behind the screen. Her eyes widened when she saw it was me. Her expression of horror would’ve been humorous if I’d been in a laughing mood. She looked like she didn’t know whether to run or slam the door. She said, “I can call the police.”
“And tell them what? I haven’t done anything.”
“You’re trespassing—and you’re not supposed to be talking to me. It’s harassment.”