I get to my feet. “What are you doing here?”
His eyes move to Michael, then back to me. He says two words, and they go right through me; they seem to reverberate in my skull: “Sean’s awake.”
In the next instant, Paul is leading me out of the yurt. I glance back at Michael, who remains sitting there, a look of pure terror on his face.
I barrage Paul with questions.
“When? How? Has he spoken? What did the doctor say?”
“Just an hour ago.”
“I haven’t even been gone that long.”
“About twenty minutes after you left. Maybe a half hour.”
“Has he said anything?”
“No. But he’s responsive.” Paul is still using the old pickup to get around. He opens the passenger door for me.
Before getting in, I cast another look back. Michael is standing in front of the yurt. His arms hang at his sides, and he’s making fists with his hands, gripping and releasing. He looks nervous. More than nervous — he’s completely overwhelmed. My heart hurts for him. But the fact that he looks so nervous can only mean one thing . . .
“Sean is definitely conscious?”
“Yes.”
“But he hasn’t spoken?”
“No, but he’s responding to commands — moving his arms and legs . . . What?”
I glance at Michael.
Paul looks there too. “Did you regress him?”
I nod.
“Already? Jesus. What did he say?”
I don’t answer Paul. I stand, looking at Michael, thinking that, no matter what, none of this is his fault. He was just a boy, caught in the middle of things. Adults, people who were supposed to protect him, failed to do so. Instead, they sought to protect themselves. To get what they needed.
I start toward him.
Paul calls after me, “Em — there’s no time for this!”
Of course there’s time.
I reach Michael and study his face. The worry, the fear. “Michael,” I say, “I can’t believe the timing. But I’m not just leaving you, okay? I’m not abandoning you. We’ll get back to this, and we’ll get to the bottom of it. It’s just that right now, I need to go see—”
“Don’t go,” Michael interrupts.
“I have to. It’s . . . my son.”
Paul gets in the pickup truck and starts it up. He revs the engine.
Michael’s gaze moves from the truck to me, those green eyes dancing. “Don’t go,” he repeats.
I’ve had enough. “Michael, I have a family. Sean is my son.”
“Emily!” Paul calls. “Come on!”
I stare into Michael’s eyes, then I turn and leave.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
We barrel down the bumpy road out of the woods. Michael disappears from my side-view mirror.
The forest thickens as we descend in elevation. Paul isn’t speaking, he’s just concentrating on the road. He’s going a bit too fast, grinding the axles.
“Paul . . .”
“What did he say?”
“Paul, slow down . . .”
“Why won’t you tell me what Michael said?”
I shut my eyes, tight. “We didn’t get a chance. He was about to tell me something when you showed up.”
“Bullshit. You still think he doesn’t remember? He’s been stringing you along.”
“I don’t know. I think he remembered more than he let on at first. But it did take my work to get to the bottom of it.”
“Why? Why would you even do that?”
“To know, Paul. Why else? We have to know. For his sake and for ours.”
“I already know what he said.” Paul is gripping the wheel hard enough to whiten his knuckles. His jaw twitches as he grinds his teeth. “He asked you not to go. Not to leave him, right?”
I sigh. “Yes.”
Paul makes a sound between a laugh and yell. “And why would he say that? Because that son of a bitch did something to Sean. He doesn’t want us going to see Sean because of what Sean might say.”
“I never said Michael hurt Sean . . .”
Paul looks at me like I’m crazy. “Have you forgotten? Of course you did. That was the first thing you thought.” He shakes his head.
We reach the end of the dirt road and turn onto a paved one. I check my phone — one bar.
“We don’t know his angle,” Paul says. “Or what this whole thing really . . . Listen, I love Jo. But this is too much. There’s too much to deal with.”
“I’m handling it.”
“Oh, yeah? Going to find some ironclad proof that the police coerced him? You’re ready to go to trial with that? Spend the next four, five years of your life wrapped up in this?”
“I almost had him seeing the person who did it.”
Paul gives me a sharp look. I show him the picture of Wiseman. “I think he recognized him,” I say. “He was fuzzy about the specifics, his timing is a little off, but this could be the guy.”
“You’re serious . . . You think he was going to name him?”
“I don’t know. I was close. I was right on top of it. And then you showed up. That’s my point.”
“Well, I had a good reason, didn’t it?” Paul shakes his head in anger and disbelief. “Fuck this guy,” he mutters. “Fuck him. I’m tired of this shit.”
“Calm down, okay? I can’t take it when you’re like this.”
Paul mumbles something else and pours on the gas.
“Slow down, please.” My head is spinning. “Paul . . .”
“What?”
“I said, slow down!” It’s a piercing shriek. I normally don’t yell. I’m a together person. People rely on me.
Paul suddenly hits the brakes and pulls over onto the shoulder. Even though we’re on a paved road, we’re a ways between anything. Just a few cars coming and going in either direction.
“What are you doing?” I ask. Paul is scaring me.
“I slowed down.”
“Paul . . .”
“No, listen to me. You think this is the way forward. With you rushing off to save Michael from his horrible past. But you’re forgetting something. If this comes out, and this all gets re-examined, the police will see things they didn’t before. They always do.”
I don’t want to admit it, but Paul is right.
“Do you know what I’m saying?” Paul asks.
It’s difficult to form the sentence. As if the words won’t quite fit in my mouth: “That we knew the Bishops.”
“Yes,” Paul says. “That we knew the Bishops.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
I look at my husband as if seeing him for the first time today. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that says Snapshot Regatta. Some sailing competition, years ago. He’s in chino shorts and boat shoes. Dressed for the late summer vacation. Just another day at the lake house.
He’s staring at me now. Into me. Breathing hard, chest rising and falling. “We knew the Bishops, and you took the assignment anyway. That’s a conflict of interest.”
I’m close to tears. I fight them. Nothing wrong with emotion, just not now. Not here. “We didn’t know them that well . . .”
“We knew them well enough to socialize at their house. To drink with them. People saw us. It was before anyone was on Facebook, before Instagram, but people still took pictures. There’s likely evidence of us and them, together. How do you think that will look? What judge will listen to any of this? I mean, did you forget?”
Sometimes, I hear myself saying, trauma causes us to close off certain areas of our minds.