Tommy considers this. “I went down and tried to help her up. But she didn’t want me near her. She was half out of it. More than half. She thought I was you. Started mumbling how she was going to nail you for attacking her. Going to get ‘your brother’—me—too. Tell the cops all about me and the drug ring.” Tommy stops talking, clearly struggling with the memory of what happened next.
“She fought a little when I carried her back to the steps, laid her down. But then she became very still. After a bit, she talked some more—mumbled more than talked. Then she laughed. And then tears started flowing, like she was crying, but she didn’t make a sound. She was slipping away. I knelt next to her, held her hand. I told her it was going to be okay. Toward the end, she opened her eyes, looked up at me. But she wasn’t really seeing me. It was like when a baby looks up at you. Its eyes can’t focus. She mumbled something again. I think it was her brother’s name—Brian. Then her body went limp, like a balloon with the air drained out of it. I sat with her for a while more. Then I panicked. Started cleaning up the basement, as though I could wipe away all that blood. But I knew there was no way to make it look like an accident, make the police think she’d just fallen and stayed on the steps. I did my best to wipe my prints off everything in the basement, including her. I took off all my clothes so as not to track blood, went upstairs, got one of Hanson’s shirts, a pair of his pants, a pair of his sneakers. Put them on, put my own stuff and the rags I’d used to try to clean up the blood in a trash bag, wiped off everything I’d touched, and left.”
Tears are streaming down Tommy’s face now. His lip is quivering.
“You have to let it go,” I say.
Tommy’s eyes snap to mine. “Just like that, huh?”
I’m good at pushing down my emotions. I’d done exactly what I’d accused Devlin of. I’d locked this terrible thing in my private dungeon, hidden it from myself. I’m telling Tommy to do the same. But Tommy isn’t me. He can’t hide from his demons.
“So, what then?” I ask. “You were going to keep this to yourself? Even though you just told me that keeping something like this hidden is the worst part?”
“You were going to keep it to yourself,” Tommy says.
And I realize, now, why, after so many years, Tommy suddenly chose to open up to me about what he’d done to our father. It wasn’t to unburden himself. Tommy was giving me an opening to clear my own conscience, to confess what I’d done to Jennifer Yamura.
Tommy and I sit in silence for a long moment. “She would have bled out,” I say. “Whether you’d shown up or not.”
“Her cell phone was in her shorts. If I hadn’t gone in, she might’ve remembered it, called for help. She might have, but I made sure that didn’t happen.”
“She would have destroyed us both,” I say.
“But I’m the one who killed her.”
“No, Tommy. You didn’t kill Jennifer. We both did.”
37
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 27
I awake the next morning inside Tommy’s trailer; I’m curled up on the worn leather couch. My head is pounding from the bottle of bourbon Tommy and I polished off last night. The light is painfully bright to my eyes. I force myself to stand and walk outside. The late-November morning air is cold and thick and carries the smoky scent of burning wood. I inhale deeply.
Tommy exits Lawrence Washington’s trailer, and we stand facing each other for a while.
“I meant what I said last night. About Dad. You did the right thing.”
Tommy stares at me. “And Jennifer? Was that the right thing?”
“She would have wrecked our family, Tommy. Not just you and me, but Piper and Gabby, too.”
Tommy looks away. My words aren’t enough, won’t ever be enough. And how could they be? Words are just words. I wasn’t there with Tommy, helping him to tend our father. Nor was I with him when he cleaned up the awful mess I’d made with Jennifer Yamura. Once again, I wasn’t there for Tommy when he needed me most.
“Will you be able to come for Christmas?” I ask.
Tommy shrugs, tilts his head toward Lawrence’s trailer.
“Stupid question,” I say.
Tommy and I shake hands, and I get into the car. He watches as I drive off. I wave, but he doesn’t wave back. I’m abandoning him again, and the chasm between us will widen with every mile I drive down the pike.
I’m twenty minutes away when it finally dawns on me. “You idiot,” I say. “Neanderthal.”
I call Piper on my cell phone and tell her what I’m going to do. There’s a long pause at the other end of the line, then, “Yes,” she says. “Yes. That’s exactly what you need to do.”
“And then, for us, it’ll be Paris and London,” I say. “You and me and Gabby. We’ll stop in New York first so we can take Gabby to see The Lion King.” Piper and I talk for a few more minutes, then I hang up.
At the next exit, I turn the car around and head north, back toward Jim Thorpe. That’s where I’ll stay until it’s over. Whether it takes a week or a month, I’ll help Tommy care for Lawrence Washington. I’ll hold Lawrence’s hand and talk to him. I’ll feed Lawrence, medicate him, turn him so he doesn’t get bedsores. I’ll be there until Lawrence passes in the trailer, or until the pain gets to be so bad that we have to take him to a hospital. I’ll stand beside my brother every step of the way, as I should have done once before. And in doing so, I will begin the process of mending the wound I opened so long ago.
As for what Tommy and I did to Jennifer Yamura, there will never be peace for either of us. Her killing will be a burden we carry for the rest of our lives. But we will carry it together.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book is the result of the generous effort and contributions of many great people. First and foremost is my wife, Lisa, who believed in me and the book even when I had my doubts. Her reassurances kept me moving forward, and her editorial suggestions were inspired. I also want to thank my early readers, Kelly McFarland, Alan Sandman, and Jill and Neil Reiff.
For teaching me how the industry works, and pointing me to Ed Stackler, I extend my special thanks to my fellow attorney and author Anderson Harp. Thanks, too, to Bill Lashner, whose own books I have thoroughly enjoyed over the years and who schooled me in the many benefits of publishing with Amazon.
I extend huge thanks to Ed Stackler, my editor, who laboriously chiseled away until he found the statue inside the marble slab. Ed, your artistry was transformative.
To Cynthia Manson, my agent, I give my heartfelt gratitude for your critical structural suggestions, for getting the book into the hands of Nancee Taylor-Adams, who did a really wonderful job of fine-tuning the book, and for getting the book to Gracie Doyle.
And, finally, to Gracie Doyle herself. Your suggestions about the protagonist were exactly what the story needed. Thank you for that, and for taking a chance on an old trial dog like me.