She’d lie there and worry that the boys would fall off the dock and disappear beneath the surface of the murkiest part of the water. She could see herself jumping in after them, her panicked wails for help going unheard, her arms flailing wildly in circles through the water, her feet sinking into the mud and sludge below, unable to find them, unable to reach them in time. Just the thought of it was enough to make her heart race.
She’d toss and turn and obsess about the slight risk—but nonetheless, a possibility in this part of Kentucky—of Leo or Gus having a chance encounter with a mountain lion or a black bear. Or a venomous snake. She worried about a brown recluse or black widow climbing between the bunk bed sheets at night and leaving its mark—what if the boys called for her and she didn’t see the bite? What if she didn’t recognize what was wrong? Or what if they didn’t wake to call for her at all, and in the morning, they were just … just gone? Those fears seemed as real now as they always had. She couldn’t trivialize them. That would be like tempting fate.
Yet now a more immediate danger had taken up residence with its own set of terrifying what-ifs. What if George showed up? What if Finn really had lost it, and he held her and the boys hostage somehow? What if Caitlin was arrested for aiding and abetting a criminal? What if Violet found out that Caitlin was here, that she had known where Bear was for even one second—let alone two days full of thousands of seconds—and not called her?
When she’d decided to come, Caitlin had thought that sharing this roof with Finn would make her feel as if she were at least doing something for Violet, facing something for Violet. But now that she was here, breathing the same air within these walls, sharing cold beers and even a few laughs before things had turned south, all she could feel was her betrayal of her friend. She was swimming in it. No—drowning in it.
She had never, ever betrayed a friend before, not like this. She had only one other dark secret in her life, the one Finn was holding over her head, and that one alone had added a shadow to every minute of every new day she lived. She knew there was no way she could add another, darker shadow and pretend it wasn’t there. If the roles were reversed between her and Violet, how could she ever forgive Violet for this—no matter what Violet’s reasons were, no matter what Violet’s rationale was? It was unforgivable.
Caitlin realized with a heavy sadness that there might be no salvaging their friendship—she was in too deep. And it made her hate Finn, for putting her in this position. She hated him so much that it was tempting to call the police right now, let the chips fall where they may, accept her punishment. It would almost be worth it to make sure he got his, to set things right for Violet. Caitlin might not be able to explain anything she’d done in a way that would make Violet understand, but at least she could reunite her with Bear, put something back where it belonged, even if it meant that the rest of it all came crashing down around her.
But what had she done to deserve this particular crash? Of course, maybe if she had chosen to tell Violet certain things years ago … but no, those things weren’t hers to tell. She’d simply been dragged into the middle of this mess against her will. The unfairness of it was almost tangible.
Caitlin didn’t trust herself to make any more decisions tonight—not for herself or Finn, and certainly not for the twins or little Bear. Because in spite of her years of incessant worrying, the biggest danger now was one she had not foreseen.
And that meant there could be other threats she had overlooked.
17
AUGUST 2016
Violet hunched over her knees on the couch and stared at the name and phone number on the screen of her laptop, open on the coffee table. Delilah Branson, there in ten ordinary-looking digits. It had been easy to find the number as soon as she had the name. And it had been easy to find the name as soon as she’d looked up the accident. There it was in the Cincinnati Enquirer’s online archives: The passenger in the car, 27-year-old Maribel Branson, was killed instantly on impact. She is survived by her parents, William and Delilah Branson of Indianapolis. Both drivers were treated for minor injuries and released. An investigation into the cause of the crash is under way.
There were plenty of William Bransons in Indiana’s white pages, but there was only one Delilah.
Violet had always been sickened by rubberneckers on the freeway, but she couldn’t stop herself from looking up every mention of the crash she could find—there’d been coverage near the scene in South Carolina, as well—staring at photo after photo of the gnarled wreckage. It was hard to believe that both Finn and the driver of the truck he’d hit had walked away from that. It was harder to believe that this entire tragedy was laid bare online for all the world to see—even though Finn was mentioned nowhere by name—and yet Violet hadn’t known a thing about it. In the hours since Agent Martin had left, she had been sitting here trying to come to terms with the fact that she’d been oblivious of the most public moment in the life of her own husband.
Her own husband, and the woman who would have been his wife.
One of the articles had referred to the car’s driver as “virtually unscathed.” Violet wasn’t so sure about that.
She needed a drink to steel her nerves. At least, she needed the idea of a drink to steel her nerves. She would have only one shot at this, so it was important to have her wits about her when she called. She padded barefoot into the kitchen, where she rummaged through the cupboard above the fridge and found some vodka and an unopened bottle of cranberry juice. She filled a short glass with ice, measured out exactly one shot of vodka, and poured the tart red liquid to the rim. Then she returned to her seat on the couch and took a sip. Just a little one.
It was eight o’clock, and the sunset had reached that golden hour where the light really did paint everything it touched gold. The living room faced the street, so Violet had closed the blinds for privacy, but the white slats glowed with an ambient yellow. The house was that same deafening quiet she’d called Caitlin to complain about the other day. So much had changed since then. Gram had thrown her off balance with her doubts. Agent Martin had floored her with his questions. Bear’s bed had lost a little more of its Bear smell. But the too-quiet of this miserably empty house roared its same dull, ear-splitting roar.
Violet dialed the number and waited. One ring, then two. Maybe it would go to voice mail. That would be … well, not easier at all, but less scary at this exact second. Then, a woman’s voice. “Hello?”
Violet cleared her throat. “Mrs. Branson? Delilah Branson?”
“I’m afraid I’m on that Do Not Call list, though it seems as if fewer companies bother to check these days.”
“Oh, no, I’m not … I mean, I’m calling because—” Violet took a shaky breath and started again. “My name is Violet Welsh. I’m calling about Finn Welsh.”
There was a pause. “You’re his wife?”
Violet nodded pointlessly into the empty room before her voice returned. “I am, yes. I’m so sorry for—”
“Oh my, and there’s been this … this mix-up, with your little boy. Has he come back?”