She wondered if counselors had a phrase book of reassuring metaphors.
“Perhaps,” she said, “we should increase the frequency of my sessions or perhaps we could visit some of the places related to the crash together. Having you with me would be so helpful, I think.”
“We could try that. Where are you now, Jane?”
“I’m at home. My mother’s home, I mean.”
“I’m glad you’re not just wandering the streets, Jane. I think that you had a memory return with the return of structure—being at home, having counseling sessions. That is a clear sign that structure would benefit you enormously.”
“I’m putting together that time line you asked for. I found notes from the Halls’ private investigator that were shared with my mom’s attorney.” She waited for a reaction from him.
“And?”
It wasn’t much of a reaction. What if it was just coincidence? There were a dozen counselors in that office park. “Well, I’ll have it the next time.”
“Why don’t we meet here at Saint Michael’s, assuming you’re coming back here.”
“I am. I can’t stay in this house for long.”
“All right. We’ll look at the time line and then we’ll figure out where to go to prompt your memories. I’m so pleased, and a bit surprised, that you made such good progress.”
She hung up. You should have just asked him about the office. About why he lied about being a graduate student. But, she thought, if she watched where he led her therapy, maybe she could find out if he did indeed have an agenda. He had mentioned structure. Her need for it. And he’d agreed to visit places on the time line. She would watch him like he watched her.
Jane took a bottle of water from her mother’s refrigerator and twenty bucks she found in the drawer her mother used for petty emergency cash. She wrote “Sorry” on a sticky note and left it in the drawer. She took a raincoat from the closet her mother would never miss, stuck in the back, and walked out the door into the rain, which had started and grown heavier in the past hour. It would be a two-hour walk to St. Michael’s, or she could call Adam or the ridesharing company, but then she thought a walk might do her good. Clear her head. She had learned so much today and she needed a plan. She could always call a car if the rain got too heavy.
She walked past the other houses on the cul-de-sac—all lit with a warm, homey glow—and glanced up at a car turning into Graymalkin Circle. A Range Rover that she recognized as Cal Hall’s. She stood in the wash of his headlights—he had stopped, dead ahead of her—and she felt a bolt of terror as he got out of the car.
Why is he stopping? She felt a sudden, sharp fear of having to deal with him after being attacked by his wife.
“Jane?” His deep baritone voice rang out in the darkness. “Is that you? Are you all right?”
She shivered and stood there as if mute.
“Jane?” Cal left the car running and stepped toward her. The rain pounded. “Are you OK?” he asked again.
“Hi, Mr. Hall. I’m fine, thank you for asking.” Politeness was such a refuge. She half expected him to run toward her, grab her hair, and haul her out of the neighborhood the way his wife had seized her at David’s grave.
“What are you doing walking in the rain? Have you moved back home? That will make your mom happy.”
As if he could care about that. “I’m walking back to school.”
“To Saint Mike’s? That’s miles.”
“Yeah, well, I better get going.” She dodged around him, keeping his big car between her and him, and headed down the sidewalk.
“Jane. Stop. Let me drive you.”
She glanced back at him. “Why?”
“Because no matter what, your father and I were friends, and I don’t want you hiking across Austin in a storm in the dark. If you won’t ride with me, let me pay for a cab at least.”
A cab was such a dad offer. “You know what happened between me and Mrs. Hall at David’s grave.”
“No,” he said. “What happened?” She could hear the slow dread in his voice.
“She hates me so much.”
“She’s hurting. Get in the car and tell me.” He was getting wet, standing there.
She scrambled into the passenger seat, grateful to be out of the rain. He climbed back into the driver’s seat and the rain hammered against the roof. She told him about the cemetery incident. “It was stupid of me not to realize she might be there. I should never have gone. But…” Her voice broke. “I miss David, too. I know I have no right. But I do miss him. I do.” She fought back the sob. She felt raw after the events of the past two days.
“I know you do. I do, too,” he said quietly. “I’ll take you to Saint Mike’s.” Cal turned the car around in the cul-de-sac.
“Sorry to keep you from getting home,” Jane said.
He said nothing until he’d stopped the car at a stop sign. “I don’t live there anymore. Perri and I are separated and we’re divorcing. I was just stopping by to see how she is.”
Jane’s stomach twisted. The Halls’ marriage was next on the list of casualties from the accident. “Sorry,” she said. But then she thought, Surely they’ll sell the house. I could come home. They’ll be gone.
“It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s her and me. I’m trying, but she doesn’t love me anymore, not like a husband.”
She didn’t know what to say. She shivered.
“Are you cold? Do you want a coffee? We could stop. My treat.”
“Yes, please,” she said. Why was he being nice to her? She thought of Kevin, of Adam, of her mother, of their secrets she’d learned. But he had always been nice. David’s dad, easygoing and thoughtful. David’s death had not changed him the way it had Perri. But the note. They’d tested the note; they’d known the truth of it. Maybe Randy Franklin called him and told him about Jane’s visit. Did Franklin still owe the Halls a warning, as a former client?
He stopped on South Congress, not far from St. Michael’s, at a trendy new coffee shop. She sat in a back corner while he got their drinks, texting on his phone while he waited at the counter, eyebrows raised in apology. He brought her a decaf, and one for himself. He sat across from her.
She took a warming sip. “This is weird,” Jane said. Please don’t talk about David. Or the crash. Tell me a dumb joke, the kind dads always know. Just tell me no lies.
“Jane, it was an accident,” he said.
She could hardly look at him. OK, so no dad jokes.
“An accident,” he said again. “I think Perri and Kamala and some of the football players had a hard time accepting that. We like to think—especially in a town like Lakehaven—that we have such good lives, they couldn’t be broken by a bad moment. But life is fragile. We’re all hostages to fate. Blaming someone makes us think we have more control than what we do.”