Molly hangs onto my every word, her jaw falling and her hand covering her eyes.
“The two of them pushed the truck out of the ditch as I steered, and somehow we made it home. Our parents were none the wiser,” I say. “The next day, they were saying on the news that a local man had been killed overnight, his truck had been hit and flipped over. He drowned. Seth told me I’d hit him. And when I asked why we didn’t stop to help, he said the guy was already dead and he didn’t want me to be sent away for murder. He told me I’d get in even more trouble if I came forward, leaving the scene of a crime or something.”
“River …”
“I was young. And I was terrified. And I was a goddamn moron,” I say. “If I could go back and change it, I would.” I release a forceful breath, remembering how Seth put the fear of God into me every chance he got, doing everything he could to ensure I kept my mouth shut. “Several years went by and the guilt ate away at me, kept me up at night, gave me nightmares. I was about to turn myself in … and then I met Allison.”
Molly places her hand on my arm. “No.”
“No?”
“I refuse to believe this.”
“I’m telling you, that’s the story,” I say. “That’s what happened. I was there.”
Her lips form a straight light. “This has Seth written all over it.”
My brows meet. “I did it. I was behind the wheel.”
“How do you know Seth didn’t move you there after the crash? Do you remember getting in the driver’s seat that night?”
“We were all plastered. I don’t remember anything between leaving the bar and waking up with blood on my face.”
Folding my arms, I pull in a deep breath. Seth and I were in a good place back then. He’d gone away to the military for a few years and when he came back, he said he wanted to spend time with me, get to know me all over again. He apologized for tormenting me when we were younger, admitting he let his jealousy get the best of him, and he wanted to make up for it.
I was still young and impressionable, and I followed him like a lost puppy, buying everything he was selling.
It wasn’t until after the accident, when Seth’s manipulative ways came out to play again, I realized he was still a snake. And for the last twelve years, he’s been holding that secret over my head, leveraging it any time he needed me to cover for him.
“I just want this to be over,” I say. “I need to come forward. Leighton’s family needs justice.”
“But you didn’t do anything.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” Molly says, getting in my face. “You’re a good person. You would’ve stopped and helped. You would’ve gotten help. Seth is the one who made you drive away. Seth is responsible for that man’s death, not you.”
“The law’s going to care more about who was behind the wheel than whose idea it was to lead the getaway,” I say. “Besides, it’s been so long, it’s going to be his word against mine.”
“What was the name of the other guy who was there with you that night? Maybe he can corroborate this?”
I shake my head. “I couldn’t even begin to tell you. Some army buddy of his who stayed with us for a while. Never saw him again after that.”
“Do you remember what he looked like? Anything?”
I snuff. “He had a thick scar on his forehead, kind of right over one eyebrow. And he had brown hair. That’s about it.”
“I’m going to find him.”
“Good luck.” I roll my eyes.
“I’m serious. I can find anyone on social media. Anyone. I’m going to find this guy, and I’m going to get him to come forward.”
“Like he’s going to want to implicate himself.”
“You never know.” Molly chews on her lower lip before hopping back into her Chevy like a woman on a mission. “That damn Seth.”
She slams the door and peels away. I’m not even sure why she was over here in the first place, but none of it matters now.
There are more important things to tend to.
As soon as I get my estate affairs in order, I’m going to do what I should’ve done twelve years ago.
I’m turning myself in.
Chapter Forty-Four
Leighton
“You sure you don’t need me to call someone for you?” The pawnshop owner hunches over his glass counter as I slide my iPad Pro toward him. I’m sure I look like a hot mess with bloodshot eyes, ruddy cheeks, and messy hair, but I don’t care.
“How much for this?” I ask. “It’s the latest generation, tons of storage. Like new.”
I don’t need it, not when I need gas money and enough for a hotel to catch some sleep on my way back to Arizona. Harold said he’d pay me in person, in cash, and if I can just make it there, I can collect my wages and figure out my next step. I might be running on fumes by the time I pull into Scottsdale, but I’ll get there.
The man inspects it carefully, pressing the home button and swiping through the apps. It was a belated birthday gift from Grant after he’d missed my birthday this year. He purchased me the “Pro” version because it was the most expensive, and therefore he believed it to be the best. Never mind that I only ever used it for social media, online shopping, and curating a frivolous collection of pool-worthy pop songs.
“It’s completely up to date, and I’ve just reset it to the factory defaults. I have the charger and the protective case. There’s not a single scratch on the glass. You can’t even tell it’s been used,” I say.
“Two hundred.” His chin juts forward.
My chest tightens. I can’t get home on two hundred bucks unless I sleep in my car and subsist off dollar-menu garbage, and even then it’s not a sure bet.
“This is worth more than two hundred dollars,” I say. “It was almost thirteen hundred dollars brand new.”
“You got the receipt?” he asks, slipping a toothpick between his teeth.
“No, but you can pull up the Apple website and look,” I say, pulling out my phone. “Want me to show you?”
“Three hundred,” he says.
“No.”
“Lady, this is a pawnshop.” He pulls the toothpick from his mouth and cocks his head. “You do know how pawnshops work, right?”
“Five hundred,” I say. “Five hundred and it’s yours.”
“The odds of someone walking in wanting to spend that kind of money on a little machine like this are slim to none,” he says. “Nobody in this town cares about fancy iPads or i-whatevers.”
“Then sell it online. I bet you could get a thousand bucks out of it.”
“Then why don’t you sell it online if you think you can fetch that much?”
“Because I need the money now.” My voice quivers. I don’t have the time or the energy to argue with this man. “Forget it. I’ll go down the street to Pawn Shark.”
“Four seventy-five,” he says, eyeballing me. “Final offer.”
Sighing, I meet his steely gaze. “If it makes you feel better to pocket that extra twenty-five bucks, then fine. You have yourself a deal.”
I slap the charger and cover on the counter and he moves to the register, counting out four hundred and seventy-five dollars.