But Joe Schmo kept a purple Crown Royal bag full of cash in a barrel in the garage. She’d seen him sneaking bills into and from it plenty of times. He’d catch her eventually, notice the missing money—$300 was a lot, even to a man who had a good job—and she’d be punished, badly, but at least she’d be in the clear. Her life wouldn’t be ruined. No more than it already was, of course.
The day she threw up for the first time, she skipped seventh period, the first time she’d cut since the party, and snuck out to the parking deck where the kids assembled to smoke or make out or catch a quick high. The sun was blasting, the day so hot and humid that she felt like she was going to melt into the pavement and die.
She’d been feeling like she might die a lot, lately. She was such an idiot. What a huge, stupid mistake.
She borrowed a cell phone from a guy who was in her chemistry class. She’d looked the number up last night, memorized it. Dialed while she walked to a shady corner of the deck. The Planned Parenthood office answered on the first ring. She made an appointment for the next day. Deleted the call from the cell and gave it back. Took a nice, long toke from a joint passing through the crowd, which made her feel better than she had in a couple of months, then hurried to the house to get the money.
No cars in the drive. Siobhan wasn’t home, which meant Joe was off somewhere with her. Sutton’s ploy had worked well. He had become so disgusted and fed up with Sutton’s bad behavior he’d left her alone, and Siobhan got all his attention, which her mother didn’t like but put up with because free rent was worth a black eye here and there, wasn’t it?
So when Joe came home early, alone, and caught Sutton opening the lid of the barrel, a fight ensued.
He’d threatened to call the police. She’d told him to fuck off. He’d slapped her, hard enough to send her head backward into the wall.
Something inside her had snapped, a taut line breaking, and she attacked. The lid of the barrel was heavy in her hands, and she slammed it into Joe’s head with all the force she could muster. He went down, and that was it. Legs, nails, teeth, everything she had that could hurt, she used. And like all bullies, Joe the Schmo proved to be weak. Her fury and frustration and fear overwhelmed him, and she beat him until he was crawling on the floor, trailing blood, moaning for her to stop.
She finally did. Her hands were bruised; one finger was definitely broken. She had skin and hair under her nails. Joe was in bad shape; she could hardly believe the damage she wrought.
She went for the Crown Royal bag. She’d need all the money now, some for the abortion and the rest to get out of town. She took the wad without counting, threw a few things in a ragged backpack, and ran.
She slept in a field on the outskirts of town. She was hungry and thirsty and cold and desperate. The police caught up with her the next morning, trying to keep her appointment at Planned Parenthood.
They arrested her for assault. The irony—and yes, she knew the meaning of the word by now—was not lost on her.
Elizabeth Sutton Wilson gave birth to the baby in juvenile hall, three months before she was released.
All she knew was its sex. It was a girl.
HOME IS WHERE THEY HAVE TO TAKE YOU IN
Now
Graham was a good listener. She didn’t judge, she didn’t interrupt.
When Sutton finished, exhausted and sad from revisiting her darkest time, the seat belt sign was on. They were descending into Atlanta.
“Ivy knew all of this, of course. She knew exactly how to manipulate me. God, I am so stupid.”
Graham’s voice was gentle, forgiving.
“She’s a very disturbed woman, but that isn’t your fault. Now, buckle up. You’ll be home soon enough.”
The second flight—Atlanta to Nashville—was short. They were in the very last row again, which meant the seats wouldn’t recline and Sutton’s legs were cramped. The television screen wasn’t working. Graham had shut her eyes on takeoff and was clearly sleeping. So Sutton sat with the ignominy of her actions and tried, tried to find some sort of peace with the situation.
The whys were unfathomable. Did they matter? Sutton decided that yes, they did, very much. Looking back, she could see every step of Ivy’s scheme. Every conversation, guided. Every confession, coerced. Every bit of advice, calculated.
If Sutton really thought about it, the entire friendship must have been a setup.
But why?
She forced the why away again. Crazy people existed in the world. There was no real way to understand or comprehend Ivy’s actions unless they caught her, sat her down, and listened intently to her rationale.
Maybe they’d gotten lucky and Ivy (loathsome bitch) had run away and Sutton wouldn’t ever see her again. My God, Ivy had murdered someone to try to make it look like Ethan had killed his wife. What sickness, what sociopathy, had driven that?
Sutton stowed away the hate. There would be time for that later.
Ethan.
She hadn’t dared even think about him for the past few hours. One oh so brief conversation, in which she’d warned him and he’d gone suddenly dark, but in that moment, she’d heard such relief in his voice when he said her name. It filled her with incredible joy. She wanted to talk to him again. Actually talk. Not accuse, not aggrieve, but see each other, be present, touch hands. Like her therapist had wanted. She’d always insisted they needed each other. Sutton realized now they truly did.
Maybe, now knowing they had been cruelly manipulated by an outside force, she and Ethan could find their way back to each other.
Dashiell.
He came to her as gently as a whisper, smelling softly of baby and love. The searing pain she felt when she thought of his small, sturdy body fled in the face of such adoration. There was still fury there, and anger, yes, but also a deepening of emotion, and a final sense of peace. She had failed her child. She had allowed a viper into his swaddling nest. But the viper had slithered in through a window left ajar. It had not come from within.
To be able to blame herself for negligence, but not murder, was the forgiveness her soul had craved. To blame an outsider, instead of her baby’s father, was the balm on the burn.
A wave of nausea coursed through her stomach, but this she welcomed with a caress along her stomach.
Sutton thought she had fled her perfectly horrible life. But in truth, the life she craved grew within her. And that was all the forgiveness she would ever need.
*
Ethan met her at the airport gate. How his presence there had been arranged for, she didn’t know, and didn’t care. The moment she saw him, broken and bruised and uncertain, his eyes searching every face until he saw hers and smiled, she rocketed out of the gangway and flung herself into his arms.
TRUTH WILL OUT