It was over anyway. If they hadn’t already, they’d come looking for them.
Before he realized what he was doing, he was pushing through the crowd, toward the front steps of city hall. He recognized Daniel McWhellen, Ivy’s older brother, who had been a detective on the case. He assumed the other man was the police chief.
In his pocket, his phone buzzed. He removed it.
Derrick. Again. He unlocked his phone.
I know everything, you asshole!!!!
Mattie, feeling wild and reckless and racked with pain, texted him back. What do you know!?
You are a big cheat and we are over! I know you were cheating on me that night! Consider us done!
Mattie stared at the text message. He looked, and he realized he felt . . . glad.
Lighter.
Derrick had never known. He hadn’t heard enough to know. Derrick knew about the cheating, and that was it. That was everything.
And they were over.
Finally, finally over. After a half summer of ignored phone calls and tense conversations.
Done.
Mattie didn’t have to worry about him anymore.
If that is how you feel, I respect your decision. Mattie pressed send on his text. There was no reason to be mean. Even if Derrick hadn’t always been perfect, Mattie had messed up. He’d messed up big-time.
He had ruined things. And it was best that he had no further involvement with Derrick.
And now he was going to make it right.
Feedback echoed from the microphone at the lectern. Mattie looked up from his phone. The police chief cleared his throat.
Detective McWhellen stood behind him, his hands by his sides, a silent guardian.
“Good afternoon. I am Police Chief William Nolanski and I am here to report on the state of the missing persons investigation for Dr. Anthony Stratford, a professor at the local university.”
Beside Mattie, a man with a large camera snapped photos. Up on the steps, two news cameras rolled, capturing the footage.
Mattie’s heart was thunder in his chest. In his ears. In his feet.
If he collapsed, would they stop the press conference?
The police chief paused. “We have determined the cause of death as a brain aneurysm.”
A collective gasp went through the crowd. Mattie stared, his mind racing. What? A brain aneurysm? How was that possible?
“Although there were suspicions of foul play, the body was recovered from Loop River last week. While there was damage to the eye socket and some bruising around the back of the skull, we have determined it occurred after the aneurysm. The bruising was likely caused as the victim fell. He would have been dead almost immediately. Forensics has determined that Dr. Stratford has been dead roughly three weeks, but the state of the body has allowed for some speculation around the time frame. Dr. Stratford’s health records show he suffered from polycystic kidney disease, which greatly increases the likelihood of brain aneurysms.”
“What impeded the recovery of the body?” a reporter with tousled red hair called.
The police chief coughed. “Excuse me. The body was trapped underwater between two large rocks and was only found when the water levels were low enough for the body to be visible. It was recovered twenty-three miles south of the town, on farmland. A local farmer saw the body when he took his son swimming.”
“Why was the professor by the river in the first place?” another reporter called. Mattie strained, but he couldn’t see who it was.
“We have several reports from family and friends that he enjoyed long, solitary walks, particularly after arguments. He had recently engaged in an argument with his wife.”
Another question was shouted, but Mattie didn’t hear it. His own blood rushed into his ears, along with an ecstatic, wild happiness that he hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever.
His mind buzzed. Was it true? An aneurysm had killed Stratford? Not the punch, or the fall?
A forensic scientist should be able to determine all of that.
Was it possible they’d all been in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Had all of this worry—all of this pain—been for nothing? He felt shaky. His head swam with vertigo, and he steadied himself against a trash can that had been dragged over toward the crowd.
He thought of Stratford—his uneven gait. His dropping face. Were those . . . symptoms?
Mattie forced himself to turn his back and walk through the crowd. He didn’t stop at the police station. He walked past, deliberately and slowly.
For the first time in weeks, he felt . . . free.
Mattie climbed inside his new car, and cried. He cried big, happy tears that hurt his head and healed his insides. He cried like he’d never cried in his entire life, great, racking sobs of relief that evaporated some of the rot from his stomach and made him feel a million times lighter.
He called Ivy from his cell phone.
“Mattie?” she answered, breathless. “What is it? Is everything all right?”
Mattie put his hand on his forehead and tried to find the words. “Ivy?”
“Yeah?”