For a stretch, I’m the only car on the road. It’s going to be okay, I reassure myself. I’ll be in Albany in less than thirty minutes and back in New York by noon tomorrow. Except at a mediation table and possibly in a courtroom, I won’t ever have to face Guy again.
Just as I feel my body relax, a dark red shape darts from the woods to the right and streaks in front of the car. I hit the break. It’s a squirrel and I’ve missed it by inches. I sigh, grateful not to have crushed it.
And then, without warning, I’m shaking, shaking so much that my hands bounce off the steering wheel. And I’m crying, too. I have no idea in hell what’s going on.
I ease the car over to the shoulder of the road and jerk the gear into park. Every inch of me is still trembling.
Then the memories unfurl. Snippets one after the other.
Paul and I on the road. I’m raking my hand through my hair, which was long then and to my shoulders. He’s just told me the news—about Guy and Dallas.
“There’s got to be a mistake, Paul,” I say. “It has to be someone else.
“That’s possible, of course. But I saw the photo of him. Why don’t I let you talk to my friend?”
I shake my head, not so much against the idea but because I can’t take it all in. What if it’s true? No, it can’t be.
“We’ll sort this out, Bryn,” Paul says. “And maybe it’s all a terrible mistake. I just wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I hadn’t told you.”
He directs his full attention back to the highway. I can even see the road in my mind. For some reason the traffic is light on this stretch, and we have the road briefly to ourselves. I sit there, brooding in silence, wondering what to do.
And then, out of nowhere, a dog, golden brown, sprints across the highway. Paul swerves to avoid it, and we go careening off the road.
My shaking subsides, but tears keep rushing down my face. I make a feeble attempt to brush them away with the side of my arm.
Finally I know. I know why Paul lost control of the car that day. He didn’t do it intentionally. And I didn’t distract him in some terrible way with my concerns. It was nobody’s fault, just a horrible accident that cost a wonderful man his life.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. At last, I think. No more secrets.
Acknowledgments
I really enjoyed researching this book, in part because it meant spending time in the charming city of Saratoga Springs in upstate New York. I also interviewed a bunch of people on other subjects I touched on in the book, and I’m so appreciative of all the time they gave me.
I’d love to specifically thank Nathanial White, attorney; Barbara Butcher, consultant for forensic and medicolegal investigation; Cheryl Brown, fundraising guru; Maureen Rossley, my wonderful guide of Saratoga Springs; Caleb White, police officer; Dr. Dale Atkins, psychologist; and Dr. Karen Rosenbaum, psychiatrist.
Thank you as well to my awesome agent, Sandy Dijkstra; to Mary Sasso of HarperCollins for all her creativity on the marketing front; and to my absolutely wonderful editor, Laura Brown, who has been a huge joy to work with every step of the way.
An Excerpt from the New Bailey Weggins Mystery
Read on for an excerpt from Kate White’s new Bailey Weggins mystery.
Chapter 1
I haven’t racked up a ton of regrets during my thirty-six years on the planet, but the few that I do have tend to have a sneaky, determined resilience. Every once in a while—say, when I’m working on a crime story that’s particularly soul-sucking and I’ve been on the road far longer than planned, holed up in Beyoncé-style luxury at a Best Western or DoubleTree Suites—one of them will resurface, like a lake snake coming up for air, raising its snout above the waterline and forcing me to stare it in the face.
I regret not knowing my father very well, though there was nothing I could have done about that one. He died when I was twelve of a brain aneurysm while on a fishing trip with a friend.
I regret (sorely) the two-and-a-half-year hand grenade of a marriage I embarked on in my late twenties, though I’m not sure I could have done much about that one either. Compulsive gamblers, I came to discover, don’t broadcast their obsession when they begin to woo you, nor the sordid little fact that they’ll be dipping into their work T&E—and your jewelry box—to help with the damage they incur.