I hug the menus to my chest with my good arm, waiting with everyone else to hear about this “mysterious person.”
Meryl Price catches her son’s attention with a graceful hand on his arm. He covers the microphone and leans down to allow her to whisper something. She shoots him a stern look of warning.
Oh, to be a fly on that podium right now.
Removing his hand from the microphone, he seems to struggle with his decision. The camera zooms in suddenly, as if the operator has guessed that whatever Brett Madden has to say will be that much more impactful when viewers can feel the weight of those intense aqua blue eyes framed by a fringe of thick, dark lashes. “Yes, she did.” That smooth voice, that practiced speech, cracks with emotion. “It was a woman who pulled me from the car before I burned to death, and I would really love to thank her in person, so if she’s watching this . . . let the Balsam Sheriff’s Department release your contact information to me. Please.”
That pleading tone is like a spell, gripping me. I find myself whispering, “Okay,” before I realize it, then clamping my mouth shut and glancing around to make sure no one heard me.
Shouts fill the room as reporters struggle to get their question heard. Cameras flash and click. But Brett offers a quick, “That’s all, thank you,” and eases himself into the wheelchair. With his father pushing and his mother and sister at his side, he leaves through a side door.
And I can’t help but feel the shift in the air around me.
The news channel moves to a live report from a blonde female reporter. “Brett Madden addresses media for the first time since last week’s tragic car accident that claimed the life of Philadelphia Flyers right wing Seth Grabner. Police have so far withheld details about the accident, but Madden himself has just admitted to being pulled from the wreckage by an unidentified female. The question remains, who is this good Samaritan, and will she finally reveal herself? Well, Raven News may be able to answer Brett Madden’s plea, as our reporters on the ground have uncovered information about the black sedan seen at the scene of the accident.” The screen flashes to my burned-out car. “Stay tuned for more from investigative reporter Camaria Wilkins shortly.”
Lou leans in to whisper. “Your license plate. I’ll bet someone from the towing company leaked it.”
I don’t want her to be right, but Lou’s always right. She’s notorious for it. Tension courses through my body as I accept that the sand in my hourglass of anonymity is close to expiring. I’m about to be outed as the “she,” and if the reaction in that press room was any indication, there’s no way the media’s not going to latch on to this story in a big way.
Lou’s hand settles on my shoulder. “I think it’s time you head out.”
I don’t argue with her. I simply go to the back to grab my purse, hoping I can make it to school to get Brenna before the news breaks.
Chapter 9
“Carrots don’t actually give me night vision. That’s just something parents tell their kids to make them eat their vegetables.” Brenna scrunches her nose up at her plate.
“You’re right.”
Her brows jump a moment before excitement dances in her eyes. “So . . . I don’t have to eat them?”
“Oh, you still do. Or I’m going to make you watch me eat this.” I hold up the Oreo cookie—Brenna’s favorite and the last one in the house.
She scowls at me but pops a carrot into her mouth, because she’s afraid I’m not kidding. She earned her sweet tooth from me, after all.
I sit down across from her.
“You forgot your plate.”
“I’m not feeling well.” My stomach has been in knots since leaving Diamonds.
“Because of your wrist?”
I sigh. “Yeah. Because of my wrist.” How much longer before I find myself explaining things I hadn’t planned on telling her for years? What’s it going to be like for her at school? What are kids going to say to her about her mother?
Oddly enough, she seems to have accepted that it’s just me and her. That a daddy doesn’t fit anywhere in this equation. That doesn’t mean she hasn’t asked—who he is, where he is, is he dead, why doesn’t he live with us. I’ve successfully danced around the answers, telling her that sometimes daddies aren’t around and that’s okay, because that just means I get to love her twice as much.
My phone begins ringing and Lou’s name appears. It’s five P.M. A mere three hours after Brett Madden’s live statement. Part of me doesn’t want to answer the phone, but my gut tells me I should.
Lou’s agitated voice fills my ear. “That sniveling nephew of mine! I’m so sorry, Cath! I can’t believe he would do this!”
I don’t know that I’ve ever heard Lou so upset before. “What did he do?” A sinking feeling tells me it has to do with me.
She groans. “Turn on Channel Seven.”
Oh, God. I already know this is going to be bad.
I had warned my parents not to answer any questions about anything related to me or the accident that might be coming soon. I should call Jack and Emma to tell them the same thing—they still have no idea that I was involved. At least Emma is smart enough not to say anything without first checking with me. I hope Jack is smart enough, but either way, he’s in the middle of his last exam, so I’ll have to wait.
I flip on the TV in time to see Gord’s chubby-cheeked, hairy-mole face fill the screen, a prominent shot of Mayberry’s store signage in the background. A female reporter stands next to him.
“. . . Oh, it’s her all right, the woman I’m dating. Last Friday night, we were having dinner in Belmont, not five minutes away from my store, Mayberry’s New and Used Vehicles.” He enunciates each word of the name slowly and loudly, turning to face the camera as he promotes his store.
Blood rushes to my ears. I can hear Lou saying something through the receiver, but I ignore her, tuned in to the TV.
“. . . She got into her black 2000 Grand Prix at around nine thirty, on her way home to her sweet little daughter. I’ve been tryin’ to get her into something better, but she loves that car! Anyway, she was takin’ her usual route home on Old Cannery Road . . .” My teeth grit as the weasel both outs me and presents himself as someone who knows everything there is to know about me. Gord Mayberry has hit a new low in the ranks of slimy car salesmen. “. . . and she came upon Mr. Grabner’s car. Poor thing, she sprained her wrist somethin’ fierce, tryin’ to get Brett Madden to safety. You should see it, all swollen and bruised and wrapped up in bandages. She’s a single mom and waitress over at my aunt’s diner, Diamonds, out on Route 33, so you can imagine how devastating somethin’ as simple as a sprained wrist might be.”
“Mommy! Who are they talking—”
I cut Brenna off with a sharp shush as I turn the volume up to listen to Gord hang me out to dry.