“So you could get drugs.”
She nods again, eyes skittering away. “And one night I got caught. It didn’t amount to much—solicitation, first offense. But it all adds up, and now . . .”
“You’ll go to jail?”
“That’s how it’s looking.”
Christy-Lynn takes an involuntary step back. “What about me? Did you tell them you had a daughter?”
“There are places . . .”
“No!”
“It’ll only be for a few months,” she promises in the wheedling, petulant voice she hauls out when she’s made a mess of things. “A year at the most. It’ll be over before you know it. And when it is, we’ll be together again. We’ll move away, start somewhere new. It won’t be so bad, you’ll see. You’ll even be able to visit me.”
But Christy-Lynn has stopped listening. She doesn’t want to visit her mother in jail or move somewhere new when this is all over. Because it will never be over. It will only start again in a new town, with a new set of problems, and probably a new dealer.
“I’m sorry, baby,” Charlene whispers, reaching for her daughter. “So sorry.”
“I know, Mama,” she says quietly, ignoring her mother’s outstretched hand. “You’re always sorry.”
TWENTY-TWO
Sweetwater, Virginia
May 1, 2017
Christy-Lynn eyed Wade’s Jeep in the driveway as she lifted her hand and knocked a third time. He was clearly home. Was he ignoring her? Paying her back for snubbing his lunch invitation? If so, it probably wasn’t a great time to ask for a favor.
She knocked again and waited, almost relieved when there was still no answer. It had been a crazy idea anyway. She was about to step off the porch when she heard a door slam somewhere around back. She weighed her options—suck it up and ask what she’d come to ask or leave with her pride intact and no hope of getting the answers she now knew she wanted.
Skirting the remains of last winter’s woodpile, she made her way around the back of the cabin. Wade was coming down the deck steps, a red nylon tote slung over his shoulder as he headed for the small wooden canoe beached at the waterline. He had one leg in when he spotted her. He straightened and stood staring at her, a hand raised to shield his eyes against the lowering sun.
“Hello,” she said awkwardly, as if she’d been caught trespassing.
“Have you changed your mind about lunch?”
She ducked her head sheepishly. “I came to talk.”
“About a truce?”
Christy-Lynn smothered a groan, too weary to spar. “Can’t we just . . . talk?”
“Get in the boat.”
Christy-Lynn’s eyes went wide. “What?”
“If you want to talk, you’ll need to do it on the water.”
She laughed, though something told her he wasn’t kidding. “I’m not really dressed—”
“We won’t be waterskiing or anything. Kick off your shoes and leave your purse. You’ll be fine.”
Christy-Lynn eyed the canoe warily, asking herself again just how badly she wanted Wade’s help.
“What’s wrong? Can’t you swim?”
“Of course I can swim.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
When it became clear he had no intention of relenting, Christy-Lynn dropped her purse and kicked off her ballet flats. Wade steadied the boat as she stepped in, instructing her to keep both hands on the gunwales—which she assumed meant the sides—as she inched her way forward, then turned and carefully lowered herself onto the narrow cane seat.
A moment later, Wade was pushing away from shore, settled across from her as they headed smoothly out onto the water. For a time, neither spoke, Wade paddling with close, easy strokes, Christy-Lynn marveling at the echo of sunlit clouds mirrored in the lake’s glassy surface.
“It’s beautiful.” She took a deep breath, feeling herself relax as she filled her lungs with pine-scented air. She hadn’t meant to say it aloud. In fact, she didn’t realize she had until Wade met her gaze.
“Yes, it is. So?”
“So . . .”
He shrugged, his face blank as he pulled the paddle out of the water and laid it across his knees. “It’s your meeting.”
Christy-Lynn nodded. “Yes, I guess it is.” She paused to regroup, then began again. “The last time I was here you said something. You said I might not really want to know the truth about the woman in Stephen’s car.”
“Yeah, sorry. I had no right to say that stuff. Your grief is none of my business.”
“No, it isn’t. But that doesn’t change the fact that you were probably right. The longer I thought about it, and about what I might learn, the more I realized I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
Her eyes were fixed on her lap, fingers pleating and unpleating the hem of her skirt. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to learn your spouse’s darkest secrets from a pack of reporters? To be the last one to know he’s been leading some kind of double life?”
“No, but I can imagine.”
She lifted her chin. “Can you?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Mrs. Ludlow, do you know the woman they pulled from your husband’s car the night he died and were they involved sexually? Do you know how long the relationship had been going on? Have there been other women, or was she the first?” She held his gaze, fighting tears that were more about anger than self-pity. “And those were the polite questions. But the worst part was I couldn’t have answered them if I wanted to. And it made me ashamed. How could I not know what my own husband was up to? And then when you said what you said the other night, about me not wanting to know, I was ashamed all over again. Because I realized you were right. I didn’t want to know. Not really.”
Wade reached for the red tote and unzipped it, producing a paper towel and a bottled water. “Here,” he said, pushing the paper towel into her hands. “You’re leaking.”
“Sorry.” She felt foolish as she blotted her eyes. “I didn’t come here because I wanted you to feel sorry for me. I just wanted you to understand.”
“I get it. I do.” He was foraging in the tote again, pulling out a variety of leftover containers, peeling off lids and balancing them on his lap. “Because I’ve seen it firsthand. The news business was different when I got in. It used to be about real news. Now it’s about voyeurism and the public’s need to revel in the suffering of others. The human fallout doesn’t enter into it. It’s about ratings, circulation, copies sold.”
She dabbed at her eyes again. “And that’s why you quit?”
“Yes. It had been coming for a while, but things reached critical mass when they asked me to interview a kid who’d just watched his mother die at the Crystal Lake shooting. So here I am.”
“Writing your book?”
“Trying to, yes. Want some dinner?”
Christy-Lynn blinked at him, surprised by the abrupt change of subject. For a moment, she considered pressing for more, but something in his expression warned her off. Instead, she surveyed the makeshift picnic spread out on his lap: cold chicken, fresh fruit, and what looked like potato salad.
“Go on,” Wade prompted, holding out the container of chicken. “There’s plenty.”
She chose a drumstick and began nibbling, not because she was hungry but because she wasn’t ready to tell him why she had really come.
“This is delicious,” she said between bites, an awkward attempt at small talk. “Where did you get it?”
Wade glanced up, looking mildly insulted. “I didn’t get it. I made it.”
“Well then, I’m impressed.”
He shrugged. “Not much to it actually. Lemon, olive oil, some rosemary, and a little garlic. Marinate it for a couple of hours, then throw it on the grill. The potato salad, on the other hand, is from the deli. If it isn’t some form of pasta or something I can toss on the grill, I’m fairly hopeless.”
Christy-Lynn found herself smiling. “I’m still impressed. I don’t think Stephen knew how to turn on the oven.”