Never Let You Go(29)

“Can you get a restraining order?”

“I takes more than seeing him once—and he didn’t do anything threatening. Even with one, I can’t do anything to stop him from moving to this town. He’s a free man.”

“I really hate this system sometimes. It protects all the wrong people.” He looks out the window, his mouth tight, and I wonder if he’s remembering Katie.

He turns back to me. “If you ever need to get out of town for a while, I have a lake house on the island. You and Sophie could stay there.”

“You have a lake house?”

“It’s been in my family for years. It’s quiet, peaceful—a good place to get away from it all and reflect on life.” He must have stayed there with his wife and daughter, so I’m honored at his offer, but the last place I want to be is at some remote lake on the island, where Andrew knows every inch like the back of his hand. Doesn’t sound that peaceful to me.

“Thanks, but it won’t matter where we stay. The only thing that would ever make me feel safe again is if he’s back in jail.” I crack a smile. “That should just be a matter of time.”

He smiles back, but he still looks worried. “I’m serious.”

“I know. I just need things to stay normal right now. I’ll think about it, okay?”

He nods. “It’s there if you need it.”

We work out until I’m exhausted, my legs and arms throbbing. Finally we call it quits and I take a quick shower in the bathroom off his gym and get dressed in fresh clothes. The endorphin high from my workout is already fading. When I’d first arrived at Marcus’s house, I was in shock, numb, not ready to face the truth. But now I feel every hard edge.

Andrew is moving to Dogwood Bay, and he wants to see Sophie.

As I walk up the stairs and through the living room, I pause at the window with its ocean view, winter waves kicking up in the distance, gray clouds, heavy and bloated with rain. I watch them for a moment, try to take some calming breaths. I can’t walk out in tears. I think of Sophie: What am I going to tell her? The panic rises again. It’s going to be okay, just take a minute.

I straighten the books on the side table, look at the titles. Marcus reads all kinds of genres, but seems to veer toward memoirs and biographies. I notice one on grief, flip through the first few pages, and think about him and his daughter. Then I carefully put the book back.

Marcus is in the kitchen, making coffee. He’s showered too, his hair wet and tousled.

He holds up a mug. “Time for coffee?”

“Of course.” I take the mug and sit down. “So how is your writing going?” He’s working on a book about his travels around the world and how different cultures approach death and grief, and he’s let me read a few chapters. It was fascinating and I hope he lets me read more. While he talks about his recent research, I try to focus, but I’m still thinking about Andrew’s final words outside the bank. He’s not going to leave it at that. He’s known all these years and he’s never done anything about it. Until now. My skin grows cold, ice snaking down my spine, making me shiver. For a moment it’s like I can feel him sitting beside me, whispering into my ear.

I warned you, he’s saying. I warned you.





CHAPTER ELEVEN


OCTOBER 2005



He left while it was still dark that morning, brushed his lips against my cheek. I pretended to be asleep, but I’d been awake for most the night, listening to him breathe, the ticking of our clock.

I pushed myself out of bed, cleaned up the mess in the kitchen before Sophie could see the broken dishes in the sink, the leftover beef stew smeared on the floor. He’d been angry that I hadn’t waited. As if I’d wanted to sit at the table with him and watch him eat like a sloppy old man, his head drooping, food falling off his fork before it could make it to his mouth.

He’d been going to work early for the last two weeks, and often came home after Sophie was in bed, his hair messy and his face haggard and drawn. After he was pulled over one night and given a twenty-four-hour driving suspension, he started chewing peppermint gum, as if that would mask the smell of beer. He told me that the cop was an overzealous *.

The kitchen clean, I made Sophie’s lunch, then sang our wake-up song loudly as I walked down the hall toward her room. “I love you! You love me!”

Her little voice answered. “We’re as happy as can be!”

I pushed open her door, snuggled in beside her under the warm blankets, tickled her until she squirmed out of her bed, giggling hysterically. “Mommy! Stop!”

I drove Sophie to school, stared out the window with a lump in my throat as her small hand crept across the center to hold mine. “Today is going to be a good day, Mommy.” She sounded so confident. She truly believed everything was good in the world. That her mommy and daddy loved her and she was safe. It was what I wanted. I wished I felt the same.

“Yes, it is, baby.”

I parked behind one of the buses. “Learn lots, okay?” I gave her a tight hug, and watched her head into the building. Then I came home to cry in the shower. The sobs heaved out of me, a wild panicked wail. I leaned against the wet tiles, waited for the tears to subside, focused on my breath. In. Out. In. Out. I had to get it together. Today was too important to mess up.