The Girl I Was Before (Falling #3)(95)

“You want me to fill your bath? Maybe add some bubbles?” I ask at Leah’s door. She’s standing at the foot of her bed in Paige’s shoes. She’s been wearing them a lot around the house. She has to take them off when she walks, but she always puts them back on, even if it’s only for a ride in the car. My mom’s been bringing them to the church for her, too.

“Yes, please,” Leah says about the bubbles.

I step into the bathroom and draw her bath, then when she comes in with her folded towel and pajamas, I move to the hallway and sit with my back against the opposite wall and try to focus on only the sounds of the song my daughter’s making up as she goes.

“Mermaids swim and so do I. I’m a mermaid, yes I am,” she’s singing, no real pattern or tone for anything. Random words strung together about mermaids, because mermaids make her happy. It’s so perfect. I let it draw a smile on my face, and close my eyes. Her sound works to drown everything else out for a few minutes, but eventually, the reality of what I now know shadows it.

When the doorbell rang this afternoon, my heart leapt. I was so sure I would open that door and find Paige there. I left the book for her early this morning, before I went to work. Detective Hornsby greeted me before I had a chance to register what I was really seeing. I hadn’t seen him since the day he came to my door more than four years ago and told me both my wife and my father were dead.

I was seventeen. Married with my parents’ consent, widowed by a careless act of selfish behavior.

My mom had just gotten home, and she was changing upstairs when I let the three officers into our house today. The second she saw them as she came down the stairs, her legs gave out, and she slipped four or five steps down. Her ankle swelled immediately, but that pain was nothing compared to the slashing sensation happening to her heart from seeing the familiar faces in our house. That pain only grew with their visit, with every minute they were here, and each piece of information they shared, until my mother couldn’t listen any more.

Chandra Campbell, Cee Cee Campbell, was driving the car that killed Beth and my father. And Martin Campbell covered it up. The only reason it’s out is because Detective Hornsby’s partner, Detective Christo, was caught—nearly a million dollars in bribes hidden in accounts overseas. A tenacious reporter, the same one who took the tip from Paige, had been digging at the department for years.

The body of the driver, who supposedly died in the crash, was actually a homeless man found drunk in a downtown alley earlier that day. Detective Christo was told to take care of things—like he’d done for Chandra’s other indiscretions—though those other things were usually tickets and stops for driving under the influence. Christo split his payoff with the two beat cops who responded to the call. They helped him bludgeon to death the homeless man, making his body appear to have been the one involved. They got rid of Chandra’s car, paid off anyone they thought would talk, and made sure Chandra was delivered to her father in Texas, more than four hundred miles away from her crime.

Detective Hornsby was off that day. But he knew my father from church, and when he heard the news, he wanted to be the one to deliver it to my mother. He ruined our lives that day—Michael and Bethany Orr were dead. Every loose end was paid for and tied up before he had a chance to do anything but pity us and offer us a card with his name on it and a false condolence to call him if there was anything he could do.

An entire state away, the story was unraveling differently, though. Martin Campbell was learning that his daughter from one marriage had killed his daughter from another—and he spent thousands of dollars to make it all disappear. To ease his guilt, he threatened to disown Chandra, too, just as he’d always done with problems in his life—cut the ties that bind. But Chandra is so much like her father. She threatened to tell the truth, so he kept his mouth shut.

As evil as she is, Chandra is also capable of some human emotions—namely, guilt. That’s why she visited. That’s why she was drunk for Leah’s birthday. And that’s why Leah’s trust fund will never go away. That money is there for insurance, should I ever start to question things. I bet if I did, that money would have doubled, and kept doubling until I shut my mouth.

Blood money.

Bethany was always right. That money—it’s worthless.

And I don’t want Leah to have any part of it any more.





Chapter 18





Houston



Tragedies come in two phases—the first one that shocks you, rocks your earth, murders your soul, and leaves you lifeless—all without warning. Then there’s the second phase, the one that you see coming. This phase is full of process, full of justice—or failed justice—and it feels…endless.

Meetings with lawyers and police officials dictated the first two weeks after the arrest. Any moments in between were filled with hounding requests from the media. The only benefit of the media’s constant calling, emailing, texting, and camping outside our house was that it distracted my mom from despair. Instead of walking through the house listlessly, barely sleeping, and hardly eating—which she did for two days—she became obsessed with fending off reporters. Our family hasn’t been quoted in a single story, and our lawyer quickly corrected the few reports that did attempt to quote us.

We have a lawyer. This is something I’m pretty sure we can’t afford. Unless he wins—in which case we’ll be able to literally buy him and mount him on our wall.