Call It What You Want(93)

“Rob, please know that none of this was easy for me. Everything I did—after—was to keep you safe. Please know that.”

It’s tempting to shrug off this statement, but I can hear the emotion in her voice. We’ve been trapped here together. None of this has been easy for her. I should hate her, but I can’t.

“I know,” I say quietly.

“Please don’t hate me,” she whispers.

“I don’t hate you.” I glance at my father and wish again that I could rewind time. “I don’t hate him.”

I drop onto the couch beside her and put my face in my hands. “I hate that Bill started it all, and he’s the one who’s getting away with it.”

She rubs my shoulder. “I never wanted this, Rob.”

I don’t pull away. “I know.”

My cell phone vibrates in my pocket, making me jump. No one ever calls me, especially not in the middle of the night, so I jerk it free.

The display is lit up with Connor Tunstall.

I stare at the screen for a moment too long, then swipe the bar to answer.

The phone nearly explodes with noise, and I have to hold it away from my ear.

“Connor?” I say.

“Rob.” He sounds like someone is choking him. A man is speaking in the background. There’s a lot of yelling. “Rob.”

“Connor? What—what’s going on?”

“Rob, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t—I had to—”

“Slow down.” I’m standing now. I put a hand over my other ear as if that will somehow block all the background noise. “What’s going on?”

“I turned him in.” He makes another choking sound. “I didn’t—I didn’t believe you. When the cops arrested you. But when he was gone this morning, I went through his office. I found the proof. I confronted him about it, and he—he—I can’t. I called—I called—I don’t know—they’re arresting them both. I don’t know what to do.”

Holy shit.

A man says, “You’re going to need to hang up that phone, son.”

“Please come, Rob. I know I don’t deserve it. But please—”

The line goes dead.

Mom is staring at me, her hands over her mouth. Her fingers are trembling. She must have heard most of what he said.

“It’ll be okay,” I say, though I have no idea whether that’s true. “It’ll be okay.” My heart is rocketing along so fast that I’m almost dizzy.

Please come. I know I don’t deserve it.

My keys are still in my pocket. I thread my fingers through the loop and stand up.

Mom catches my arm. “What are you doing?”

I’m doing what Connor should have done last February. I give Mom’s hand a squeeze and then pull free. “I’m going over there.”



Half a dozen cop cars line the Tunstall driveway, along with a few unmarked vehicles that I know from experience are probably FBI. All the lights in the house are on.

I don’t have to go far to find Connor. He’s sitting on the front step, wearing an unzipped parka, his arms wrapped around his midsection.

He barely looks up when I approach.

“I’m so stupid,” he says. His voice is rough and dull. A shaky hand pushes the hair back from his face.

He’s either shivering from cold or shock or both. I reach out and give the lapel of his jacket a tug. “Zip up,” I say, like he’s five years old. “How long have you been sitting out here?”

He doesn’t obey. “Since they started searching the house.”

I sit down next to him. I don’t know what to say, but he doesn’t seem to mind. We sit in silence, until his breathing slows.

Eventually he shivers, and I punch him in the arm. “Zip up your coat, you idiot.”

He sniffs and does it.

“I didn’t know,” he says. “I realize how stupid that sounds now, but I know you get it.”

“Yeah. I get it.”

“I should have known.”

“So should I.” I shrug. “Hell, I was working for my dad, and I didn’t know.”

He lifts a shaking hand to his face, and I realize he’s crying.

I don’t say anything. I get that, too.

A tight band has a grip on my chest. I don’t know what this is going to mean for my mother.

“I thought he was going to kill me,” says Connor.

He drops this statement without any preamble, and my head whips around. “What?”

“I thought he was going to kill me.” Another sniff. “My father. I found—I found his files. I don’t know what I was going to do with them, but he started—he started fighting me for them, and then he was choking me, and Mom was fighting to get him off me …” He presses his hands to his eyes.

I hate his father.

“What’s going to happen?” I say softly.

The question seems to stabilize him. “They called my aunt. Mom’s sister. She’s flying in from Portland.”

That’s not quite what I meant, but he doesn’t have the answers I need anyway.

I shift my weight, and Connor looks up in alarm.

“I’m not leaving,” I say.