Wherever She Goes(47)

Things have changed. He might have found out the truth over a year ago, but this has brought it all back. Maybe he was holding out hope that I had another explanation.

Robbery? Is that what Ruben said? Not at all. He’s a guy I knew back home. Yes, that shoulder injury is a bullet. It was a stupid thing—me and some friends—and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea, think you married a redneck. Ruben’s just being a jerk.

He hoped for an explanation. I didn’t give one. So now he must accept that he married a thief. A woman who robbed homes and got shot and went on the run and hooked up with him to reinvent herself.

He’s going to take Charlotte away.

I’m not the person he wants raising his daughter.

He hasn’t quite decided that yet, but the idea is forming. He has the ammunition he needs to take her. As for depriving her of a mother, well, Gayle is a much better role model.

Stop that, Bree. Just stop.

He’s slow in responding because he’s considering my request. I had Charlotte for an extra night this week, and it was my choice not to have her today, so he’s thinking he doesn’t owe me Friday. He just doesn’t want to refuse and sound pissy.

I need to tell him that I have something planned. That ups the ante. If he still refuses me then, I’ll know something’s wrong.

As I pull up the calendar of local events, I remember there’s a pizza party at the library.

Pizza. Maybe Kim’s employers know—

I thrust the thought aside and compose the text to Paul.

Me: My library is having a pizza-and-jammies evening Friday. I’d love to sign Charlie up, if that’s okay with you.

Hit Send. Wait five minutes, counting it on the clock. Then I send another.

Me: I could give up Sunday night if it’s a problem. I’d drop her off after our princess tea.

Giving her up early Sunday defeats the purpose of having extra time with her. This is another test, though. Is he not answering because I’m asking for extra time? Or is he going to start blocking me when I request off-schedule hours with Charlotte, even for something special?

Five more minutes. Send another text.

Me: I understand if you already have plans.

Two minutes. I’m going to call at the five-minute mark. I’ll— My phone buzzes as a text comes in.

Paul: Just got back from city.

Paul: Let me put Charlie to bed and check the calendar.

I curse myself. Of course it’d taken him a while to text back. He’d been at the train station in Chicago when I talked to Charlotte.

I make myself a tea and try not to obsessively watch the clock. It takes about fifteen minutes to settle Charlotte in. More if he gives her a bath, but it’s almost nine, so he’ll probably skip— The text comes in at fourteen minutes.

Paul: Friday’s fine.

Paul: Sunday is your call.

I send back that I’d love to keep her until Monday, dropping her at daycare as we usually do. I just didn’t want to cut into his time. He replies that Friday through Monday is fine—he had her this weekend.

I want to say more. I want to tell him that I spent the afternoon composing letters. I want to tell him he’s wrong, so wrong. I want to tell him my version of the day we met, that yes, I might not have noticed him before, but when he smiled at me, I noticed, and I never stopped noticing. When he asked me out, I did think it was a mistake, but only because guys like him never asked girls like me, and if they did, maybe it’s because they were expecting something he wasn’t going to get from me on a first date. When he continued asking me out, I kept waiting for the other shoe to fall, kept looking for his angle.

I want to tell him all that.

I start composing texts, and I don’t get past a few words.

Finally, before he can put his phone away, conversation over, I text.

Me: I’m sorry.

He doesn’t reply. He’s already gone.

He’s been gone for a very long time.



I go for a run after that. Laila Jackson’s visit had aborted my earlier attempt, and I really want that jog now. I need to clear my head, run until my legs wobble and my lungs burn and I can no longer think about Paul or Charlotte or Kim or Brandon. Run until it takes every ounce of mental energy just to drag myself back to my apartment and collapse into dreamless sleep.

I’ve barely gone a couple of blocks when a voice at my shoulder says, “Where’s the fire?”

I give a start and look over to see that another jogger has joined me. His voice sounds familiar, and I think immediately of the guy in the park, the fellow jogger who pestered me the day Brandon disappeared. It’s not him, though—this guy is about my age. But that reminds me that I never did try to find that guy, get him to corroborate my story about Brandon.

Stop that.

No new evidence will make the police believe me now, and what difference would it make if they did? Brandon is safe unless Zima catches up with him. Zima, though, is going to be the police’s top suspect in Kim’s murder, so he won’t have time to look for his son.

Brandon is safe. The only thing to be gained by proving he existed is repairing my public reputation.

See, I was right. I’m not a delusional attention-seeker.

Clear my name . . . and put Brandon in more danger. As it stands right now, Zima only thinks Brandon exists because I said so. If everyone believes I’m wrong, then while that hurts my pride, it’s better for the child.