Wherever She Goes(62)

“Because someone realizes you’re more than you seem, Aubrey. Someone knows you’re involved. Someone knows you’ve been digging.”

Which is the answer I don’t want. Of course I realize that’s the most obvious explanation. I just want her to give me one that means these people will leave my family alone.

I’m about to ask her advice when Paul gets home. He greets Laila—handshake, introduction, civil but not overly warm. He feels the chill in the air. I know he does—he keeps sneaking glances at me, gauging the situation.

When she asks to see his video and texts, he gives them to her. She forwards them to herself at the station, as she did mine.

“We’ll be investigating.” She turns to me. “By we, I mean the Oxford Police Department. Not you, Aubrey. You are to stay out of this. Understand?”

I can barely unhinge my jaw to answer. “I understand.”



So, once again, I’m on my own. If I had any hope of an alliance with Laila, it evaporated in that conversation. She’s a cop, and I’m not, and that is a line she’s not letting me cross, no matter how helpful I’ve been.

I don’t know if I’ll dig deeper. No, that’s a lie. I will dig. I must. I just won’t be out there, sneaking into clubs and playing spy anymore. Or jogging at nightfall in my neighborhood.

Paul and I talk after that. He orders dinner in, and we spend the evening talking and polishing off a bottle of wine. He knows I’ll investigate the phone number and video. He doesn’t even ask about that—just proceeds as if it’s a given. Which proves that while he may not have known the particulars of my life, he does know me.

I consider making sure he tells Gayle that I’ll be staying over again. I might say I’m protecting their relationship, but I’m really protecting ours. I don’t want to be the cause of their breakup, something he can later resent me for. Nor do I want to give her any reason to peg me as the evil ex wriggling back into his life.

I don’t say anything, though. I did this morning and to keep harping on it is interfering. He knows Gayle. He’ll know whether he needs to keep her apprised of the ongoing situation.

So we drink, and we talk. Mostly about the case. A little about Charlotte. Nothing about us. When it’s time to retire, I take the futon and he heads upstairs to bed.



I am in the car where my mother died. I see her reach for me. Feel her hand wrapping around mine. Hear her tell me it’ll be all right, that someone will come.

I know no one will come. I see her smiling at me, and I know she will die if I don’t help. I know I could wriggle out of my seat. I’ve done it before. I’m not supposed to, but I could. Yet I don’t.

I don’t escape and go for help. I don’t scream for someone to come. I don’t scream for someone to save my mother. I just sit there . . . and I watch her die.

The nightmare stutters to a stop. Rewinds. Starts over.

This time she begs for help. This time she undoes my seat so I can get free. This time the car door lolls open, giving me no excuse, and she’s begging, begging, me to go for help.

I ignore her. I pick up a toy, and I play with it, and I ignore her.

Inside my head, I’m screaming at myself to do something. Screaming so loud. But all I do is play with that damned toy, and I want to knock it from my hands and—

“Aubrey? Aubrey.”

A hand grips my shoulder, and I think someone’s there. Someone’s come to save my mother.

Someone has finally come.

The hand squeezes, and my eyes fly open, and it’s Paul. He’s crouched beside the futon, his hand on my shoulder.

I scramble up, looking around, blood rushing in my ears and drowning out his words.

Nightmare. He’s telling me I was having a nightmare.

I know that. But it doesn’t matter. I’m still shaking and gasping for breath.

“I’m okay,” I say. I’m not, but I say it anyway.

“You were calling for your mother,” he says. “For someone to help your mother.” He wipes a finger over my cheek, and I realize it’s hot and wet with tears. “It was about the accident, wasn’t it?”

“I didn’t get help. She unbuckled me and told me to go get help and . . .” I squeeze my eyes shut. “No, that’s not how it happened. Or, I don’t think that’s . . .”

“It isn’t,” he says. “I read the police report. You were buckled in your seat, which was jammed shut by the accident.”

“I could have wiggled out. I could have—”

“Bree?” He puts a hand on each shoulder, turning me to look at him. “You couldn’t have. Your mother would have never expected you to. You were barely two.”

“No one came,” I say. “She was there all night. She was alive all night. They could see the car in the field. And no one stopped.”

His arms go around me, and I collapse into them, sobbing.





Chapter Thirty-One





Over breakfast, Paul asks whether I’ve heard from Ellie.

I shake my head. “She never called back. I hope that means she contacted the police and doesn’t need my help. She only reached out once, in hopes . . .” I shake my head, gaze on my plate, and I don’t finish.