Beneath Devil's Bridge(84)

“Ma’am,” says the female officer, “we all need to get back. We’re moving the barricades back. There’s a chance the gas line could blow.”

But I stand, numb, my gaze fixed on the roaring flames.

The two cops physically turn me around, march me back to the barricade. I see my truck is gone. Granger or the cops must have moved it.

A boom sounds behind us. I wince and crouch reflexively. An explosion rips through the night. I feel the force of it slam into my back, and we all stagger forward. My ears ring. Someone is screaming. Everything seems distant. Black smoke billows. I choke and cough. The blaze roars like thunder.





TRINITY


NOW


Sunday, November 21. Present day.

“Want a beer?” Gio asks.

I glance at him. I’m sitting on the small sofa in the motel room, staring out into the darkness through my own reflection on the windowpane. It’s just past 9:00 p.m., and the drive back to Twin Falls felt like an endless series of curves through blackness and time. I’m not sure how to process the death of my father. Whether I should care, or be pleased.

Or grieve.

My thoughts turn to some of his final words to me, and I recall the emotion in his eyes, on his face, as he spoke them. It all takes on a totally new meaning now that I know he knew he was speaking directly to his daughter.

I looked at those detectives who could see the devil inside me, who wanted to lock me up, and suddenly I knew. I had to go inside. I had to go behind bars. I wanted to be locked away. To save those around me. To save those kids. To protect my own child.

Was he afraid he might eventually abuse me, too?

Is that what underscored my young mom’s actions when she gave him up to the police? Hurt burns into my eyes as a raw, deep longing surfaces inside me. It’s a longing for something that could not—cannot—exist. A longing for a father’s true and healthy love. In some strange, ugly, complicated way, I am jealous of Leena Rai. Of the fact that my father seems to have cared for her. The fact that she knew him in a way I can never know him now. It makes no sense at all for me to feel this way about the victim of a brutal killing. But I am relieved he didn’t kill her—I truly believe that whoever Leena’s killer is, he’s still out there. And my job now is to finish this off. For me. For my mom. For my gran. For my dad.

And mostly for Leena and her family left behind, because they still have not seen justice done.

“Yeah,” I say to Gio. “Let’s have a beer.” I tuck my socked feet under my butt on the sofa and watch him as he goes to the small fridge in the kitchenette, opens it, plucks out two bottles of the local brew, and carries them over.

I like watching him. I like the way he moves. He’s wearing low-slung sweatpants and a faded gray sweatshirt. Sure, they’re designer brands, but he’d look just as good in thrift store wear. His black hair is mussed. Stubble shadows his jaw. It makes his green eyes look even lighter below his thick, dark brows. I realize suddenly just how lucky I am to have Gio at my side.

“I like when you dress casual,” I say as I reach for the cold bottle.

He blinks in surprise and seems momentarily lost for words. Something heavy and hot passes between us. He slowly takes a seat beside me as I look away and twist the cap off the beer bottle. I notice my pulse is beating faster. I take a long, cold swig, wondering what it is about me that scares me away from getting involved with guys. I mean really involved, with men I actually like and respect. Instead of my series of short-term flings, and one-night stands with men who are disposable to me.

He kicks his feet up onto the coffee table beside mine. He takes a long swallow, then says, “I wish you’d told me.”

I turn to look at him.

“That Clayton Pelley was your father.” His eyes show hurt. I get it. I would be hurt, too.

“I’m sorry, Gio. I . . . I couldn’t. I didn’t even know how to think about it myself. Going through the interview sessions, I suppose, was my way of trying to figure that all out. Figure him out. And to try to understand, or process, my relationship to him.” I pause, take another sip from the bottle. “As much as Leena’s family probably wanted—needed—to know why he did what they thought he did, so did I. And then when he said he didn’t kill her . . . it messed with my head. I began to want to prove he didn’t. I wanted him to be innocent of that, at least.”

“And then he said he confessed in order to set you and your mom free.”

I nod. “That, and . . .” Emotion snares my voice and strangles my words. I sit silent for a few beats. Gio places his hand on my knee.

“I understand,” he says quietly, in a nonsexual, nonthreatening, dear friend kind of way. It makes the tears come. But he just sits there and lets me cry. And in that moment, I love him. I probably always have, and it always scared me off. Because Gio is good. Too good for me. I didn’t want to start something that would hurt us both and screw with our professional arrangement.

“You should call your gran,” he says quietly.

“It’s late where she is.”

“Still, she’d want to know.”

I nod. He’s right. Gran is probably sitting awake in the care home beside my mom’s bed. Alone. Listening to the podcast. Wondering what I am feeling.

“How about I go score us some takeout while you do that?” Gio says. “Sound good?”