Bloodline(71)

That gives me at least ten hours.

I flip on the radio. Van Morrison is singing “Brown Eyed Girl.”

I stab the button, remembering Deck and me dancing to the song in the tiny apartment before we moved. Why did he have to fall in love with me, and me with him? Couldn’t he simply have married some woman who wanted to be in Lilydale, someone like Miss Colivan?

It hits me again with a fresh wave of grief: Ursula believed Deck, not me. I’m alone, alone except for my baby, and I will not let anything happen to him. I roll down the window and let the night breeze glitter across my skin. I am so close to free.

When I reach 94, though, I remember Grover’s phone call, the one I hung up on hours earlier. He’d discovered something important. Would it confirm who Paulie’s father was?

I realize I need to know if my child’s grandfather is a rapist.

It will take less than an hour. I have the time. It’s late, but I won’t ever be in this state again, so it’s now or never. I drive through Saint Cloud, reveling in the feeling of invisibility. When I pass a blue mailbox, I pull over to scribble a note to Benjamin, toss it in the prepared envelope containing the film, and sink the works into the box.

One step closer to safety.

I don’t know what I’ll find at Grover’s, but I think it’s likely that he’s discovered that Ronald was Paulie’s father, Ronald or Stanley.

I grow more certain of this as I steer toward Grover’s house on the north side.

I’m so focused on untangling the pieces that, at first, I don’t register the ambulance’s wail. Grover lives close to the hospital, the hospital where I would’ve been forced to give birth had there been any complications. I rub my belly absently, for comfort. But as I near Grover’s house, I realize with dawning horror that the ambulance is pulling up outside his home, screeching to a stop alongside the police car already there, its lights flashing.

My heart galloping, I park the car. I leap out, watching, unbelieving, as the medics jerk out the gurney and race into Grover’s house. Moments later, when they hurry out with an unmoving body on the stretcher, I fall to my knees. I can see Grover’s impassive face and a corner of his hand, both still under the glow of the streetlamps.

I retch into the grass.

They killed Grover.

And it’s my fault.

I never warned him how dangerous they were. How deadly. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I use the car door to pull myself to my feet. I need to see him one last time, to beg forgiveness even if he can’t hear me. I step forward.

The sheet moves, and the man coughs.

“Grover!” I scream, running toward him. The ambulance driver tries to block me, but I’m a wild creature. I growl and push through. Grover’s wrist is warm where I clutch it. “What happened?”

The ambulance driver speaks, not unkindly. “He was attacked, ma’am. A burglar, they think. We have to get him to the hospital.”

“Gave ’em more than they bargained for,” Grover says, his voice weak. “I think they heard I got my hands on this.” There is trembling under the sheet, but he doesn’t appear to have the strength to move his arm.

I reach under and come out with an envelope, bent into an impossible shape.

Grover’s gurney is guided into the back of the vehicle.

“Is he going to be okay?”

They don’t answer.

“Is he going to be okay?” I scream. They close the rear door, leap into the front seat, and slam their doors before driving away, their lights flashing. A police officer steps out of Grover’s house, his face questioning. I stumble into my own car and start it up, clutching the envelope the whole time. I don’t know who’s watching here. I drive downtown and park the car beneath a streetlight.

I open the crumpled envelope with shaking hands.

I discover Paulie Aandeg’s birth certificate inside.

Grover’s favor had come through. It had nearly cost him his life.

It may yet.

My eyes glide over the words without understanding. I reread them, disbelieving, and flip to the image clipped to the back of the birth certificate. A picture of Virginia Aandeg. My lungs shrink as my body goes leaden. I suddenly realize what about Stanley in that 1944 photo looked familiar.

Dear God save me.

It finally all makes sense.





PART III





CHAPTER 56

I fumble for the key in the ignition, my fingers numb. I’m positive I’ve forgotten how to drive, but within moments I find myself in front of the Saint Cloud Police Department. I leave the car running as I bolt in. I realize from a great distance that I’m hysterical. That I’m screaming and yelling. That I am saying that my life is in danger. Swearing that I have proof of things. I’m waving the birth certificate and photo in one hand and the empty camera in the other.

I am led to a room and seated across from two men out of uniform.

They hand me water.

I tell them everything.

Everything.

They keep exchanging incredulous glances. Against all odds, I see they believe me. Finally. Finally someone trusts my story.

When I’m finished, the dark-haired of the two detectives reaches for the phone. He turns to his blond partner. They nod at each other, and then the dark-haired man turns to me.

“We’ll handle this. You rest. Let us do our job.”