The Last Thing She Ever Did(100)

Owen tightened his jaw. “No one will ever believe that I had a thing to do with what happened to Charlie. Besides, you were the one who killed him.”

“He isn’t dead, remember?”

Owen started pacing. Liz could see that his mind was working on what to say. What to do.

Looking for something to hit me with? A belt to strangle me with? A razor to slit my throat with? All of those things would require him getting his hands dirty. Owen doesn’t like to do that.

“I could kill you right now, Liz,” he said. “You’ve failed at everything you’ve tried to do. No one would give a shit if I did.”

His true colors were ugly, but he had a point. Owen was always expert at pointing out her faults, be it with her relationship with her brother—tenuous at best—or the fact that she’d failed the bar.

Technically, twice.

“Least of all me, Owen,” she finally said. “The truth is I’m not sure I’ll be able to live with everything I’ve done. None of it will ever leave me. I expect it will catch up with me. You, you’re different. It didn’t take but a single criminology class for me to understand you, though it’s taken me a long time to face it. Who wants to admit they married a sociopath? But that’s just what I did. Everything that comes from your lips is a lie. You’ll start over. You’ll do fine. You’ll get that money. But you’re not going to get it here.”

“I’ll drag you down with me if you mess with me,” he said.

Liz wanted to laugh, but she didn’t. Nothing about what happened to Charlie, the Franklins, Dr. Miller, and Brad Collins had been funny. “Owen, you’ll quit Lumatyx and you’ll leave Bend. If you don’t, you’ll go to prison and, as pretty as you are, I’m sure you’ll make plenty of new friends there.”

Owen stormed out, slamming the door so hard that Liz’s grandmother’s china hutch shuddered and a Blue Willow teacup fell to the floor.

She went over to pick up the shattered pieces. One piece at a time. Her own guilt and fear had made her a prisoner. Had made her weak. But in that moment of confrontation, Liz Jarrett had used one of her husband’s most cunning methods of control.

She’d lied.

She’d never contacted any professor. There was no photo on the cloud.





CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

MISSING: NO MORE

Within a few hours of Charlie’s discovery in a neighbor’s basement, the story of “Bend’s Miracle Boy” was all over the Internet. News media trucks from Portland and Seattle had already staked out prime real estate at the hospital and along the street in front of the Franklin house. To all of the reporters’ disappointment, there wasn’t anyone central to the case available for a live shot. David was back in the kitchen at Sweetwater. Liz and Carole were at the hospital with Charlie. The police weren’t talking. Not even the hospital spokesperson would comment.

The only one available was Owen, who’d left work because Damon had said the media was a distraction.

“And, really, shouldn’t you be with Liz?” he asked.

Damon was marginalizing him again.

“But we have a conference call.”

“You’re optional. Now, do the right thing. Go home. I have it covered here.”

Damon is a prick.

Despite the elated mood among the reporters and the people on the street, Owen’s countenance was grim. Sweat collected at his temples. He’d rather be anywhere but there. He’d especially rather be on the conference call to make sure Damon West didn’t throw him under the bus.

He was speaking to the press only to get everyone to go home.

“The family is grateful for the return of their son,” Owen said, gazing over the reporters and onlookers to avoid really looking into anyone’s eyes. “My wife is not a hero but a messenger of hope that good has triumphed over evil and a little boy has been returned to his parents. Please leave and respect the privacy of all involved.”

That last part was really his true message. To Owen’s way of thinking, everything had become far more complicated since Charlie’s miracle return. Directing the narrative was a feeble attempt to right a sinking ship. Everything would have been better if Charlie had died.

The kid has more lives than a cat, he thought.



Carole’s phone pinged with a text from David.

Please let me come.

She took a breath and tapped out two letters.

OK.

He wrote:

Thank you.

Carole looked at their son, now sleeping in the hospital bed. She could see a little of David in his eyes. He was his father. He always would be. She patted the boy’s warm little hand and then turned back to her phone to type a message.

It doesn’t change anything between us. He’s your son. You’ll need to act like a father from now on. Room 346.



Liz stayed out in the hallway, thinking of what she’d say when she went into Charlie’s hospital room. A couple of reporters tried to get her attention from an area just past the nurses’ station, a horseshoe-shaped configuration that effectively corralled the media away from its most sought-after interview subject. She nodded politely when she inadvertently made eye contact with a woman from the Bend Bulletin. She hoped to God that she wouldn’t have to say anything to anyone.