One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(62)

An act of reckoning, Neil had said. By whom? For what? And how? The groomsmen’s big confession was interesting, but to Martin’s point, not necessarily dramatically different. The end of the story remained the same—Tim grabbing his pack and heading back to the trail in the middle of the night. Drunk, not sober, which probably explained why he got lost, but lost is lost. Same end, just a better explanation as to why.

Unless Josh really did do something after the others returned to their tents. Except how far into the woods could he have gotten in the small window of time before the crazy noises roused the entire camp? And if he’d somehow harmed Tim, why wasn’t Tim’s body discovered immediately?

Spinning. The wheels of my mind racing around and around while my legs pump, up-down, up-down, up-down.

Next thing I know, we burst free of the scraggly pines, and there it is. The sprawling gray-brown cliff face. The infamous piles of rocks. And, maybe, the answer to all our questions.



* * *



—

“We’re headed to the cave I discovered yesterday,” Marty informs me as he changes course toward the northern end of the wall.

“No more attempts to climb up?”

“Too much risk for too little reward. Daisy picked up scent near the cave, making it a more definitive target.”

I nod, trucking along behind him. Entering the rock field, I have to pay attention to my footing, alternating from stepping on boulders to skirting around the larger piles.

“Why did you stay?” Martin asks me abruptly.

“Why did you stay?”

Marty frowns at me. “Tim’s my son.”

I shrug. “Plenty of parents lose children. They don’t all spend five years combing the woods regardless of the danger to themselves and others. Not to mention—”

“They don’t abandon their dying wives?” he bites out.

“You said it, not me.”

Martin doesn’t answer right away. His stride has grown faster with his agitation. I can’t keep up and don’t even try. I figure he’ll pull away, storm off to his target, while Bob struggles to decide if he should power ahead with his boss or stay behind with me. I’m surprised, then, when Marty suddenly stops and whirls around, his weathered face glowering.

“Are you scared?” he demands to know.

“Terrified.”

“Accidents happen in the wild. Could be that simple.”

“And the person who broke into your house, sabotaged your car?” I push back.

“Childish pranks.”

“Then sent you threatening e-mails routed around the globe? I prefer my reality served straight up, thank you.”

“You can be a real bitch,” he clips out.

“And you’re a real asshole.”

“Goddammit!”

Martin’s curse explodes across the space, echoing off the towering cliff face. Both Bob and I draw up short, Bob taking up position behind my left shoulder. I want to believe it’s a show of solidarity, but it could just as easily be to block my retreat.

Martin’s breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His expression has finally cracked, and beneath the surface I don’t see molten rage, but something worse. The pain of a man who knows he is wrong, and has done wrong. The agony of a man who still can’t do things any differently.

I recognize that anguish. It robs me of my own breath. Failure, in its harsh, cruel entirety. I know it intimately. And just like Martin, I still can’t stop myself from making the same mistakes.

“I know,” Martin shudders out roughly, “that I’m obsessive and arrogant and controlling. I speak when I should listen. I act when I should let go. I’m hard on those I love. Hell, I’m a hard man to love. I know I am these things. I also know I was all of those things before my son disappeared.”

I nod slowly. Bob places a steadying hand on my shoulder.

“I don’t know how to watch my wife die. I don’t. I tried. I failed. I can’t spend one more second at her bedside, holding a hand that no longer feels like her hand. Listening to her struggle to talk in a voice that isn’t her voice. Looking at a body that is supposed to be my Patrice but . . . isn’t. I have loved her since I was eighteen years old. I don’t know how to just sit there now and let her go.”

Bob and I say nothing.

“So I left. I told her I’d bring her our boy. I promised her we’d be together again. Our family. You don’t understand . . . We were so good once. We loved each other so much.” His voice breaks; he can’t continue. Tears streak down his heavily lined face. He makes no move to wipe them away. “Patrice . . . She is the love of my life,” he whispers. “She is the best part of me, the decision I got right, the person who gives meaning to my days. And Tim . . . Maybe he wasn’t perfect. Maybe he screwed up and hurt his friends, Josh’s sister. But he loved us and he cared about his friends very much. Once he met Latisha, settled down, got engaged, I could see the husband and father he was going to be . . . I wanted so badly to meet that man. I couldn’t wait to share him with the world.”

Martin releases another shuddery breath. He wipes at his face, swallowing hard to get his composure back.

“So, yes. I’m an asshole. I should’ve done what Patrice told me to do—let Tim’s friends move on with their lives. Blessed Scott and Latisha’s marriage. But I didn’t. I dragged everyone here instead. Despite their hatred. Despite threatening e-mails and stolen camping equipment. This is where I need to be. This is what I gotta do. This is who I am.”