She couldn’t meet his eyes, felt her anger, her momentum, slipping away. Somehow she’d lost the advantage, could feel it, knew he felt it, too.
“There were guns in the trunk, Sara. You saw them. He was no college kid.”
“He was unarmed.”
“I didn’t know that. I’m sorry you got involved in all this. Sorry you had to be there. I never meant for any of this to happen. You have to believe that.”
“I’m not sure what I believe anymore.”
“What’s that mean?”
She shook her head, watched cars go past.
“You know me better than anyone, Sara. What I had with you I never had with anyone else. Probably never will again.”
“Don’t.”
“It’s true. Whether you want to believe it or not.”
“That’s got nothing to do with this.”
“It doesn’t? I’ve told you everything, Sara. And only you. You want me in Raiford? Get out your phone, call the sheriff. I’ll be in custody before the hour’s over. Is that what you want?”
She didn’t answer.
“Or maybe you’re wearing a wire,” he said, “and that’s what this is all about.”
She started the engine.
“You should get back,” she said. “Lee-Anne will be waiting for you.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not good enough, Sara.”
“It’ll have to be.”
He looked at her. “I can imagine the way you feel,” he said. “The position I put you in.”
“Can you?”
“If I could go back and change what happened that night, I would. But I can’t bring him back. My going to prison won’t change that. I can’t undo what was done. No one can.”
“You’re right about that. Go on, get out.”
“What?”
“It’s only about a mile back. You can walk it.”
“I’m wearing sandals.”
“I know.” She looked at him. “Go on.”
He opened the door, met her eyes for a moment, then climbed down.
“Tell me something,” she said.
“What?”
“Have you ever told me the truth? Ever?”
“Don’t be like that.”
“About anything?”
They looked at each other for a moment. Then he shut the door.
“Billy.”
He turned to face her through the open window.
“If I ever see you around my house again,” she said. “If you come around me or Danny or anyone I know outside duty hours…”
“You’ll shoot me?”
She looked at him.
“I would never hurt you, Sara. You know that. Never could, never will. Danny either. But I’m wondering if you feel the same way.”
After a moment, he turned and started for the highway. In the rearview she saw him standing on the shoulder, waiting for a break in traffic.
She took out her cell, opened it, scrolled to Sheriff Hammond’s home number. Her thumb lingered over the SEND button.
In the mirror, she saw Billy cross the highway to the opposite shoulder, start to walk along the grass there, heading home.
She closed the phone, tossed it on the passenger seat. Then she shifted into drive, pulled out of the lot.
For lunch, she made cold chicken sandwiches, reheated mashed potatoes. She took Danny’s temperature while he sat at the table. When the thermometer beeped, he took it from his mouth, held it out to her. Ninety-nine point two. She felt his forehead.
“You feel all right?” she said.
“I’m okay. Just tired.”
She gave him a baby Motrin to chew, poured him another glass of grape juice. After they ate, JoBeth cleared the table, and Sara went into the bathroom, closed the door, and ran the shower.
When the room filled with steam, she undressed and climbed into the too-hot stream, wincing at first. She closed her eyes, turned her face into the spray. Her hand was sore, the first two knuckles slightly swollen. She flexed her hand, eased some of the stiffness out, remembered what Billy has said.
I can’t undo what was done. No one can.
They’d closed the case, made their findings public. Reopening it would mean trouble for everyone. Charges for Billy, prison likely. It would cost the sheriff his job, his pension. Maybe her job as well. Once the state was involved, it would be too late for damage control. It would be about scalps.
She sat in the tub, let the water wash over her and swirl down the drain, taking the morning with it. She pushed her hair back with both hands, closed her eyes.
If she did nothing, said nothing, it all ended right here. Right now. Their lives would go on.
All you have to do is nothing. What could be easier than that?
TWENTY
Morgan woke tangled in sodden sheets. Bright light was coming in around the curtain edges. The nightstand clock told him it was three. He’d slept almost eleven hours.
Pushing the sheets away, he sat naked on the edge of the bed. His joints ached and his throat was swollen, his forehead warm to the touch. He realized he was shaking.
When he had the energy, he made his way into the bathroom, stood under the hot shower until the trembling stopped. Then he toweled dry, put the toilet seat down and sat there, head in his hands. You have to get up, he thought. You have to keep moving.
After a while, he went back into the room and got dressed. He stripped the sheets from the bed and pushed them into a pillowcase, along with the clothes from last night. He’d take them to the laundry room later, wash away the stale metallic smell that seemed to linger on everything he touched.
He opened the door, looked out. The sky was cloudless, the sun flashing off the Monte Carlo’s windshield. He’d left the Toyota beside a collapsed barn off a rural road two towns away, out of sight, then walked to where he’d parked his car and driven back.
Birds chattered in the trees, and he could hear the rush of the creek. Far above, a plane left a white contrail across the sky.
He wiped a wrist across his slick forehead. A band of pain circled his skull. He couldn’t afford to be sick, not now. Couldn’t afford to lose a day.
He went back in, closed the door, opened the top panels to let air in. In the bathroom, he swallowed a Vicodin half, then went to lie on the bare mattress, looking up at the water-stained ceiling. After a while, he took the Beretta from atop the nightstand. He set it in his lap, the metal cold in his grip.
If it ever got too bad, if the pain was too much, if the doctors couldn’t help him, this was what he would do. When his system began to shut down, when his skin turned ashen from the waste his kidneys couldn’t process, this was how he would end it. Vicodin and then the gun. The cold muzzle against the roof of his mouth, his finger on the trigger.
He was sleeping again when the knock came. Then another, hard on the door frame. He woke with a start, and the Beretta slid from his lap, thumped on the floor.
The fever was gone, but he felt drained, weak. He pushed himself up, went to the curtains, looked out. A dark green Range Rover with tinted windows, New Jersey plates, was parked next to the Monte Carlo.
The knock came again, rattling the glass. He picked up the Beretta, held it at his side.
“Yo, man, open the door.”
With his free hand, Morgan undid the dead bolt. He stepped back, his finger sliding over the Beretta’s trigger.
“It’s open,” he said.
When Dante came into the room, Morgan shoved him hard toward the bed, swiveled and raised the Beretta. DeWayne stood framed in the doorway. When he saw the gun, he ducked fast to the right, out of sight.
Morgan kicked the door shut, turned to see Dante getting up off the floor. He grabbed the back of his basketball jersey, jerked him off balance again. As he fell into a sitting position, Morgan crouched behind him, left arm around his neck, put the muzzle of the Beretta to his temple.