“No. I did. I promise.” She pointed to the screen. “He even says he found it.”
“And just when exactly were you going to tell me about all these emails?”
“I tried to this afternoon, but-”
“You’ve been emailing him for three weeks!”
“I was scared you’d be mad.”
I smacked the couch. “Well, I am mad.”
Then I stood and I was towering over her and she was easing backward.
“I needed to find out why he never came looking for me and whether or not he loved Mom, things like that. And he didn’t.” Her voice cracked slightly. “He didn’t love her.”
Despite how distraught she sounded, I was still furious. “He says here that he doesn’t want me to find out about any of this; that he was afraid I’d take things out on you. Why would he write that? Is that what you told him?”
“No! I swear! I told him how much you love me, how you’d do anything for me, how you saved my life. But he kept asking me all these questions about you, and that’s when I left.”
Her voice was crisp with pain, and I felt the delicate bridge we’d been building for the last sixteen months splintering apart. But I had a right to be angry. I said nothing.
“Please. You have to believe me.”
I wanted to ask her why I should believe her now. Why, when she’d been deceiving me for the last three weeks? And I probably would have said it if the realization of what Paul had been doing hadn’t hit me so hard.
He was doing research for his lawsuit.
He was using Tessa to dig up dirt on you.
Something cold and uncertain began crawling around inside of me. “Did you tell him where we were staying for the summer? Is that how his lawyers found out where to send the letter?”
She was quiet. “What letter?”
I hesitated.
“You just said his lawyers sent a letter,” she said. “What letter?”
“Tessa, right now, what matters is-”
“Tell me!”
I took a breath, evaluated things, finally plowed forward. “Paul Lansing is trying to assert his rights as your biological father. That’s probably why he-”
“Assert his rights?” It took her only seconds to connect the dots. “You mean custody. He’s trying to get custody of me?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve already spoken to a lawyer-”
“Oh?” Now, it was her turn to look betrayed. “Really? And when were you planning on telling me all this?”
“I only found out about the letter last night after you went to bed, and then this morning you were asleep when I left.” A seismic shift had happened in the conversation. It was a little disorienting. “I wasn’t keeping it from you. I was going to tell you at lunch.”
As I watched her, I could almost see the anger she’d felt toward me only a moment ago evaporating and something darker taking its place. A shiver of fear. “This isn’t happening,” she said. “This can’t be happening.”
Her hands were shaking slightly.
I held my good arm out to her. “Come here.”
She came to me then, and, careful to avoid touching my injured arm, she leaned against my chest. And she held me in a way that broke my heart.
I didn’t feel right telling her that things were going to be okay, that it would all work out, because I couldn’t guarantee any of that, but then I realized she was crying and I knew I had to say something. “Shh,” I whispered. “Don’t worry. I’m here.” I’ve never been good at this sort of thing. “I’ll always be here for you. You know that.”
After a long, painful moment, she eased back to look at me. A single, round tear traced down her cheek. “I love you,” she said, and her words were soft and deep and real.
I wiped the tear away. “I love you too, Tessa.”
“You can’t let this happen. You can’t let him take me.”
Then I said what I’d been hesitant to tell her only a moment before: “I won’t let him take you away. I promise.”
And this was one promise that I swore to myself I was going to keep.
No.
Matter.
What.
43
Thirty minutes later, after things had calmed down somewhat and Tessa was feeling at least a little better, she asked me to tell her about how I got shot, but to leave out any gross parts.
Obviously, I couldn’t divulge details about the case, but I did tell her as much as I could about the race through the hotel and the shooting in the basement.
And in that strange way that shared tragedy seems to draw people together, my story about the shooting made me feel closer to her, reassured me that we could both be vulnerable in front of each other and it was okay.
When we finally went to the fridge for supper, it was after 8:00.
She found some leftover Thai and headed to the microwave. “Aren’t you guys always supposed to wait for backup?”
“Ideally, yes.” I grabbed a couple cans of root beer. “But it doesn’t always work out like that.”
“So, what is this? The third time? Fourth time you’ve been shot?”
“Only the third, but I’ve been doing this for over fifteen years and-”
“Maybe you wouldn’t get shot so much if you’d follow the rules.”
“That’s never exactly been my strong suit, Raven.”
A stretch of silence.
“You could have gotten killed, Patrick.”
Honestly, I hadn’t thought about the shooting in those terms, and her words brought a sudden seriousness to the conversation. “I suppose that’s possible.”
“Do me a favor.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t let that happen.”
Unsure where to go with this, I replied simply, “I’ll do my best.”
After supper, we talked for a long time about things we’d never really shared before: her years growing up in Minnesota, her first boyfriend, my high school basketball days, the two women I’d loved before meeting her mother.
Eventually, for a late dessert, we broke into my secret stash of vegan brownies I’d bought for her at a bakery a few days ago. I anticipated that they would taste like baked chalk, but they were amazingly good.
“This lawyer you have,” she said, her mouth full of brownie, “is he good?”
“It’s a woman, and I think she is. I’ve never worked with her before, but she comes highly recommended.”
“And she’s the one who wanted the diary?”
“That’s right.”
We both munched for a moment, then she said, “Don’t go after him, okay?”
“Who?”
“Paul.” Another bite. “Just leave it to the lawyer.”
I felt a tug of disappointment for being the kind of person to whom she needed to say something like that.
I’m sure my hesitation telegraphed my thoughts, and I decided to change the subject. “I have to make a few calls,” I told her. “I need to tell the lawyer about Paul contacting you, and I should probably touch base with my boss, let her know there aren’t any broken bones in my arm, that I’ll be fine to teach my classes tomorrow.”
“Maybe you should take a day off?”
“I’ll be okay.”
“Yeah,” she said, and it almost sounded like she was disappointed. She stood. “I gotta print out some stuff anyway. I did some research for you.”
“Really?”
“On that Gunderson Foundation place, and on primates. I think it might help you with your case.”
Hmm. Nice.
“Forward Paul’s emails to me first,” I said, “so I can send them to the lawyer.”
A pause. “Okay.”
She left the room, and I dialed Missy’s home number.
44
Missy Schuel listened silently as I told her about Paul Lansing’s emails to Tessa and his rendezvous with her earlier in the day.
“Who initiated the electronic communication between them?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What about the meeting?”
“He did.”
“Forward the emails to me.”
“I’m doing it right now.” I tapped at my keyboard.
“It might be considered intimidation if you contact him, so don’t. I can guarantee you that it wouldn’t help our case. Also, your friend dropped off the diary. Thank you.”