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She nods her head. “I know. He came up here to tell me in person.”
“Damon did?” I ask.
“Yup. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me finish.”
AJ encourages her to keep going with a roll of his hand.
“So Damon’s father says, ‘I can get you out of here. Put you and the baby somewhere safe. I have friends out west who will take care of you. I can get you a new identity. You can start over.’ Of course, he would be coming to visit me and the baby regularly. But I said yes and less than twenty-four hours later I was on an Indian reservation in New Mexico. That’s how I met Daniel Nightingale. I was staying with his aunt. And Chris used to come over every now and then. We were close in age, and we became friends. So after the baby was born we got common-law married and I got pregnant again and… well, you know the rest.”
“Hold up,” I say. “What happened to the first baby?”
“He’s safe somewhere. He was adopted through an agency.”
“How did you get that past Damon’s old man?” AJ asks.
“I didn’t tell him until after it was done. I had the medical center on the reservation induce my labor five days early, had the baby, signed him over to a private adoption agency, and that was that.”
“Holy shit,” AJ says. “What did you say to the old man?”
“I told him the truth. That they were all a bunch of evil motherfuckers and I was done. The tribe took care of me. And when Damon’s father came to visit on the day he thought the baby was due, they met him at the entrance to the reservation with lots and lots of guns. Whatever happened after that, I don’t know. I didn’t actually see it. I never talked to him again, in fact. I stayed there for a couple months and then I moved up here on the mountain with Chris and Daniel.”
“So when did Damon find you?”
“About…” She thinks for a moment. “Eighteen months ago, I guess?”
“Right about the time the old man died,” I say.
She nods. “His father told him, I guess. I’ve imagined that conversation a million times in my head. But however it happened, Damon came up here one day, walked through the door, took a seat at the bar, and ordered a drink from Chris. I was standing there, holding our baby, watching the whole thing happen like it was a bad dream.”
“What did he do?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Nothing. Not one goddamned thing. Just drank his drink, waited for Chris to go in the back to get something and then slid a piece of paper over to me.”
“What’d it say?” AJ asks.
“It said, I’ll be back when you least expect it. And I will rip your world apart the way you did mine. And then he left. Daniel was already dead from cancer by that time. But six months later Chris and Bonnie were dead. Slipped off the side of the road and hit a tree, they said. But it’s not true. It was no accident. Damon killed them and left me up here to rot alone.”
“He didn’t ask you about the baby?”
“Not that time. But he sent a huge flower arrangement to the funeral with a note to call him. Which I did. And he said if I gave the baby back to him, he’d leave me alone.”
“You didn’t, of course,” AJ says.
“I don’t even know where he is. I told the adoption agency to hide him. To never let anyone find out his real name. And they can’t find him because there’s no record of me giving birth. The tribal medical center faked everything the day my son was born. Some young teenager’s name is on his original birth certificate. No one can find him now, not even me.”
Chapter Twenty-Two – AJ
The three of us sit in silence for a long time. Just eating our food. More out of habit and necessity than hunger or appetite. Because that was some fucking story.
When we’re done Yvette gets up and says, “I’m going to take a shower and put on something pretty. Just leave the dishes here and I’ll take care of them later.”
And then she disappears through the swinging kitchen door.
Logan and I just stare at each other. Finally, he says, “She’s lying.”
And I nod my head. Reluctantly. Because I don’t want it to be a lie, but it is. I’ve dealt with all kinds of desperate people. I mean, dudes will say anything when they think you’re about to bash their head in with a bat. Anything. I’ve learned to spot the desperation. Learned to filter the truth from the fantasy.
And this story Yvette Nightingale just told reeks of desperation. It’s overflowing with fantasy. The only difference is she’s not desperate to save her own life. She gives no fucks at all about her own life.
