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CHAPTER 30
“Ithink,” Kara said, hating the admission as she stared out the window of Tate’s condominium, watching the river winding upon itself at the point, then flowing past the town, “I want to go back to the cabin.” Her blood rushed in her ears as images of that horrid night spiraled through her brain and the knot in her gut twisted almost painfully.
Tate looked up from his notes. He was sitting at his desk, the dog at his feet, the TV turned to some twenty-four-hour news channel. They’d spent most of the day discussing the past and present, how it all tied together. She’d gone over the police interview and they’d talked about Merritt Margrove’s death, Jonas’s release from prison, Marlie’s existence and how it was all connected. With only a break for sandwiches and to walk the dog, she’d finally come to the conclusion that she would never have all the answers she needed, never have a chance to fill the holes in her memory or be able to put the past to rest until she faced it head on. She’d decided to trust Tate, to confide in him.
“I thought you wanted to avoid that place,” he said.
“I do. I mean, I did. But maybe twenty years is long enough.” She offered him a frail smile. She knew she couldn’t just stay here forever, hiding out at Tate’s place with the dog, feeling safe, but pretending that it—the horror of the past—didn’t exist. She glanced back through the window again, away from the river to the town stretched upon its shores and the people on the street, hurrying through the snow, huddled against the weather, bundled in jackets and coats while cars eased past the building to stop at the cross street, headlights and taillights. All the people out there living their lives, not caged by their own paranoia.
Even as she watched the people she scanned the area, looking, searching for whoever it was she felt was always watching her. It had to end.
“I think it’s time,” she said, feeling the urge to pour herself a drink, or two . . . or seven. She turned back to him and fought the need. “But I definitely can’t do it on my own.”
“Of course not.”
“Good.” She let out her breath. She had to trust him. She needed an ally. Even though she knew he planned to write the definitive book on the case, she decided to go for it. Someone would. So why not Wesley Tate, the boy she’d met way back when, the kid who’d lost his father because of her, the man she found attractive? He had a sense of humor as dark as her own, and he would go to great lengths to get to the truth. Whereas she’d hidden from the past, kept to herself as much as possible, tried to deny that she was the survivor of a horrific tragedy that had scarred her forever, he’d run at the past head on. If not embracing the pain and horror, he’d been determined to fight back, to dig up the truth, to escape from the shackles of their shared experience.
It was time, she thought, to deal with it. Even though just thinking about returning to that house caused her stomach to knot. She ignored it. Circumstances were forcing her to challenge the past; she just had to find the courage to outrun her paranoia.
What, Kara? No, no, no! You can’t step through that door again.
“I’ve been avoiding it for too long,” she admitted, refusing to pay attention to the coiling inside her, choosing not to listen to that horrid voice in her head and unwilling to fall victim to its venomous fear again. “Maybe if I go there—we go there—something will jog my memory, or those blank spaces will be filled.”
Are you out of your mind?
That place—it’s evil.
It’s where Mama and Daddy were murdered.
All that blood. Do you remember? All the blood?
And the dead bodies and the toppled Christmas tree and the music—the damned music!
Her skin crawled and she thought she might be sick.
No, Kara, don’t do this. You will regret it.
“Or,” she said, tamping down the urge to throw up as the taste of bile burned the back of her throat. She gritted her teeth and forced a tremulous smile against her growing sense of panic. “Or there’s a chance, a pretty good chance, that I’ll lose it completely, you know, have a complete panic attack and psychological breakdown.” She swallowed with difficulty, fought the fear crawling through her. “What d’ya say? You game?”
“Always,” he said, a slow, thin smile appearing as he crossed the room and, once more, touched her shoulder. “You know me, McIntyre. I’m always game for a complete meltdown.”
* * *
“So we have a deal,” the lawyer said from across the table in the sheriff’s department interview room. Seated next to Brittlynn Atwater, Robert Cooke adjusted his reading glasses. A thin man with pinched features, brown hair that waved away from his face, he wore an expensive suit and a no-nonsense attitude as he set his phone, ready to record, on the table, next to the department’s recording device. Cameras were already videotaping as well.
“That’s right.” Thomas nodded, waiting, not completely believing that what Chad’s wife was going to tell them was the truth.
“Let’s get this over with.” Brittlynn was nervous, her skin pale. She’d changed into black slacks and a white sweater, her makeup light, her red hair scraped into a loose bun, her attitude a little less thorny than it had been earlier. And she was chewing gum as if her life depended on it.
It had taken hours to hammer out the plea deal, but the DA had agreed that if Brittlynn Atwater gave her revised statement, the charges that she might have faced as a juvenile of fourteen would all but disappear. Community service was still on the table due to the severity of the crimes, but all in all, Brittlynn would skate.
“Why do you think Chad left? Did he say? Did it have anything to do with Merritt Margrove’s death?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I mean not directly. And just to be clear: Chad was with me on the night the lawyer was killed. All night. I know. I got up to pee around two thirty and he was still asleep, had crashed around eleven after a long day of ski lessons for kids who are out of school for the holidays. He had nothing to do with it. But he was on edge, y’know, because Jonas was out and once Margrove was killed, Chad couldn’t keep it together.”
“Why?” Johnson asked.
“Because of what happened. Twenty years ago.” She swallowed. “The massacre.”
