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“You heard the doctor. I don’t have much time to live.”
“But...” Willa sounds dumbfounded. “No, Dad.No.”
“You don’t have to,” I interrupt. “This is ridiculous to even think about.”
“They won’t put me in prison.” He breathes in raggedly. “I’m dying, girls. Where am I going to go?”
He almost looks mischievous as he says this. I’m dumbstruck.
“Dad.” I shake my head. “I’m not letting you confess to a murder you didn’t commit. It’s... preposterous.”
“It’ll ruin your legacy,” Willa pipes up.
He waves his hand, but his voice is suddenly full of remorse. “What kind of father doesn’t know that something terrible has happened to his daughter? That something has happened to his grandchildren? Youaremy legacy.”
“Dad.” Willa shuts her eyes. “Stop.”
“It’s true. I put Aldrich on the front burner for years, and that made me lose sight of keeping my children safe.” He shifts so he’s sitting a little higher. “Let me do this. Let me keep you safe. It’s the least I can do.”
Aurora lets out a squeak. Willa stares at me with a look that seems to say,How can we stop him?Tears drip down my cheeks. My father looks so at peace with his decision. It’s all happening too quickly—realizing we’re going to have to say goodbye, and now hearing of the sacrifice he’s going to make for us.
I walk over to Aurora and put my hand over hers. My heart is beating quickly, and I don’t want to get my hopes up that this could work, and I feel conflicted even considering letting him go through with it. I feel her press against me, her body shuddering with pain. Even if she isn’t going to jail for this, she’s going to have to live with it for the rest of her life, just like Willa has lived with her rape.
And maybe that’s prisonenough.
EPILOGUE
47
LAURA
FRIDAY, MAY 12, 2017
Mother’s Day dawns warm, sunny, and fragrant, which is a delight. Last Mother’s Day, almost halfway through my pregnancy, I woke up to six inches of snow. Ollie and I went through with our picnic plans anyway, shoveling off a patch on the lawn of Phipps Conservatory, our fingers frozen as we sipped sparkling cider, the snowflakes landing on my slightly swollen belly. We were both so happy, though, the weather barely mattered.
Well. Actually, I guess neither of us was. I was afraid. And Ollie was quietly, secretly furious.
But this is my first official Mother’s Day as a mom. And as I swing into the car, I hear Freddie kicking at his dangling car seat toy in the back, and my world is filled with light and life. I understand the gift I’ve been given. That if things had gone differently, I might not have my son at all. I might not be alive.
The day the police stopped me on the turnpike still comes back to me in horrific flashes. The cops took me into their cruiser, arranging for a separate vehicle to follow behind us with Freddie. I’d begged them to let us ride together, but they refused. The whole drive, I rocked with psychic pain, sensing Freddie’s lonely screamsas though they were needles drilling into my skin. I was furious, too. What doctor had signed a bogus note that I was a danger to my child? How long in advance had Ollie planned this? What if Ollie got sole custody of my child? That’s what frightened me the most, I think—that my baby would be with a man who had it in him to kill.
The drive back to Pittsburgh was excruciating. We finally pulled up to the station in Blue Hill, and the police escorted me to a small, isolated interrogation room and told me to wait. I strained to hear Freddie’s cries, but the office was as silent as a tomb. I pleaded with an officer who came to check if I needed something to drink. The baby still nurses, I urged. He’s going to need a diaper change. He’s got to be scared.
But they didn’t listen to me. My paranoia spiraled. I went from thinking they’d sort out the mistake to being certain that I was never going to see my baby again. This was how far Ollie was going to go to ruin my life. I cried loudly, hideously, but no one opened my door.
After what seemed like hours, a door swung open. I cringed, expecting more officers barging in with handcuffs, ready to haul me off to jail or court or the hospital. When I saw a female officer and a plainclothes woman, I lifted my head a little. Then I realized the woman was holding my child in her arms. I let out a relieved, broken little bleat, jumping to my feet and stretching my arms out for my child. “We’re sorry,” the officer said, her voice full of genuine regret. She handed the baby over. “Mrs. Apatrea, we are so, so sorry we put you through this.”
I didn’t ask how they’d figured out what had happened. I didn’t care. I nuzzled Freddie, sobbing, grateful. After a moment, the officer said that they had Ollie in custody for assault. But I wouldn’t really grasp what had happened until much later.
Now my phone dings. I muffle it, not wanting to wake the baby, and glance at the screen. It’s a reminder of an upcoming appointment tomorrow:Ollie, lawyer’s office.We’re meeting on neutral territory to sign the divorce papers. It certainly wasn’t difficult toschedule: Ollie was fired from his police position almost immediately after that showdown with Willa Manning. There are also charges against him that I filed—one for domestic assault, and another for lying to Child Protective Services and the state troopers. I don’t think he’s going to get that promotion anytime soon. I won’t let him back in the house; rumor has it he’s living with his mother on the other side of the city. He calls me regularly, begging me to take him back. Says he screwed up, says he forgives me for what happened with Greg. Says he misses Freddie. Still considers him his child.
What’s crazy is that these phone messages tug at my heartstrings. But then I think about those last few days we were together. The fear I felt. And the betrayal, too—I had been so, so certain that Ollie, as impulsive and hotheaded as he could be at work, would never,everbe that way around me. For him to flip, for him to change—albeit provoked by my betrayal—it made me lose faith in almost everything. So I can’t take Ollie back.
I’ve explained all of this to detectives and a new therapist. They said that I can file a restraining order that will legally forbid Ollie from coming within a certain distance of me—and Freddie. But I know how flimsy those things can be. I know that if you want to violate an order, not much is stopping you.
It’s why, then, I have a plan.
I flip on the radio, wanting to catch the news before I switch over to the nursery rhyme songs I’ve downloaded for Freddie. I find a local station, and someone is just finishing the weather report. Then, another anchor announces a new story:“Aldrich University president and self-confessed murderer is dead at sixty-nine.”
