The look Keegan gave me as he left Jim Pace’s parking lot gives me a sick feeling. He’s a dangerous man, and if he senses that I’m not on his side or that I don’t buy his story, I’ll be as dead as Brent. When I’m a couple of miles away from the Pace house, I pull over at a Burger King and open my laptop. I sign on to their Wi-Fi and copy the files I’ve compiled about Brent onto the thumb drive Casey sent me weeks ago, the one with all of Brent’s research. Then I delete the files from my email account and hard drive.
I copy the files from that thumb drive onto another. Then I drive to my bank, rent a safe deposit box, and leave the original thumb drive there. I take the key with me, trying to decide who to give it to. Who can be trusted?
My shrink? I could tell her that if I wind up dead, I want her to get the evidence to the FBI or the state police. But that sounds a little paranoid, like that Mel Gibson character in Conspiracy Theory. I don’t want her thinking my PTSD has escalated to a whole new level.
I could give the key to Hannah, Casey’s sister, but I feel like she already has the evidence. I know she’s sent Casey a package already. It was probably this very drive.
I could give it to the Paces, but I don’t know that they would be able to keep themselves from going to see what’s in there.
There’s no one I can trust enough.
The thought dips me back into depression, but I force myself out. I can’t go there. I have to act. I’ll figure out what to do with the key at some point, but I can’t let it hang me up now.
Department resources or not, Keegan and Rollins are going after her. They have their own resources, which is part of the problem.
At some point, I need to email Casey again so we can compare notes. If I can make her trust me, maybe she’ll tell me where she is.
Yeah, and pigs fly. I know I’m fantasizing now.
My phone chimes as I get to my apartment. I look at the readout and groan. My mother. I consider not picking up, but before the fourth ring, I click Accept. “Hey, Mom.” I know my voice sounds flat.
“You haven’t called me in weeks. I wanted to see if you’re dead.”
“No, Mom, I’m not dead.”
“You would think you’d be in touch more often after being gone for so long. It’s not like you’re busy.”
“Actually, I am,” I say. “I’ve been working.”
“Working? Who hired you?”
I don’t want to go into it. “I’m contracted to help the police department on a case. I’ve been out of town a lot.”
“Do they know about your problem?”
I hate the way she says that word, as though it has quotations around it.
“Yes, Mom. So how are you?”
“I’m fine. Just curious why you can take time to go out of town but not come here.”
I bristle. “You threw me out.”
“I did not throw you out. It was a little fight, that’s all.” Her words are slurred. “I didn’t mean you could never come back.”
I breathe a quiet, bitter laugh. “It was time for me to move on anyway.” I can only think of one reason she would call. She’s made it clear she doesn’t care much about seeing me, and when she does, it disturbs her that I’m not the version of myself that she expects.
“Do you need money, Mom? Is that why you’re calling?”
“No,” she grunts. “I really wanted to know if you’d heard about Brent Pace. Got himself murdered.”
I don’t want to talk to her about Brent even more than I don’t want to talk about myself. “Of course I heard. It happened months ago.”
“All that attention those people paid to that boy, and this happens. Brent must’ve been involved in something shady.”
“He wasn’t.”
“You don’t know. And all those years, judging me, like that kind of thing would only happen to my kid because I’m such a terrible mother. Never them.”
My face gets hot. “Serves them right, huh?”
“I didn’t say that, but now that you have . . .” Her voice trails off, as though she knows deep down that’s a deplorable thing to say. I hope there’s still that much conscience left inside her.
“So your uncle is coming home with his family next weekend. I told him you’d be here if you could drag yourself out of bed.”
I wet my lips, wondering why my mouth feels so dry. “I probably can’t make it. I’m about to leave town again.”
“What’s he gonna think if you’re not here?”
Stomach acid is burning a hole in my gut. “That I had a breakdown and I’m in a straitjacket somewhere?”
“He doesn’t think that.”
“The last phone call I had with him, he told me to snap out of it. Said I was embarrassing the family, that it was time to grow up.”
“He just has high standards.”
My mother’s little brother has never spent a day in service to his country, but he has lots of opinions about those of us who have. “I have high standards too, Mom.” I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t have told him I’d be there without asking me. I can’t come.”
I don’t tell her that my shrink has warned me to keep some space between them and me for a while. People who don’t understand PTSD—or any other normal vulnerability—shouldn’t have the power to reverse my progress.
My skin is thick enough to tolerate that ignorance in most people, but it’s harder to stand it in people who are supposed to care.
“What will I tell your dad?”
“Tell him I’ve gotten out of bed.”
“He spent his whole check at the slots. I don’t know how we’ll pay the light bill.”
There it is. I knew it. “How much?”
“One-fifty.”
“Give me the account number. I’ll call Southwestern and pay it.”
“I don’t have it memorized. Just send it to me. I’ll pay it.”
I know better. My parents are both alcoholics. My dad has cirrhosis so bad he vomits blood. They drink away every disability check before bills come due. I could say no, I won’t send it, but then she’d get mean, and I’d spend the next few days obsessing about it instead of thinking about Casey. I finally agree so I can get off the phone.
Sometimes family is a live minefield.