The next morning when I show up for work, everyone in the workroom is standing around the TV. The morning news is on, and they’re showing the weather. When I walk in, Cole looks up. He still looks tired, dark circles under his eyes, but there is a light in them that I haven’t seen for a few days. “Hey, Miranda, can I talk to you?”
I’m probably in trouble. He must have realized that I’m the one who went to the media. I follow him into the break room, hoping he doesn’t notice the scrapes on my chin and hands.
“Somehow the media got wind of all the things we talked about regarding the Trendalls.”
“Yeah, I noticed that,” I say.
“So . . . did you go to them with that information?”
I try not to indicate with my expression whether I did or not. “What difference does it make? The important thing is that people are aware of what they’ve done. If it gets you your kids back, your job . . .”
He sighs. “If you did, I want to thank you. I told you not to do it before, but if you did it anyway, I’m glad. You’ve been a good friend to me, even though I don’t know you that well.”
I can’t manage a smile. “I’m glad to hear that,” I say. “I just don’t like to see injustice. It kind of got under my skin.”
“Well, it’s not over yet.” He goes to the coffeepot, pours two cups of coffee, hands one to me. “We go to youth court about custody of the kids tomorrow. I’m hoping that since I’ve moved out, they’ll let my wife have them back. At least then we’ll know they’re safe.”
“It’s just all wrong,” I say. “It shouldn’t be possible for you to lose your kids that easily. And to have them put in a shelter instead of placed with family members. That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Tell me about it,” he says.
Out in the workroom, there’s a cheer, and we run out and see that his segment is on the news again. A hush falls over the room, and we watch as they show new things they’ve uncovered about the Trendalls, things I didn’t even tell them. It was just what I’d hoped, that once I gave them the initial facts, they would go at it like a dog with a bone. I’m so thankful they did. Some of my coworkers mention that the other news networks are picking it up, and that it was in the paper this morning.
When the segment is over, my coworkers cheer again, and they all pat Cole on the back.
We head to our stations as the TV continues to play. Cole is near the set when a segment comes on about me. I quickly turn toward the wall and continue boxing the seat that I’m working on. I hear the anchorman talking about me, and I know they’ve got that notorious picture of me up on the screen, the picture where I look like myself, the one before my life fell apart. I hope I’ve put on enough eyeliner this morning, and the smoky eyes and teased black hair will distract people’s attention. But hopes can only go so far.
Sources close to the investigation cite the suicide of Casey Cox’s father Andy Cox when she was twelve years old as a contributing factor to her state of mind. Psychologist Bill Pennington said that sometimes an event like that can trigger flashbacks later on and result in a patient reacting in an unpredictable, sometimes violent, way.
I turn and glance at Cole, and suddenly his eyes turn from the screen to me. Our eyes lock for a moment, and I can almost see the wheels turning in his head as he remembers my telling him my dad’s death was ruled a suicide when I was twelve. The hairs on my neck rise.
He knows.
He slides his hands into his pockets and, with a stricken expression, turns back to the screen. He stares at it, frozen for a moment, then frowns down at the floor. His ears redden and his breathing grows heavier as he works through it in his head. What will he decide to do with the fugitive standing in his workroom . . . the one who talked him off a bridge?
It’s over.
I don’t say a word to anyone. I just get my purse from under my station, leave the workroom, and walk through the office and out the front door. I get into my car and drive away before anyone can stop me, fully expecting police cars to surround me any minute.
I take back roads. When no one follows me, I begin to breathe again. But I know I can’t even go back to Miss Naomi’s. I can’t count on him not telling the police that I’ve been there right under his nose. I can’t count on him being loyal to me in any way. Why should he be? In a panic, I decide that I’ll have to get out of town as fast as I can.
But first I want to go by Candace Price’s one last time. I head that way, praying for a crumb of evidence I can use before I’m found.