When he gets too close to my own wounds, I turn the conversation another direction. And when my watch buzzes a reminder, I’m surprised to find that a whole hour has gone by. The coffee in front of me is still full, and cold; Tyler’s consumed all of his. I dump mine and tell him that I really do have to go.
Tyler thanks me for my time, and doesn’t offer to shake hands this time. But just like before, he hesitates, and has one last question.
“Do you think your sister would be upset?” he asks me. “If she knew about . . .” He doesn’t finish the question; maybe he realizes it’s crossing a line. Because it is, and I know I ought to be angry about it. But somehow I’m not.
“If my sister knew I was happy with Gwen?” I guess. He nods. “Honestly? I don’t know. I’d like to think she’d want me to be happy, because I wish she was. But I don’t know.”
He nods. “Thank you, Sam. I—I’ve never talked about it before. Not like this, with someone who understands.” He rocks back and forth on his heels, and for a second I see the real suffering he’s been concealing. Then he takes his sunglasses from his pocket and puts them on, and just like that, he’s armored again. “I know that wasn’t easy. Thanks for talking to me.”
He doesn’t wait for me to reply. He just turns and goes.
It feels strange, having let that conversation happen. And oddly good too. Maybe . . . maybe I’m actually starting to heal that part of myself. It’s been long enough.
But I find myself wondering if I really just helped someone, or hurt him. Because I don’t know.
I just don’t know.
It’s just about quitting time and I’m headed back home, having passed my simulations and breathing easier and feeling almost, almost back to normal. I’m halfway there when my cell rings. I don’t recognize the number and nearly let it go, but I finally hit the hands-free and answer. “Hello?”
“Hi, I’m looking for Sam Cade.”
“You’re talking to him.”
“Oh, thank you. I’m Emory Osgood from the Tennessean.” The woman on the other end sounds young and almost artificially subdued. I’m instantly on guard, but it doesn’t sound like one of those damn robocall spammers. “I’m calling to double-check the spelling of a name, if you don’t mind. Gwen Proctor. I normally wouldn’t call, but it’s spelled two different ways in the text I have.” Why the hell is she calling me? I consider asking, but I spell it out for her. Before I can ask what the story is that she’s writing, she hurries on. “Oh, thank you so much. It’s really important we get the announcement right, of course. And could you confirm the name of the funeral home?”
My mouth goes dry. I don’t think; I just pull my truck off the road and into a grocery store parking lot and the first empty spot I see. My hand is shaking as I put the engine in park. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m calling about the death notice,” she says. “For Ms. Proctor?” She sounds taken aback now. Uncertain. My heart’s pounding and I feel clammy. Sick.
“What happened to her?” I ask. I can’t even recognize my voice—it sounds like a stranger’s. “When?”
“Oh, sir, I am so sorry, I thought—wait, didn’t you submit the notice yourself? This isn’t supposed to happen, I just—I don’t know what to say. I apologize for doing this to you, are you okay?” She sounds utterly horrified.
“Am I—” I bite back the sudden fury I feel. My eyes are burning. Whole body shaking. “What the fuck happened?”
“I—” I hear her take a deep breath. “Sir, I really don’t have all that information. I have a computer submission via email that has the death notice request and lists you as the party to contact. That’s why I called. I don’t understand what’s going on—”
I hang up on her. It takes me three tries to stab the number in to dial Gwen’s cell. I struggle for breath while I listen to the distant, empty rings. It feels like the whole world is falling away from me down a dark well.
And then she answers. “Sam? Hey, how was your day?”
Like nothing’s wrong. Like nothing’s happened.
Because nothing has happened.
Thank God.
I can’t even speak for the relief filling my throat until I clear it and say, “Fine, honey. Everything’s fine. I’m—I’m on my way home. You there?”
“Yes,” she says. “About to start dinner. What do you think about—”
“Whatever you want,” I say, and I mean it. I can’t tell her what just happened. I don’t want to ruin her mood. “Got to go, I’ll be home soon, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, and I can hear the slight shift in her tone. She can tell something’s off. I hang up before she asks anything else.
Then I redial the number for Ms. Emory Osgood, and get transferred to her from the main number of the Tennessean, our local newspaper. “Emory, this is Sam Cade,” I say. She starts another flood of apologies, and I cut her off without listening. “Somebody sent in the death notice. How?”
“Well . . . it’s a form online. You fill it in, and then we double-check it—that’s what I was doing when I called you because her name wasn’t spelled the same way in one place as it was in the other, and the funeral home number isn’t working. The order’s got your name and phone number attached to it. Sir, what exactly happened—”
“Gwen Proctor isn’t dead,” I tell her. “And I didn’t send that in.”
“Oh my God, Mr. Cade, I am so sorry—I—why would anyone do something like that?”
“Cruelty,” I tell her. “Just delete it. And don’t accept any other death notices for me, Ms. Proctor, or her children, Lanny and Connor, unless you verify it with me or the police first. Treat everything like it’s a vicious prank, because it probably is. Okay?”
“O . . . okay. Wow. I’ve just never heard of such a thing happening. Again, I’m so sorry . . .”
“It’s okay.” It isn’t, but I don’t want her to agonize about it. She didn’t do anything wrong. I rub the back of my stiff, aching neck. “Somebody’s learned a neat new trick, I guess. Something to think about for the future. For both of us.”
“Yes sir,” she says. “I’m glad everybody’s okay.”
“Me too, Emory. Me too.”
Now that the shock has passed, reality sets in, and it’s grim as hell. I’d been hoping nobody was going to start up shit against Gwen again, but I was wrong.
Dead wrong.
7
GWEN
When my phone rings at around eleven a.m., I’m half-asleep in my office chair, and the buzz jerks me wide awake. I’d nearly dozed off going over a background check, but then again, it’s been a long damn night. I scramble for the phone and see Kezia’s name.
“Kez?” I answer instantly. “Everything okay?”
The silence that follows is far too long, and feels heavy. “Not really,” she says. “Autopsy on the two little girls just finished. I got their names from the birth records. Mira and Beth.” There’s more to it, but I don’t push. Kez will tell me if she wants me to know.