The third down was different.
The wind blew weakly, but with an icy edge. As the Panthers lined up on their thirty-five-yard line, I forced myself to breathe, the action followed immediately by superstition. I had held my breath for the first two plays, and Leo had remained standing. Ignoring superstition suddenly seemed a wrong, even dangerous, choice. I tried recalling the oxygen to my lungs, feeling it like a weight inside my chest.
But it was too late.
The ball spiraled high in the air, too high. A bad throw, it was anybody’s to take. Black jerseys and white converged, bodies crashing against one another, receivers and linemen alike fighting to be first to snatch the ball from the sky.
Leo won the battle, catching the ball before, a fraction of a second later, he was tackled. A pile of white jerseys pinned down my entirely breakable son.
The referee’s whistle trilled, the pile cleared, and Leo emerged, unbroken.
I let the oxygen back into my lungs.
Zoe grinned at me as she clapped. “Worried for a second?”
“As a mom, always.”
As the Panthers defense switched with offense, I was surprised to see Leo stay in the game.
Riding a wave of euphoria, I was momentarily unconcerned that the rival defenders towered over the Panthers line. Though nearly the same height as my son, the largest of the defenders outweighed Leo by, I guessed, fifty pounds.
The quarterback threw the ball downfield, on the side opposite of Leo’s, and the white jerseys swarmed the receiver.
Leo ran, too, but he was the farthest Panther from the ball. Only one player was farther: the mountainous defender who, for some reason I couldn’t fathom, raced at an angle away from the ball. Then I saw, and I understood, though because it didn’t make sense, my lungs continued pumping as if they, too, were oblivious to the danger.
Leo didn’t see it either, turned away as he was, toward the ball and away from the unknown threat. Because he didn’t see it coming, Leo didn’t brace himself as he might have. When the hit came, helmet to helmet, Leo was knocked in the air, crashing to the turf as the defender pounced, coming down hard, with every pound of his extra fifty.
The referee blew his whistle, nearly as apoplectic as the Panthers coach, and Leo’s teammates started shoving their opponents at the obvious foul. This brought a new wave of whistle-blows, coaching staff and players gesturing and shouting from the sidelines.
This time, Leo didn’t get up.
22
My phone buzzed once in my pocket, but for the first time since Sam disappeared, I didn’t immediately reach for it. My eyes were fixed on the midfield, where my son lay unmoving.
For a moment, I was as frozen as Leo was. Then I raced down the bleachers, grabbing Audrey’s elbow as I passed. The metal stands vibrated beneath our feet. From the bleachers, we stepped onto concrete, which we followed to the short fence that circled the track. At the edge, I hesitated, pulling Audrey hard against my chest, as if such a gesture could protect her from the harm that had befallen her brother, and perhaps her father before him.
Why had I let him play? I should’ve pushed harder to keep him out of the game. I should’ve done more to keep him safe.
Leo was still prone on the field, but now he was circled by a contingent of medical and coaching staff. So still, like a bird swatted from its nest. I zeroed in on his chest. I thought I saw the rise and fall of his breathing
“Mom, too tight,” Audrey complained, wriggling in my grasp.
I loosened my grip, but only slightly. “Sorry.”
“Is Leo okay?”
“He just got a little banged up, that’s all.” Because anything else was unthinkable.
My mind raced through the possibilities. Ligaments could be torn. The helmet-on-helmet impact made concussion likely. Then there were the bones. Two hundred and six in the human body, and the force could have easily snapped any of them. I worried most about the neck. With that could come internal bleeding, paralysis—death.
But that shouldn’t happen to my son. He wasn’t a starter, almost never played. He should be safe.
Then I saw Leo’s foot move. Though only a twitch, I imagined him walking off the field, stiffly, maybe even limping or dragging an injured limb while supported on either side by teammates.
But that wasn’t how Leo left the field. My son left on a stretcher, carried from the field to an ambulance waiting just on the other side of the gates.
I checked my phone. A text, from Sam’s number but, I was now certain, not from Sam.
Sorry about Leo.
Only hours earlier, I had believed nothing I saw that day would disturb me more than that photo of my husband having sex with another woman. Then Leo was taken away on a stretcher. Seeing him like that rattled me in a way nothing had since Audrey was hospitalized as an infant.
I hadn’t taken that number on the back of that photo seriously enough. With Sam already gone and my children safely with me, what more could be taken?
The answer, apparently, was everything.
Previously, I had considered that the numbers on the rock, the wrapper, and the photo might be a countdown of days. But maybe that wasn’t it at all. The night Detective Rico had found the rock, there lived three people in my home that I loved beyond measure. Then Sam had disappeared, leaving only two. If something happened to Leo . . .
Though the diagnosis of a concussion didn’t require a CT or MRI scan, the doctor was concerned enough about the hit Leo had taken to request tests. Once he was rolled away, Zoe left to see to Boo and Smooch. She asked if I wanted her to take Audrey—my daughter could certainly use the distraction—but I declined her offer. Until I found Sam, I wanted both of our children near me.
While I waited in the padded chair outside the imaging room with Audrey, I turned my attention back to the text I had received from whoever had Sam’s phone.
Sorry about Leo.
I typed: Who are you?
I’m Sam.
Who ARE you?
Why don’t you believe me?
Because you aren’t Sam.
Of course I am.
Stop.
If I weren’t Sam, how would I know about the fight Leo and I had the night before I disappeared?
This stopped me. What fight? I hadn’t heard about any fight.
“Sam” typed over my silence: I’m sure Leo didn’t mean the things he said that night.
Then the realization hit like a slap. You’ve been eavesdropping on us.
You sleep on the left side of the bed. Your bathrobe is dark green, the same shade as your eyes. The same shade as my favorite bra.
My blood froze, and I pulled Audrey closer to me. You’re watching us too.
Of course I’m watching. I’m your husband.
I thought of my son, his battered head and body being scanned in the next room. Did you hurt Leo?
How would I hurt Leo? I wasn’t there.
What did you do?
Really, Cassie.
Though I knew he wouldn’t say anything to incriminate himself, I asked anyway: What do you want?
I want you to be happy, Cassie.
I’m going to the police.
They didn’t seem to believe you the last time.
So he had listened to me, even there, in the police station. Unless he knew someone who had passed along this information? Both choices left me chilled.
You’re not my husband.
Not anymore.