Page 93 of Everything We Give

Ian glances at Lacy, still waiting by the mailbox. “Here’s where it gets strange. A portion of my mom’s deposition was filed with the court. There was mention of a stepsister, Frank’s daughter from his first marriage. Her name was Charity Mullins. She was two years older than my mom and came to stay with them on the weekends. My mom confessed that her stepsister was the one who told her about Frank’s trucking routes because Jackie’s bounty hunter was useless. She said Charity showed her where and when to locate him, and my mom would pass along the details to Jackie in notes between them in the top middle drawer of my mom’s vanity table. My mom was tired of living in fear her stepfather would find her. She worried there were other victims. She thought the only way to solve the Frank problem was to get rid of Frank, but she didn’t have the courage to go through with it. Only Jackie had the guts to pull the trigger.”

“That’s not strange. It’s tragic. Your story makes me sad.” My eyes feel misty and I brush them with the back of my fingers.

Ian swings his eyes to mine. “My mom’s stepsister died when she was seventeen. She wandered off while on a hiking trip with friends in Tahoe.”

The fine hairs along my forearm rise. I shiver. “What are you saying?”

“I looked it up, Aimee. The articles were there. They never found her. Just her shoes and purse and dried bloodstains in a steep ravine.”

“Then who gave your mom the tip on Frank?”

Ian nods his chin in Lacy’s direction. “If Lacy is my mom’s stepsister, I bet he abused her, too. I think the authorities presumed she’d died, but she really just ran away and changed her name to Charity Watson. I can’t tell you whether she’s psychic, if that’s really a thing, but I think she keeps up the disappearing act, initially because of Frank, and later, because of Sarah. She’s an accessory to Frank’s attempted murder. It’s right there in the transcript. Charity—I mean, Lacy—has never wanted to be found. She can’t be found.”

“Then why would your mom call out her own sister after she helped her?”

“Think about it. Records show Charity is dead. Blaming her further supports my mom wasn’t right in her head. I doubt her attorney, let alone the prosecution and jury, have an inkling Charity’s alive. And considering how Charity believes she’s connected to people out of duty and obligation to help them, she may have felt she had no choice but to help my mom. She may even have convinced my mom to run away from home when she did.”

We look at Lacy. She bends over and swipes dust off her shoe. She ties the laces, then stretches her arms overhead, then lets them flop back to her sides.

Ian’s expression clouds. He frowns and seems to weigh something in his mind, something big. He reaches for my hand. “There’s more, Aimee. I read something else. I found out that I did something wrong, terribly, horribly wrong, to my mother. My dad tried to stop me, but I wouldn’t listen. I was young and cocky with false confidence. I was convinced what I was doing would help my mom. Frank used to take pictures of her and with her. The sessions they had were so disturbing that it fractured her mind. Jackie surfaced during those years. Sarah couldn’t cope so Jackie took her place. That’s what the psychiatrist who evaluated my mom stated pretrial. The defense brought her in as a witness. It was all right there in the transcript. I didn’t break my mom, but I didn’t help her condition either, not in the least. All those pictures I took, every snap of the shutter, they were probably triggering her shifts. Just the sight of me with my camera, I don’t know. It must have done something to her.” His voice is thick with anguish.

“You didn’t know. You were a kid. There’s no way you could have known.”

“You asked me once after we married why I haven’t put my full heart into finding my mom. I denied to myself that’s what I was doing. But you’re right. You’re spot-on. My attempts have been half-assed. You know why? I’d have to face her and I’d have to face what I’d done to her. I’d wronged her. I’m the one who drove her away, long before she tried to murder her stepfather. I’m the reason she didn’t put me on her visitor’s list, and I’m the reason she ran away after her release. Me and my stupid camera. Ironic, isn’t it? She hates being photographed but married a photographer and had a son who aspired to be one.”

Ian’s eyes are damp. His hand shakes in mine. I close him in my arms, my ear pressed to his chest, absorbing the wild thump-thump of his heart, my face turned to the road. That’s when I see what I didn’t want to miss. Lacy is gone. How, I don’t know, and right now I don’t care. Ian’s in my arms and he’s hurting.

CHAPTER 28

IAN

A silver compact turns into the drive, gravel popping like Bubble Wrap. Aimee’s arms slip from me and we turn to watch the driver approach and slow to a stop, facing us, in front of the house. He cuts the engine but doesn’t get out of the car. He stares at us from under the sun visor and behind his dark glasses.

“Your dad?” Aimee asks.

“My dad.” I haven’t seen him in sixteen years, but the box jaw, defined chin, and wide fingers curled around the steering wheel are unmistakable. So is the wave of hair lifting off his face, one uncooperative lock dividing his forehead. They’re the same as mine. What doesn’t sit well with me, though, is that I’m having a hard time digesting the sunken cheeks and the color of his hair. He’s gone completely gray.

Stu cuts the engine and opens the door.

I clasp the back of Aimee’s head and, tucking her under my chin, speak into her hair. “Will you give me a minute with him?”

“Take all the time you need.”

I kiss her head and go down the steps to meet with my dad, to get the truth from him about my mom. To find out what’s going on withhim.

His movement from the car is slow and labored. When he finally stands, bracing a hand on the door while reaching the other into the backseat, my step falters. A clear tube wraps under his nose and winds over his ears and dips into the cab of the car like an umbilical cord. With some effort, Stu hauls out a portable oxygen tank. The wheel catches on the runner and drops to the ground.

I rush to his side. “Let me help.”

He stops me with a raised hand and a stern, and slightly uncomfortable, expression. I back up, realizing he’s embarrassed. And I’m ashamed. I should have been around earlier, years earlier, to help him. His frame is a wasted, wan version of himself, a dried corn husk of the robust man he’d once been. He cautiously bends over, never letting go of the door, and uprights the tank, balancing the cart on its wheels. He keeps a tight grip on the handle, shuts the door, and turns to me. We watch each other for several moments, each assessing the other. I’m taller and wider. He wheezes as he breathes. I can’t see his eyes behind his shades, but whatever sickness he has, it’s been dining on his body for some time.

“How long?”

He smiles, exposing a row of yellow-tinged teeth. “The prodigal son returns.”

“Surely you have a better line than that.”

He nods once. “Long enough. Who told you I was sick?”

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