Page 53 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
Consumed by the thought that Tate would want to finish the job, I moved to Hope Falls. I spent the first semester watching Emily, learning her patterns and routines. When I glimpsed her in the lobby of Dr. Wilde’s office building and realized we were both seeing the same psychotherapist, it felt like a sign.
So I engineered to meet her. Not to be creepy, and certainly not to weasel my way into her life. I never planned to date, fall in love with, and marry her. My intention was to keep my brother at bay. But, trite as it is, the heart wants what it wants. And my heart wants Emily. It did then, and it still does.
If she finds out about my history and all the truths I’ve withheld from her, she’ll never believe I was trying to, am still trying to, protect her.
The entire time I lived in Hope Falls, I looked for Tate. Once I started working as a teaching assistant, I accessed the university records, but Tate wasn’t working at my school. So I made it a point to get friendly with a guy who worked in the human resources department at Emily’s college. They had no record of Tate either.
He was a ghost, a cipher. Eventually, I decided he must’ve moved on and Emily wasn’t in any immediate danger. But by that point, I was in love with her.
I’ve never stopped trying to protect her. I never will.
Case in point: the moment Giselle Ward’s body was found, I understood what her murder meant: Tate was back. So I found a way to get Emily out of town to keep her safe until I could find him and end this once and for all. Now, though, the tightness in my chest makes me wonder if sending her to that cabin on the mountaintop is the worst mistake I could’ve made.
Worrying about what Alex might tell Emily is a distraction I don’t need. I have to focus on Tate. Why would he fake his death and arrange for Dr. Wilde to call our mother? It’s clearly a message for me. Unfortunately, I have no idea what it means.
Six months ago
Even through the videoconferencing software, Dr. Wilde’s eyes communicated concern. His expression radiated empathy. But his words, despite the soft delivery, were razor sharp. They sliced through me like a knife.
“Tate, isn’t it possible your brother doesn’t think about you at all?”
I hesitated. Was it? No.
I shook my head. “No,” I told him. “You have to understand, he’s been trying to get a reaction out of me for more than twenty years.”
“Twenty years, hmm. Isn’t that when your mother took you and moved away, leaving him behind?”
“Yes.”
So I told him my name is Tate, but I’m not pretending to be Tate. When we talk, I tell him my real story—Tristan’s story—I just swap our names. And leave out a few details.
He squinted at me. “Do you think he’s jealous of you?”
I thought about it. “No. Not jealous, exactly. I think he knows I’ve had a better life than he has. But I also think he understands that’s not my fault. He’s bitter, but not toward me.” I hope.
“Toward your mother?”
I sighed. “Maybe. He should direct his anger toward our father. Or the social conventions that let an entire town turn a blind eye to an abuser.”
“Perhaps.” Dr. Wilde steepled his fingers, and I wondered if some program taught this body language or if therapists just settled on it naturally. “But it’s difficult to hold abstract concepts accountable for our pain. And a dead man, a town? These aren’t real. Not in the way the mother and brother who abandoned him are.”
I bristled at the framing—I was nine, I didn’t abandon anyone. But I didn’t go there. I only had thirty minutes, after all. I needed to focus.
“We’ve talked about whether I have an obligation to try to find him, and I know you say no. But …”
He leaned forward. “What, Tate?”
“What if he’s gearing up to hurt someone again? Or worse?”
His eyes flashed. “Do you have actionable information? Evidence?”
We did this weird dance every so often, Dr. Wilde and I. Ohio law required him to report it to the authorities if I told him my brother intended to harm or kill a specific identifiable person. But anything I told him about past actions was privileged, off-limits unless he was subpoenaed by a court. So, anything I tell him about things my brother’s done—or that I think he’s done—is confidential. What he’s going to do, that’s a different story.
“Well, no.”
He gave me a long-suffering look. I ignored it.
“It’s cyclical. Every seven years.”
