Daughter of Deep Silence (28 page)

S
hepherd’s asleep, surrounded by an army of beeping machines, when I slip into his room at the hospital. I know it’s a stupid risk for me to be here, but he deserves the truth. He’s suffered enough because of me.

I set the stack of Libby’s journals on a table beneath the window, a stray piece of paper tucked into the top one. All it says is

For all old myths give us the dream to be.

We are outwearied with Persephone;

Rather than her, we’ll sing Reality.

I sit for a moment by his side, my fingers wrapped through his. Hating how bruised his face looks under the fluorescent lights. In a soft voice, I tell him everything Libby said about him at the end, when we were on the life raft together. About how much she loved him. How much he meant to her. Several times I have to stop, my voice cracking.

“She is yours again,” I finally whisper, pressing a kiss against the back of his hand.

As quietly as I entered, I slip back into the hallway, keeping my head down and shoulders hunched. But my steps slow as I pass an empty hospital room, my attention caught by the television mounted on the wall.

It’s turned to a twenty-four-hour news station and an image of my charred house flashes on the screen, the rubble still smoldering as firefighters pick their way carefully through it.

“Police have confirmed that two sets of remains were found in the wreckage,” a young man reporting from the site says. “And while DNA tests will still be performed to confirm the identities, police believe one of the bodies belongs to Elizabeth O’Martin. According to an unnamed source with the arson investigators, they think she was in bed asleep when the fire broke out.”

Glancing around, I move farther into the room. I press my fingers to my lips, trying to hide my giddy smile over such tragic news.

“And the second body?” the female anchor interrupts to ask.

“Well, that’s the more interesting question. Again, these bodies were very badly burned so more tests will be needed before the police will officially confirm anything. But that same source tells me that the second body belongs to Thomas Ridger, a man who apparently worked as a special security consultant for Senator Alastair Wells.”

“Speaking of Senator Wells,” the female anchor continues. “We have someone on the ground over at his house as well. Let’s check in.”

The camera switches to a middle-aged man standing in a swarm of reporters. Behind him, the Senator’s house fills the screen, its front driveway cluttered with cop cars.

“It’s been a busy morning at Senator Wells’s house. Police have been speaking with the Senator for several hours, and just a few minutes ago, we started to see some activity.” A buzz goes through the reporters as the front door to the house swings open. The camera shakes for a moment before zooming in as two cops step outside.

And then I see Senator Wells and it’s the most amazing sight ever. Even handcuffed, he attempts to appear poised and put together, his back straight and face betraying nothing. But there’s just enough off about his appearance to show he’s shaken: His face is unshaved, casting his chin and jaw in shadow, and his hair is not as perfectly polished as usual.

I draw a sharp breath as the police escort him to a cop car. Reporters explode into a cacophony of shouted questions, but the Senator ignores them all.

“Wow,” the reporter says, eventually stepping back into view. His expression is stunned. “I’m getting confirmation that the police have arrested Senator Wells in connection with the death of Elizabeth O’Martin.”

“Is there any word on what the evidence against him is?” the female anchor asks.

The reporter glances down at his notepad. “So far, everything we’re getting is off the record. But apparently his son may have been the one to implicate him.”

At this my knees go weak and I sink into a chair.
Grey?
I press the heels of my palms to my temples, trying to understand.

I’m interrupted by a knock at the open door. I don’t even think twice, I turn toward the noise.

“Nice haircut,” Morales says. She’s wearing the same old Carolina sweatshirt and jeans. A faint odor of smoke drifts around her like perfume. And though her voice may sound light, it carries an undercurrent of something stronger. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

My hand lifts automatically to run my fingers through my new pixie-short hair. “I—” It comes out more as a squeak than anything else, which is fine because I have no idea what to say.

“Mind if I join you?” Morales asks, already stepping farther into the room. I glance toward the door. It’s the middle of the night and this wing of the hospital is practically empty. Even so, I’m fairly certain there’s no way I could outrun her. Especially given the state of my body after falling from the second-story balcony.

Morales notices my unease because she waves a hand and says, “Don’t worry, this is all off the record. For now. I figure we have a few loose ends to tie up.” She pulls a chair close to mine and sits, elbows braced on her knees and hands clasped.

For a moment, I can only stare, frozen like a rabbit caught in the sights of a predator. Finally I manage to find my voice. “Do you have word on how Grey’s doing?”

She seems surprised at the question. “Cuts and scrapes, minor concussion—what you’d expect after what he’s been through.” She looks meaningfully at the scrapes visible across the backs of my knuckles. I tug the collar of my shirt higher, hoping to hide the bruises circling my throat from Thom strangling me earlier.

But Morales must notice them because she frowns. “Have you had anyone look at that?” she asks, motioning.

I shake my head. “I’m fine. How did you find me?”

She tightens her jaw and for a minute I think she’ll argue, but she ends up letting it go. “Because I don’t trust you,” she answers. “Never have.”

Her statement takes me aback and I frown, confused.

“There’s a note in Shepherd’s file that I’m to be notified of any visitors.” She looks at me pointedly. “Imagine my surprise to get a call about a young female visitor who fit your description. You know, with you supposedly being dead and all.” She glances toward the TV. It’s now replaying a clip of the Senator’s arrest.

We watch for a moment before she continues. “You were there earlier—at the O’Martin estate.” It’s a statement, not a question.

Cringing, I clench my fingers into fists. Not caring about the cuts that open along my knuckles.
So close
, I think. I glance again at the door but when I look back at Morales, she shakes her head.

I let out a long sigh, resigned. “Yes, I was there.”

“The two bodies . . . ?” She leaves it as a question.

“The news is right—his name’s Thom Ridger.”

Her lips press together. “That’s what Grey reported as well. We found a gun . . .” Again she trails off. She already knows most of this, but she wants to hear it from me.

“It was Thom’s,” I tell her, my voice bizarrely calm and even.

She nods and then frowns. “And the other body?”

I hesitate, swallowing before finally answering. “The other body belongs to Elizabeth O’Martin.”

M
orales bristles; she’s not the kind of person who likes to be toyed with. “They’re planning to do DNA tests, you know.” The words are short and clipped, her tone testy.

I struggle to suppress a smile. “And the DNA will come back a perfect match to Elizabeth O’Martin.”

For the first time since I’ve met her, Morales is flummoxed. Her eyes narrow as she leans back and crosses her arms. “How’s that?”

I hesitate, not sure how much to share. But then I realize, what does it matter now? If I’m arrested, the truth will come out anyway. It has to. The DNA tests will prove that Libby’s dead, and then all eyes will fall on me.

“I don’t know how much you know about the
Persephone
disaster,” I tell her. “But there were two of us who survived when the ship sank: Libby O’Martin and Frances Mace.” I stare down at my hand, feeling the nakedness of where Libby’s signet ring used to be. I had to leave it behind with the body. It never really belonged to me anyway—it was always hers.

“Only one of us lived long enough to be rescued.”

Morales’s eyes sweep over me and then she lets out a surprised breath. “You’re Frances Mace.”

It takes me a moment to figure out how to answer that. I meet her gaze head on. “I used to be.”

“So the body that burned?”

“It’s Libby’s. She was buried in Frances Mace’s grave.” I hesitate, clear my throat. “I dug her up the other night. And then made sure the fire would burn hot enough that no one would be able to tell the body had been dead for years.”

Morales blinks, trying to take this all in. “We arrested Senator Wells in connection with your—I mean Libby’s—murder.”

“I know,” I say, nodding at where the TV still plays an endless loop of the charred wreckage and of the Senator being escorted out of his house in handcuffs. I still feel a jolt of satisfaction watching it.

Morales’s expression is apologetic. “You know I can’t let an innocent man go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit.”

I lean forward, hands clenched. “Trust me, Senator Wells might not be responsible for the fire last night, but he’s still the reason Libby died. He killed her.” My voice comes out tight and barely controlled.

We stare at each other, her waiting for me to say more, me wondering how much I can trust her. In the end, I tell her everything. The entire story: meeting up with Libby; me and Grey falling for each other on the
Persephone
; the attack; witnessing my parents’ murder; the days adrift in the raft with Libby; the rescue that came after; and Cecil’s proposal to switch identities.

And then I explain the why, laying out everything about DMTR, the Senator’s corruption, the Ecuadorian oil. Morales takes it all in, her expression betraying nothing.

“Senator Wells just . . .” I struggle with the words, the familiar anger simmering. “He got away with it. There was never enough proof. No way to make him pay.” I lift my chin. “The Senator deserves to pay for what he did. If he hadn’t lied, we would have been rescued while Libby was still alive.”

“Why not just let the FBI investigate—let him pay for his corruption then?”

“Because I don’t trust the system,” I argue. “I don’t trust that he’d truly be punished the way he should.”

She lifts her eyebrows. “For killing an entire ship of innocent people?”

This is where I bite my lip, glance at the TV for a moment. Bringing the truth about the
Persephone
to the light means bringing Grey’s complicity. There may never be any official consequences for his lying, but society would judge him. Even if they understood the why of it.

While my intent has always been to out the truth, damn the consequences, now I’m not so sure. Because there are some consequences that aren’t worth risking.

Grey is worth more to me than my need to let the world know the truth.

“Let the
Persephone
lie where she rests.” Morales opens her mouth to argue but I don’t let her. “Thom Ridger was responsible for the attack and he’s dead now. The Senator will go to jail for Libby’s murder as he should. It’s over—all of it.”

She draws a sharp breath, still uncertain. “Look,” I continue. “Think of all the families out there who mourned their loved ones four years ago. The truth would only dredge all of that up. Even worse, it would prey on them.

“It’s easier to believe in the cruel hand of nature than the cruel hand of man. Trust me.”

In the silence that follows, Morales taps her fingers against her knees, thinking. On the TV, the news cycles between clips of the Senator being escorted to the police car in handcuffs and the arson investigators sifting through the rubble of the burned house.

There’s no way the Senator can escape this. Not with Grey implicating him. They’ll find the texts that he was supposed to meet me last night. That his head of security was found in the wreckage with a gun only adds to the Senator’s guilt.

He’ll lose everything because of this: his job, his marriage, his son. Even his freedom once he’s convicted of Libby’s murder.

Finally Morales lets out a deep breath. “So what now?”

I lift a shoulder. “You take down the Senator—use it to advance your career. I walk away. So long as you let me, that is.” I wait to see if she protests, but she doesn’t. “I transferred most of my inheritance—or rather Libby’s inheritance, I guess—to Shepherd and his brother. The rest I’ve set aside in a series of trusts that are pretty untraceable. It won’t take much to develop a new identity—give her a history. I’ll disappear—you’ll never have to worry about me again.”

With a wry smile, I add, “I’ve had practice sliding into someone else’s life.”

She nods, but there’s still something concerning her and it makes me anxious. “So everything—from the moment you returned to Caldwell—was part of your plan. And we were all just pawns you pushed around to get what you wanted, regardless of the consequences.”

A hot flush of shame creeps up my neck. “No.”

But she’s not done. “Doesn’t that make you just like the Senator? Eye on the prize, damn the people who get in your way?”

“That’s not the way it was,” I protest.

“You broke Grey’s heart, you put people’s lives at risk, and Shepherd—” All she has to do is glance down the hallway to make that point.

“Shepherd wasn’t supposed to be part of it,” I say softly, chagrined. “And neither were you.” I stare at the blood smeared along the back of my hand, one of the cuts on my knuckle opening up from having clenched my fists earlier. “Everyone’s life will be better with me gone.”

“Was it worth it?” she asks.

Yes
, I want to tell her, but for some reason the word won’t come. On the TV a red
BREAKING
NEWS
! alert flashes and is replaced by the scene of a reporter standing outside the Caldwell County Hospital, cameras everywhere.

The hospital doors slide open and Grey steps out, his mom by his side. The media crushes toward them, everyone shouting questions at once. Mrs. Wells keeps her head down, repeating “No comment,” again and again as she follows in Grey’s wake, pushing toward the waiting car. Grey holds the door open for his mother, who slides gratefully into the backseat. But he hesitates, and then glances up. He must have chosen the camera to look into at random—there’s no way he could know I’m watching him.

And yet it feels like he’s staring right at me. There are dark, sleepless bruises under his eyes and his hair’s disheveled. A bandage covers his forehead and his cheek is scraped an ugly red. His shoulders sag under the weight of everything that’s happened, and I know, I’m the one who did this to him.

Then he slips into the car, closes the door, and is gone. I let my head drop, closing my eyes tight against the tears. Morales still waits for the answer to her question.
Was it worth it?

“
I don’t know
,” I finally tell her, my voice barely above a whisper.

She says nothing, just taps her fingers against her knee. “You know,” she finally says. “There was this kid once—lost his parents young but was taken in by a good family and seemed to be doing fine. Until his adoptive mother died and his adoptive father started spending all of his time out of the country, taking care of his adoptive sister who’d been in a pretty horrific accident.”

I clench my teeth, knowing that I’m the girl who took the father away from that boy. That the boy in question is Shepherd. But I listen anyway because this is a woman who could throw me in jail right now if she wanted and it’s probably best that I don’t tick her off.

“See, the problem was that everyone he’d ever seen as family had just up and left,” she continued. “Either dead or gone voluntarily. And that left him pretty angry and he didn’t know what to do with that anger so he started getting in trouble. Which got me involved and I started to pay attention.

“You know what I realized?”

She waits for me to answer, but I shake my head, gaze still focused on the ground.

“He just wanted someone to
see
him. Even if it was the cops.”

I press my palms against my eyes, struggling to draw jagged breaths. Knowing this was all my fault. Cecil was taking care of me when he should have been home taking care of Shepherd.

She leans forward, the tips of her fingers just barely brushing my shoulder. “I told him the same thing I’ll tell you: You can’t be seen when you’re constantly pushing people away. You’ve got to let people in. Even though it’s a risk. Even though it’s scary. That’s what life is.”

I’m so wrapped up in the memory of Shepherd telling me the same thing that I don’t even realize she’s gone until I look up to find the waiting room empty. I wipe a hand down my face, trying to figure out my next move.

Because that’s the thing—everything in the last four years has been geared to a moment that’s now passed. I never considered what would come after. And now that my revenge is wrought, now that retribution is complete . . .

I have no idea what’s next.

Life still grinds forward. I still have to figure out who I am and what I want.

And though I reach for answers, I come up empty.