Not Guilty (31 page)

In her mind’s eye Keely saw Dylan, pale and covered with tubes in the hospital bed, his neck swathed in bandages. And then she saw his note, fluttering to the floor of her bedroom.
I locked the gate.
“It wasn’t Dylan,” she said.

“An accident,” Dan persisted. “That’s all I’m saying . . .”

Keely felt her face stinging. Dan had seemed to be a friend, someone she might be able to trust, but here he was telling her she was crazy to believe her own son. “How would you feel if it was Nicole and she denied having anything to do with it?”

“You mean, do I think it’s possible Nicole might . . . fib to cover up her part in an accident like that? A mistake that had such dire consequences? Yeah, I do,” he said. “It’s human nature.”

I don’t care what you or anybody else thinks,
she thought. The car was turning onto their street, and Keely could not wait to get out and get away from him. She started to tell him to let her out at the foot of her driveway, but then, with a sinking heart, she remembered—Abby was at the Warners’ with Nicole and her own car was parked in their driveway. She would be forced to go in there and pretend to be friendly.

“Keely, I’m not saying this to hurt you,” he said.

She did not reply. She felt around in her purse for her wallet, then pulled out a ten-dollar bill for Nicole that she clutched in one hand.

Dan pulled the car into his driveway. He got out and came around to open her door, but Keely clambered out on her own, slamming the door behind her and preceding him up the walkway to the house. Nicole heard the car and came to the door, holding Abby. Keely walked up into the arc of the porch light, and Abby crooned with delight at the sight of her mother.

Keely reached for her and pressed the baby’s warm, rosy cheek to her own cold face. “How’s my angel?” she asked.

“Come on in,” said Nicole.

“No, it’s late,” said Keely. “Here.” She handed Nicole the money. Nicole tried to insist that it was unnecessary, but Keely pressed the money on her firmly. Nicole thanked her and went in search of Abby’s jacket and her doll.

Dan came up to Keely and tried to look her in the eye. She turned away from his gaze. “Keely,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t say all that to offend you. That’s the last thing I’d ever want to do. I just don’t want to see you . . .”

Nicole returned to the doorway with Abby’s belongings. Keely took
them with a thin smile. Then she turned to Dan. “I really appreciate your helping me out tonight,” she said. “Both of you. It was very neighborly.”

Nicole smiled quizzically, but Dan’s face looked pale. Without another word, she returned to her car to make the short drive home. The thought of spending another night, just her and the baby, in that huge empty house, filled her with despair.
Don’t think about it,
she told herself.
Stay strong for the children. That’s all that matters.

T
he ringing of the telephone woke Keely from a slumber so fitful that she was not even sure she had been asleep. She panicked when she looked at the clock. It was three-thirty in the morning. She grabbed the phone, her heart hammering, her mouth dry. “Hello,” she barked.

“Mom,” an urgent voice whispered at the other end.

“Dylan,” she cried. “What’s the matter? It’s three-thirty in the morning.”

“I know. I had to call you,” he said. “I don’t want Grandma to hear me.”

“Are you all right? Is everything all right?” Keely demanded.

“Everything’s all right. I found it, Mom. I found the note.” Keely’s heart flipped over. She sat up in bed and gripped the phone, shivering in the cool room. The years fell away, and in her mind’s eye she was there, stepping into Richard’s office, seeing her husband lying on the floor, the blood spattering the walls. The disbelief rolled over her again, in a wave. Richard’s suicide note—the answer to so many questions. Suddenly, she was afraid to find out. “Where are you, Dylan? Are you in the kitchen? Grandma will be scared if she hears you. She might think it’s a prowler.”

“Mom, she’s asleep,” he insisted. “Let me read this to you.”

“Okay,” she said. “Of course. Okay.”

“Okay,” Dylan whispered. “It starts out, ‘My darlings . . .’ ”

“Oh my God!” Keely exclaimed.

“Calm down, Mom. It’s important.” he insisted.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “For a minute, I could hear his voice . . .”

“Okay. Well, let me read it. But I have to tell you one thing ’cause I don’t want you to scream. You have to know this.”

“What?”

“They did kill someone. And the friend—it was Mark.”

Keely felt her world careening again.

“Mom, did you hear me?”

“I heard you. Go on. Read the rest.”

His voice suddenly fell to a whisper. “I think I hear Grandma . . .”

“Dylan, is that you?” Ingrid’s voice sounded sleepy.

“I’m in the kitchen, Grandma,” he called out. “I was hungry.”

“Teenage boys. A hollow leg. I remember when your father was like that. Let me make you something.” Ingrid’s words were muffled.

“I’m okay, Grandma,” he cried. “You don’t have to.”

“I’m already up,” she said, her voice sounding closer.

Dylan hung up the phone.

Keely replaced the receiver in its cradle and lay back against her pillow in the darkness. She turned her head and gazed at the empty pillow beside her. With Mark, she had just gotten used to having someone beside her again, that strong, comforting presence in the dark, when he was ripped away from her. At first, it had seemed that she was being punished for trying to circumvent her fate, that she was meant to be a widow, and this horrible accident had reasserted that destiny. But now, it seemed like it was something different—more sinister. She tried to picture him there on the pillow, his eyes shiny in the dark.
It was you,
she thought.
You were the friend. You and Richard were the guilty ones. And now, you are both dead.

“C
AN’T YOU TWO
come in for a while?” Ingrid asked Keely who was standing outside her front door.

“Really, we can’t,” said Keely. “That’s why I left Abby in the car seat. Dylan, are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” he said, pulling on the leather jacket.

“This one was up in the middle of the night,” said Ingrid fondly,
“looking for something to eat. I offered to make him pancakes, but he wouldn’t let me.”

“I’m fine, Grandma,” Dylan said. “Really.” Then he glanced curiously at Ingrid. “You got dressed.”

“I feel better today,” she said, smoothing down her johnny-collared songbird sweatshirt—a Christmas present from Dylan—over the elastic waistband of her pants. “I seem to be the only one who had a good night’s sleep,” said Ingrid. “I’m feeling much more myself today. In fact, if you need to leave Abby with me, that’s okay.”

“Thank you, Ingrid,” said Keely. “I appreciate it. But I think we’re okay for today.”

“How’d she like her new baby-sitter?”

“Nicole? Oh, she’s a sweet kid,” said Keely.

“I hope she’s responsible,” said Ingrid sternly.

“She seems very responsible. She loves babies,” said Keely impatiently.

“She lives near you?” Ingrid asked, stalling their departure, unwilling to see them leave.

“Just down the street. The family’s name is Warner.”

“We used to have neighbors named Warner,” said Ingrid, frowning at the effort to recall old names and faces. “Sara and Henry. They lived across the street when Richard and Suzanne were kids. Richard used to play with their Danny.”

Keely looked at Ingrid in surprise. “Dan Warner?” she said. “That’s Nicole’s father’s name.”

“Danny Warner,” Ingrid said. “Oh, sure. He and Richard were great pals. How do you like that? Now his daughter is baby-sitting for my granddaughter.”

Dylan jiggled his foot anxiously. “We have to get going, Grandma.”

“I wish you could stay a little longer,” Ingrid said.

“I’ll be back soon,” he assured her. “Right, Mom? Mom.”

Keely’s gaze was distant, and her narrowed eyes seemed to be studying something.

“What’s the matter?” Ingrid asked.

Keely shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “You’d better get inside. You’re going to catch a cold.”

K
EELY PUT
A
BBY
in the playpen and sat down on the living-room sofa. Dylan took a seat on the ottoman. He was still wearing his leather
jacket, and he was shivering, though it wasn’t cold in the house. He fished in the inside pocket of the jacket, then pulled out a sheet of paper that was folded into threes. He handed it over to his mother. Keely’s hand shook as she took it.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s see.”

Dylan hugged himself and rocked back and forth slightly on the ottoman, as Keely unfolded the paper. Keely read what Richard had written.

Darlings,

I know this will hurt you, and I’m sorry. You are not to blame for this in any way. The thought of your love makes me hesitate. Many times I’ve wanted to end this torture that is my life, and only the thought of your love has stopped me. But I don’t deserve your love. I am a coward, and I can’t face the consequences of my own actions. And I can’t live with the guilt.

Many years ago, before I met you, Keely, I had a friend named Mark Weaver. He and I—there’s no easy way to say this—we killed someone. We didn’t mean to. But there’s no use in making excuses now. We were never caught, never even suspected. But I have lived with the guilt all these years, and I can’t live with it anymore. I have suffered for my crime—the migraines have ruled my life. I thought I could make up for everything by enduring the pain, leading a good life, loving my family, but nothing works.

I thought of turning myself in many times—but I’m too much a coward. If I had only done it then, when it happened. But I didn’t. And now, nothing will ever work except to pay the price and end it. Please forgive me and know that I loved you both with all my heart.

Richard

“My God,” whispered Keely, as she held the note limply in her lap. She picked it up and read it again. She read it a third time, as if she were committing it to memory.

Tears were running down Keely’s face. She looked up at Dylan, who pressed his folded hands against his lips. In his eyes was a desolate stare.

“My God. Why didn’t he ever tell me?” she cried. “Why?”

Dylan shook his head. “Which one?” said Dylan, an edge of despair in his voice. “Daddy or Mark?”

“Daddy,” said Keely. And then she thought of Mark. “And why did Mark marry me, knowing this? Why me, of all people? You would think he would avoid anyone who’d had anything to do with Richard. He sought me out. He made a point of coming out to Michigan to see us after your father died.”

“He probably thought you knew,” said Dylan. “Maybe he was worried you’d tell once Dad was dead.”

Keely considered the obvious truth of her son’s remark and felt a cold chill down her spine.

They sat in silence for a moment. “But you didn’t know, and he married you anyway,” Dylan pointed out. “I think he did kinda love you.”

Keely bit her lip. “I don’t know anything anymore.” She read the letter again. “You
were
a coward,” she said fiercely, shaking the letter. “I hate you. All you had to do was tell me. You could have trusted me. Goddamn you!” she cried. And then she began to cry.

Abby looked up from her jingling toys, startled at the sound of her mother weeping. The baby’s lower lip began to tremble, and Abby hoisted herself to her feet, clinging to the rim of the playpen, a worried expression on her round little face. As Keely sobbed, Abby began to wail. Automatically, Keely went to her and lifted her up into her arms. She sat back down on the sofa, the baby in her lap.

After a few moments, Keely felt Dylan sink down into the sofa cushion beside her, and his arm rested awkwardly around her shoulders. The three of them huddled together on the couch. Keely wiped her eyes and saw that Richard’s jacket was lying in a heap beside the ottoman.

“I’m sorry,” she said miserably.

Dylan shook his head. “That’s all right. That’s how I felt when I read it. Right now, I hate him, too.”

Keely crushed the computer printout into a wad in her hand. Dylan tugged it away from her and flattened it out again.

Keely shook her head. “Now what do I do?” she whispered to herself.

Dylan stared at the wrinkled piece of paper he was holding. “Now you have to tell,” he said.

Keely stared at him, wiping the tears from her eyes. She sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve.

“Well, it could be a coincidence that both of them are dead,” he said. “But I doubt it. And if Mark’s death wasn’t an accident . . .”

“He could have been pushed,” she said.

Dylan shivered. “Mom, you’d better call the cops.”