Sister Dear (27 page)

The scent of fried chicken wafted toward her as Allie opened the door wide for her mother to step past. “Where's Dad?”

“On the golf course, dear.” Her mother made a face as she handed over the bag. “Your father hasn't talked about anything lately but picking out a new five iron.”

They both laughed, then her mother's smile fell away.

Allie wrinkled her forehead. “Mom? What is it?”

“I'm sorry I haven't been over here to see you more.” Her mother paused. “This has all been so difficult, especially with your dad deciding to retire and sell the practice.”

An uneasy quiet settled over the room. “It was pretty quick,” Allie agreed. She hesitated. “I was wondering about that,” she added, playing with a loose thread on her shirt. “Why all of a sudden?”

Her mother dropped her eyes to her lap. “Oh, honey. With you coming home . . .”

Allie's cheeks flamed red, even though she'd anticipated the answer. If she hadn't grown up watching her parents do everything possible to avoid confrontation and conflict, she might actually be hurt.

Years in Arrendale had prepared her as well. Not seeing her parents on holidays. Never seeing Caroline. No one but Emma visiting month after month. In the pit of her soul, in the deepest recesses of her mind, their absence felt like an admission of her culpability.

Right now it was a thought she couldn't afford to entertain. Not
for a moment, if she was going to survive and prove her innocence to Caroline.

“Since you've been back, our friends don't know what to say. Some people aren't even speaking to your father.” Her mother sighed. “And you know how that makes him feel.”

“Yes,” she added in a whisper. Guilt tangled inside Allie, like skeins of silk thread blowing wild in a breeze. She watched as her mother rose and walked to the kitchen. A few moments later, Allie heard a cabinet door open, then water running from the faucet.

Alone in the room, her thoughts wandered back to her father. He had to know that selling the practice would generate gossip. It was almost as if he shared Allie's guilt. Avoiding her only served to stoke the fire, like there was something to hide.

Allie glanced around the room. Was there something to hide? Was he connected to the coach or the sheriff in some way? She rubbed her temples, trying to ease the tension. Her father was a good man, wasn't he? Friendly, helpful. Almost too helpful to people.

“It's going to get better,” her mother said, walking back toward the sofa, fresh lipstick on. “You're home, you're okay, you have a job, and that's all that matters,” she insisted brightly. “People are going to talk no matter what, right? Next week it'll be something else.”

“Let's hope so,” Allie said, attempting a smile.

Her mother stopped and glanced out the front window. She swiveled her gaze back to Allie. “I do have to ask . . . and it's just me worrying . . . but are you in trouble?”

“What?” Here was the real reason her mother had stopped over. Dinner served, with an ulterior motive on the side. She wanted information. Allie quit looking over the piles and turned to face her mother. “Why would you say that?”

“Well, it's not me. I heard about that editorial and how Caroline was so upset, bless her heart. Emma said—”

“Mom, I'm fine.” Allie cut her off, then softened. “Thank you for asking, though. It means a lot to me.”

Her mother shrugged and let her hands fall. “We haven't really talked about it much.” Her voice quavered. “But I've always hoped the police would find a clue.”

Allie's breath caught. Her lips parted as tears sprang to her eyes. How many years had she waited to hear someone say this?

“I prayed that someone would find proof of what really happened that night.” Her mother's voice cracked. “That someone else was responsible—” Her mother broke off, struggling to maintain her composure. Her hand found Allie's and squeezed.

The gesture was comforting, but her mother's words were gold. Allie thought she might die before she heard them.

“Mom, there's nothing I want more.”

THIRTY-FIVE

EMMA

2016

Could people go from normal to nervous breakdown status in the span of a few weeks? Without checking scientific studies, Emma's face in the mirror confirmed it. Clumps of her hair fell out in the shower, she wasn't sleeping, and the dark circles under her eyes appeared tattooed in place. She had lost her appetite. Not even the scent of grilled coconut shrimp from her favorite Brunswick restaurant enticed her to stop and eat.

This morning, though it was still early, Emma was bleary-eyed from researching adoption. According to the state of Georgia, Caroline fell into the “Special Needs” adoption category. Special needs children were those who had been in the care of a public or private agency or individual other than the legal or biological parent for more than twenty-four consecutive months.

Emma clicked on the policy and forms, as well as the Division of Family and Children Services contact information, sending each file to the printer. As the white sheets appeared in the machine's tray, Emma reached for an envelope, folded the pages, and slid them inside. She had to do something about this. And soon.

Just thirty minutes before, her sister had called, immediately spiking Emma's anxiety levels.

“Can I help with something?” Emma offered, struggling to keep her tone casual.

“Would you mind if I borrowed your car?”

Emma gripped the phone, her whole body drawing back as if Allie had offered to bring poison as payment. “Want me to drive you somewhere?” she forced out.

“Thanks. No,” Allie replied slowly. “It's something I need to take care of myself.”

Emma paced the floor.

Allie might be looking for another place to live. Perhaps she was already thinking of moving away. Emma hoped so, but why wouldn't her sister tell her? Emma rubbed her chin absentmindedly. Allie's parole meetings were during the week, so that wasn't it.

Emma thought quickly. She could say no, but didn't want Allie to catch the smallest hint that she was plotting against her. And this little excursion of her sister's ensured time away from Caroline. Better to keep her sister happy and unsuspecting. “So . . . driving is not against the rules?”

“You mean, like a parole violation?” Allie laughed. “No. It's not. I'm sure of it.”

“And . . . you don't have to check in with anyone?”

“I check in every week with Gladys. I go in and meet with her next Wednesday. It's not like I'm going to Mexico,” she answered. “Gladys cares that I'm working. Not calling in sick. That's what's most important right now.”

“If you say so,” Emma said, doubtful.

“Are you sure you don't need the car?” Allie asked finally.

Emma drew a breath, mind whirling until it settled on the perfect white lie. “No, it's fine, really,” she replied, her voice fighting not
to strain. “Caroline and I are walking downtown to grab breakfast and get our nails done,” Emma added, picturing Allie's face crumple as she delivered the plan. “You know, the last time we went there, the owners thought Caroline was my daughter. They're so funny.”

There was a beat of silence on the phone.

“Well, have a good time,” Allie finally replied. Her voice, stretched thin, betrayed the hurt.

“We're just locking the front door behind us,” Emma cut in. “I'll leave my extra set of car keys under the flowerpot on the back patio.”

Emma hung up and immediately called for Caroline, on edge that Allie would head over any minute. “Ready to go? Get your purse. We'll be late.”

Her niece replied with a muffled shout through her bedroom door. She'd be right there, Emma translated. A minute later, there was the sound of footsteps, the smell of baby powder, and finally, the sight of long dark hair piled on top of her niece's head.

They set off walking, with Emma setting the pace double time until they put enough distance between them and the house. Caroline, in flip-flops, struggled to keep up with her aunt's long stride. “Where's the fire?” she quipped breathlessly.

Emma slowed when they rounded the first corner, her own heart beating against her chest. “Oh, you know me. I like to be on time.”

Though that was true, Emma's worry stemmed from one place—and one place only. Allie had been different since Caroline's “prove it” challenge had been issued. The determination was back, the slight edge, the focus her sister summoned when honing in on an important task. There'd been an uptick in her energy and how much she reached out to Emma.

Just like the shimmering surface of a serene lake, hiding a hive of activity just below the surface, there was more to this trip. Emma knew it. Allie just wouldn't say.

THIRTY-SIX

ALLIE

2016

Hours later, Allie edged the car into the first little town, along a deserted street. Homes in varying conditions lined the road. She squinted and looked for numbers, then checked her sheet. Twenty-nine.

After a peach house with green trim, and next to a cottage that looked like it hadn't been painted in years, Allie found it. A charming little two-story, blue with white shutters and a narrow front porch. The sidewalk leading to the home was old and worn, like the neighborhood.

She'd done an Internet search the night before and read more about Lamar Childree. There were dozens of articles. The last one mentioned the football staff and the very same Coach Boyd Thomas who had died as she tried to save him.

The first stair creaked under Allie's foot. She jumped at the noise and then laughed at her own nerves. Allie took the remaining steps two at a time.

The mailbox, battered and worn, bore the name Childree in small black plastic letters. This was the place. Allie drew in a deep
breath and raised her arm to knock on the door. She hesitated, weighing the privacy of a family who'd lost a son against her own personal void: a daughter who didn't believe in her, a girl forced to grow up without a mother.

Allie almost ran from the porch. But she'd driven this far, done this much. She needed to talk to the boy's parents. Clenching her teeth, Allie rapped her knuckles three times and backed away from the screen door.

The lock clicked a few moments later. The door swung open an inch and a female voice called out, “Who's there?”

“Allison Marshall.”

“You selling something?” she demanded. “'Cause we ain't buying.” A woman peeked out, dressed in a long terrycloth robe. “We don't have no money. Can't a family have any peace?”

The pain in her voice pierced Allie's rib cage, dangerously close to her heart. She didn't want to dredge up the past, but her need for the truth made her bolder, perhaps a bit reckless. “I'm not selling anything. I wanted to ask a few questions about your son.”

Her answer was a door slam, which sent a
whoosh
of warm air at Allie's face. In the distance, the sun glowed huge and orange. The light cast a neon glow on the cars and houses. Allie turned to leave, making her way down the steps to Emma's car.

The woman didn't want reminders. She couldn't get her son back. And she'd be insane to take on the burden of someone else's problem. It would require reliving the tragedy—too much to ask of a mother who would never stop grieving for her child.

“Ma'am.” There were footsteps behind her, running, heavy. A hand grabbed her arm.

Allie stopped and turned her head to look at the dark, stocky man who held her. She pulled, stretched, and wiggled against his grip. He didn't release her.

“Tell me why you're here and I'll let you go,” he said. Childree's father—it had to be—was weathered, with sinewy arm muscles, and clearly was not taking no for an answer.

“The coach . . . ,” Allie began and then choked on her own words. “Your son's coach.”

The man released her. He squared his body between Allie and her sister's car. “What's that man got to do with anything? Praise sweet Jesus, he's long dead.”

The edges of his face blurred in the fading light. His eyes, charred black, red at the edges, were bottomless. He'd lost as much as Allie. No, more. Childree's son was gone. Buried. They'd had a funeral and said good-byes as best as any parent could to a child. Her soul ached for this father, a man who had expected to grow old enjoying his son by his side. Perhaps he'd dreamed of sipping sweet tea on his porch, his wife by his side, watching his grandbabies play.

Now, she imagined that the future stretched out in front of this man, cold and dark. Empty. A road to nowhere.

Allie pressed a hand to her stomach, steadying her resolve. She might have a chance with Childree if she was honest. If she appealed to him as a parent who had lost so very much. Maybe, just maybe, she could make him understand. “I'm the one who found Coach Thomas,” she began, her voice shaky. “That night.”

The man's dark face went slack. Disbelief? Pain? Fear?

“I didn't kill him.”

Childree stared past her, jaw tightening as she uttered the words. “You have children, miss?”

“I do. A daughter.” Allie lowered her voice to a whisper. “She's fifteen and doesn't speak to me. I'll lose her forever if I don't find out what really happened.”

The dead boy's father absorbed this, his fists clenched tight
together. “Then you know what it's like.” Childree's head dropped. “Missing a child.”

Allie's eyes stung with tears. “I lost my daughter too.” Allie lowered her voice. “It's not the same. Caroline—she's still alive. But she doesn't know me. I'm afraid she might never want to.” Her voice broke.

The man drew his gaze back to Allie, taking his time to look her up and down. “And you think the coach had something to do with what happened to my boy?”