The Year We Hid Away (17 page)

“Well hello there. How’s school?” His gray hair glinted in the kitchen lights. He touched his finger to a drop of scotch, which had escaped down the bottle, and then licked his finger. The lines around his mouth had lately become canyons and valleys. And his pants hung off his butt in a way that they never had before.

The most demonized sports star in network history was looking older and more pathetic by the day. Even his voice sounded wobbly. Looking at him, it wasn’t pity that I felt. And not revulsion, exactly. It was confusion.

To encounter my father in the kitchen was to experience the same disconnect I felt every time I looked at him now.
Did he do it? Probably. But then why didn’t I notice?

And these familiar questions were chased by an equally familiar answer.
You’re guilty, too. Only a self-centered idiot could miss something that.

Clearing my throat, I answered his question. “I like everything about school.”

He looked up at me for the first time. “That’s really good, kid. I’m glad to hear it.”

“I’m going out for a little while. I’ll see you later?”

He nodded. “You need any money?”

“I’m okay. Thanks.”

He nodded one more time, picking up his drink. Then the man — who was either the world’s worst pedophile or the most wrongly accused man in sports history — shuffled back to the den.

Before I got out the door, my mother came through. “You’re going to the game?”

“Yes.”

“Did you speak to your father?”

“Yes I did.”

She squinted at me. “Do you want a ride…?”

“No,” I said quickly. “And I have my house keys. Bye.”

Out in the garage, I pulled the hood of the sweatshirt up over the baseball cap, and pulled the brim down low. Azzan and the other goons were nowhere in sight. I left the garage via a side door, into the darkness of our double lot. When I was seven, my parents bought the house next door and tore it down, granting us the biggest yard in the neighborhood. My father had built a small ice rink there at the side of our house. It wasn’t quite cold enough yet for my father to fill it, and now I wondered whether he’d bother this year.

I sprinted around the rink, heading for our side property line, and away from any TV cameras that might be camped out front. Nobody chased me, but still I ran. As a kid, I’d never liked the distant corner of our big property, and I felt a latent childhood chill as I crashed through the shrubberies and onto the sidewalk beyond.

It was a ten minute jog to the arena, and I didn’t stop until I’d reached the drive circle. Walking the last few yards to catch my breath, I eyed the brightly lit building. I hadn’t been inside since the college placed my father on leave pending an investigation. If I had to pick a spot in town where I would be least welcome, the Sterling Hockey Arena was clear winner. But curiosity about who I might find in there, coupled with a desperate wish to get out of the house, were enough to make me step over the threshold.

I bought a ticket at the window and went inside.

Scanning the crowd for Andy really wasn’t that easy, because I didn’t know what he was wearing, or whether he’d donned a hat. I walked slowly around the top level. There were dozens of familiar faces in the crowd. My dentist was in his usual spot behind the penalty box. My middle school hockey coach was sitting with her husband near the student section.

Not one of these people would be all that happy to see me, or anyone else from my family. Last year I’d spent hours attempting to make sense of their blanket hatred. And I’d come to understand that my father’s Stanley Cup ring made everything worse. The people in my town couldn’t live with the fact that maybe they’d boasted to their friends that they knew J.P. Ellison, or that they often saw him in the coffee shop.

They’d been duped by someone they’d praised. And they felt guilty for admiring him. My face was just a reminder of it.

Of course, I’d been duped, too. But there was no room in their disapproval for nuance.

Because old habits die hard, I found myself checking the scoreboard. It was 2-1 in Quinnipiac’s favor, with the first period just half over.
Time for a comeback
, my brain said before I remembered that I really didn’t give a damn.

—
Bridger

When I saw her, I’m ashamed to say I didn’t recognize her right away. There was a girl standing atop the mezzanine walkway, scanning the crowd. She wore a baseball cap and a hoodie, in which she seemed to drown. I almost disregarded her. But then she moved, and the gait was pure Scarlet — shoulders back, spine straight. There was something strong about her that even sloppy clothes couldn’t hide.

I tracked her around the edge of the arena, prepared to wave if she would only look our way. But when she finally spotted me, the look on her face made my gut twist.

It was
fear
.

For a second, she just stood there, shrinking inside herself. I shook off my surprise and beckoned to her. And as she began to accelerate toward the bench where Andy and I sat together, I felt the first whiff of relief. I’d called her all last night to no avail. I’d texted. I’d emailed. And she’d said nothing. Today, Andy had finally pulled out the old high school directory and offered to call her house, just to put me out of my misery.

And now here she was, picking her way past a few people to come over to us. Biting her lip, she sat down on the other side of Andy. It was way too far away. And my throat picked that moment to close up. “Scarlet,” I choked out. “Thank Christ… you have no idea what I thought. When I saw them… that car.” God, I was going to lose it if I wasn’t careful. But the image of that asshole pushing her into the sedan was burned on my brain. It was just the way things happened in nightmares — when the person you’re trying to reach is suddenly snatched away. And then you’re running, but the car is faster…

I had that dream all the time, actually. But usually Lucy was the star.

Andy made to stand up. “I’ll just move…”

“No,” Scarlet grabbed his hands and pulled him down again. “You’re fine where you are.” She looked skittish, and the sight of her looking over her shoulders made my skin prickle. “Where is Lucy?”

“At my house,” Andy said. “Hanging with my sisters.”

“Good,” she said quickly.

I leaned toward her, and it was all I could do not to take her face in my hands. “You have to tell me what the fuck is going on. Why did they make you come home?”

She sighed. “They want things from me.”

“What things?

“I don’t want to talk about it, Bridge. The trial…” she shook her head.

I smacked my hands on my thighs. “Please don’t be that way. I watched a couple of goons haul you off the street yesterday. What do they want?”

There was a blast of Queen’s
We Will Rock You
from the PA system, and the players took the ice for the second period. “I’m getting popcorn,” Andy announced, standing up. He climbed over me and went for the aisle.

“Scarlet, look at me,” I demanded. She dragged heavy eyes from the floor and up to my waiting gaze. I didn’t know how she was going to take what I had to confess. “I already knew,” I whispered. “I knew who you were.”

A wave of disbelief washed across her face. “You did?”

I nodded, feeling miserable. Because I’d meant to come clean about it since the moment I discovered it two nights ago. But instead, like a caveman I’d dragged her home to my lair and had sex with her instead. “I figured it out Monday night.”

“How?” she whispered.

“Well, sometimes I still hear the hockey gossip, you know? I heard that a kick-ass women’s goalie who just happened to be J.P. Ellison’s daughter was going to join the team, but she didn’t show up this fall. And you seemed to know too much about hockey for a Miami girl, and I wondered why. But it wasn’t until I saw another newspaper article about the trial that I put it together. So I Googled Shannon Ellison,” I paused, taking one of her hands in mine. “…And your pretty face popped up on the screen.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, staring down at the concrete floor again.

I slid closer now, wrapping one arm around her back. “You don’t have to be sorry, Scarlet. I understand why you changed your name.”

“Do you? It didn’t even work,” she said, close to tears. “This is ugly. It’s all
so
ugly, and I’m stuck in it. I tried hiding, but…”

“Deep breaths, okay? We’ll get you through it.” My lips grazed her eyebrow. “There’s only one question I need you to answer for me right now. Just one.” My hand tightened on her waist. “Scarlet, are you safe in that house?”

I could feel her body go absolutely solid at the question. And my own heart practically stopped beating, because I was so afraid of what she was about to say. Although I needed her to tell me. Even if the answer gutted me.

“Scarlet,” I whispered. “I need to know.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I am.” But even as she said it, her eyes filled with tears.

“Then what’s the matter?” I asked, my voice close to cracking. “This is important.”

“Nothing, Bridge. Nothing is the matter.”

But I still had a prickle of unease. There was no room for error here. Because if I thought there was any chance of her being hurt by anyone in that house, there was no way I was letting her go back in there. “Scarlet, have you always been safe in that house?”

“Yes,” she said quickly.

“You would tell me if you weren’t, right? It’s important that I, of all people…” I didn’t have any experience with this. But I’d taken Scarlet to bed. Twice. And if she’d been abused as a child, then it wouldn’t have been easy for her.

She looked me straight in the eye. “I
would
tell you. Of all the issues I have, that’s not one of them.”

“Then why are you crying?”

She pushed the tears away with one hand. “Nobody ever asked me that before. They were all too busy running the other way.”

Jesus fuck
. The smolder of fear in my chest flared into anger. And it was stuck somewhere right near the center of my chest. Slowly, I took a few deep breaths. “I was worried maybe that’s why you never told me your real name.”

“That wasn’t it. I promise.”

Andy’s shadow appeared. “This has turned into a pretty exciting game,” he said, sitting down on the other side of Scarlet.

Trying to calm down, I checked the scoreboard. The game was now 3-3.

“Quinnipiac is on a six-game streak,” Scarlet said, looking down onto the rink. “They’ve got great foot speed. But they’re graduating a fuckload of players, including most of their blue line guys.”

A laugh got stuck in my throat, and I pulled her a little closer to me on the bench. “What hurts the most is that I never got to hear you talk hockey before.”

Andy grinned. “Shan…” he caught himself. “Scarlet owns this place.”

“Used to,” she corrected.

“You were such a queen bee in High School,” he said.

“Gee thanks,” She gave him a shaky smile. “If I was, I’m sorry.”

Andy shrugged. “It’s just high school. I don’t get shoved into lockers anymore.”

She stole a piece of his popcorn. “You missed it, Andy, but I got a taste of how the other half lives.”

“You got shoved into lockers too?” He tipped the popcorn in her direction. “Have some more.”

“Not exactly…” she broke off, eying a family was threading its way across the bleachers to sit down just in front of us. They settled themselves on the bench, and the mother began passing hot dogs to her two boys, who were middle school age.

Scarlet pulled her hood down and took off her baseball cap, shaking her hair free. Then she leaned forward to put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Hi Mrs. Stein,” she said, her voice cheery. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

The woman turned with a neighborly smile. And then when she recognized Scarlet, her face closed up tight. Then her husband, sensing a disturbance in the force, looked first at his wife and then craned his neck to see my girlfriend. He cleared his throat. “I think we forgot the…”

“…Mustard,” his wife supplied. “Boys?” She stood up, nudging her sons toward the aisle.

It was unbelievable. “Did they just…” I didn’t even want to say it out loud. “…
Move
their seats because of…?”
You
.

“Yeah, I think they did,” Andy said, his eyes still following the family.

“I used to babysit for them,” Scarlet said. She put her hat back on and pulled up her hood. “You have to understand the mindset around here. Those people are probably shuddering every time they remember leaving their kids with me.”

“That makes no
sense
,” I argued. “You’re not…”

“
Him
,” she finished my sentence. “To them, it doesn’t matter, okay? They’re freaked out, because they just figured out that monsters under the bed are real. They’re out of their minds, wondering how everyone missed it. So our name is like a toxin. You can stop wondering why I don’t have any friends, or why I changed my name, or why I remained a virgin until that night on Andy’s bed.”