By the time Jonah’s breathing had fallen into deep, regular patterns again, it was nearly fiveA.M. and Miles knew he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. Instead, after putting Jonah back in bed, he went in the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. Sitting at the table, he rubbed his eyes and his face, getting the blood flowing again, then looked up. Outside the window, the sky was beginning to glow silver on the horizon and splinters of daybreak filtered through the trees.
Miles found himself thinking about Sarah Andrews once more. He was attracted to her, that much was certain. He hadn’t reacted that strongly to a woman in what seemed like forever. He’d been attracted to Missy, of course, but that was fifteen years ago. A lifetime ago. And it wasn’t that he wasn’t attracted to Missy during the last few years of their marriage, because he was. It’s just that the attraction seemed different, somehow. The initial infatuation he’d felt when meeting Missy the first time-the desperate adolescent desire to learn everything he could about her-had been replaced with something deeper and more mature over the years. With Missy, there weren’t any surprises. He knew how she looked just after getting out of bed in the mornings, he’d seen the exhaustion etched in every feature after giving birth to Jonah. He knew her-her feelings, her fears, the things she liked and didn’t. But this attraction for Sarah felt…new, and it made him feel new as well, as if anything were possible. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed that feeling. But where would it go from here? That was the part he still wasn’t sure about. He couldn’t predict what, if anything, would happen with Sarah. He didn’t know anything about her; in the end, they might not be compatible at all. There were a thousand things that could doom a relationship, and he wasn’t blind to them. Still, he’d been attracted to her…
Miles shook his head, forcing the thought away. No reason to dwell on it, except for the reason that the attraction had once again reminded him that he wanted to start over. He wanted to find someone again; he didn’t want to live the rest of his life alone. Some people could do that, he knew. There were people here in town who’d lost their spouse and never remarried, but he wasn’t wired that way and never had been. He’d never felt as if he’d been missing out on something when he’d been married. He didn’t look at his single friends and wish that he could lead their life-dating, playing the field, falling in and out of love as the seasons changed. That just wasn’t him. He loved being a husband, he loved being a father, he loved the stability that had come with all that, and he wanted to have that again.
But I probably won’t…
Miles sighed and looked out the window again. More light in the lower sky, still black above. He rose from the table, went down the hall to peek in on Jonah-still asleep-then pushed open the door to his own bedroom. In the shadows, he could see the pictures he’d had framed, sitting on top of his chest of drawers and on the bedstand. Though he couldn’t make out the features, he didn’t need to see them clearly to know what they were: Missy sitting on the back porch, holding a bouquet of wildflowers; Missy and Jonah, their faces close to the lens, grinning broadly; Missy and Miles walking down the aisle… Miles entered and sat on the bed. Next to the photo was the manila file filled with information he’d compiled himself, on his own time. Because sheriffs didn’t have jurisdiction over traffic accidents-nor would he have been allowed to investigate, even if the sheriffs had-he’d followed in the footsteps of the highway patrol, interviewing the same people, asking the same questions, and sifting through the same information. Knowing what he’d been through, no one had refused to cooperate, but in the end he’d learned no more than the official investigators. As it was, the file sat on the bedstand, as if daring Miles to find out who’d been driving the car that night.
But that didn’t seem likely, not anymore, no matter how much Miles wanted to punish the person who’d ruined his life. And let there be no mistake: That was exactly what he wanted to do. He wanted to make the person pay dearly for what he’d done; it was his duty both as a husband and as someone sworn to uphold the law. An eye for an eye-wasn’t that what the Bible said? Now, as with most mornings, Miles stared at the file without bothering to open it and found himself imagining the person who’d done it, running through the same scenarios he did every time, and always beginning with the same question. If it was simply an accident, why run?
The only reason he could come up with was that the person was drunk, someone coming home from a party, or someone who made a habit of drinking too much every weekend. A man, probably, in his thirties or forties. Though there was no evidence to support that, that’s whom he always pictured. In his mind’s eye, Miles could see him swerving from side to side as he made his way down the road, going too fast and jerking the wheel, his mind processing everything in slow motion. Maybe he was reaching for another beer, one sandwiched between his legs, just as he caught a glimpse of Missy at the last second. Or maybe he didn’t see her at all. Maybe he just heard the thud and felt the car shudder with the impact. Even then, the driver didn’t panic. There weren’t any skid marks on the road, even though the driver had stopped the car to see what he had done. The evidence-information that had never appeared in any of the articles-showed that much.
No matter.
No one else had seen anything. There were no other cars on the road, no porch lights flicked on, no one had been outside walking the dog or turning off the sprinklers. Even in his intoxicated state, the driver had known that Missy was dead and that he’d be facing a manslaughter charge at the least, maybe second-degree murder if he’d had prior offenses. Criminal charges. Prison time. Life behind bars. These and even more frightening thoughts must have raced through his head, urging him to get out of there before anyone saw him. And he had, without ever bothering to consider the grief he’d left in his wake. It was either that, or someone had run Missy down on purpose.
Some sociopath who killed for the thrill of it. He’d heard of such people.
Or killed to get back at Miles Ryan?
He was a sheriff; he’d made enemies. He’d arrested people and testified against them. He’d helped send scores of people to prison.
One of them?
The list was endless, an exercise in paranoia.
He sighed, finally opening the file, finding himself drawn to the pages. There was one detail about the accident that didn’t seem to fit, and over the years Miles had scribbled half a dozen question marks around it. He had learned of it when he’d been taken to the scene of the accident. Strangely, whoever had been driving the car had covered Missy’s body with a blanket.
This fact had never made the papers.
For a while, there were hopes that the blanket would provide some clues to the identity of the driver. It hadn’t. It was a blanket typically found in emergency kits, the kind sold in a standard package with other assorted items at nearly every auto supply or department store across the country. There’d been no way to trace it.
But…why?
This was the part that continued to nag at Miles.
Why cover up the body, then run? It made no sense. When he’d raised the matter with Charlie, Charlie had said something that haunted Miles to this day: “It’s like the driver was trying to apologize.”
Or throw us off the track?
Miles didn’t know what to believe.
But he would find the driver, no matter how unlikely it seemed, simply because he wouldn’t give up. Then, and only then, could he imagine himself moving on.
Chapter 6
On Friday evening, three days after meeting Miles Ryan, Sarah Andrews was alone in her living room, nursing her second glass of wine, feeling about as rotten as a person could feel. Even though she knew the wine wouldn’t help, she knew that she’d nonetheless pour herself a third glass just as soon as this one was finished. She’d never been a big drinker, but it had been that kind of day. Right now, she just wanted to escape.
Strangely, it hadn’t started off badly. She’d felt pretty good first thing in the morning and even during breakfast, but after that, the day had nose-dived rapidly. Sometime during the night before, the hot-water heater in her apartment had stopped working and she’d had to take a cold shower before heading off to school. When she got there, three of the four students in the front of the class had colds and spent the day coughing and sneezing in her direction when they weren’t acting up. The rest of the class seemed to follow their lead, and she hadn’t accomplished half of what she’d wanted to. After school, she’d stayed to catch up on some of her work, but when she was finally ready to head home, one of the tires on her car was flat. She’d had to call AAA and ended up waiting nearly an hour until they showed up; and by the time she got back to her apartment, the streets had been roped off for the Flower Festival that weekend and she’d had to park three blocks away. Then, to top it all off, no more than ten minutes after she’d walked in the door, an acquaintance had called from Baltimore, to let her know that Michael was getting married again in December. That was when she’d opened the wine.
Now, finally feeling the effects of the alcohol, Sarah found herself wishing that AAA had taken a little longer with her tire, so she wouldn’t have been home to answer the phone when it rang. She wasn’t a close friend of the woman’s-she’d socialized with Sarah casually, since she’d originally been friends with Michael’s family-and had no idea why the woman felt the urge to let Sarah know what was going on. And even though she had passed on the information with the proper mix of sympathy and disbelief, Sarah couldn’t help suspecting that the woman would hang up the phone and immediately report back to Michael how Sarah had responded. Thank God she’d kept her composure. But that was two glasses of wine ago, and now it wasn’t so easy. She didn’t want to hear about Michael. They were divorced, separated by law and choice, and unlike some divorced couples, they hadn’t talked since their last meeting in the lawyer’s office almost a year earlier. By that point, she’d considered herself lucky to be rid of him and had simply signed the papers without a word. The pain and anger had been replaced with a kind of apathy, rooted in the numbing realization that she’d never really known him at all. After that, he didn’t call or write, nor did she. She lost contact with his family and friends, he showed no interest in hers. In many ways, it almost seemed as if they’d never been married at all. At least, that’s what she told herself.
And now he was getting married again.
It shouldn’t bother her. She shouldn’t care one way or the other. But she did, and that bothered her, too. If anything, she was more upset by the fact that his impending marriage upset her than by the upcoming marriage itself. She’d known all along that Michael would marry again; he’d told her as much.
That was the first time she’d ever really hated someone. But real hate, the kind that made the stomach roil, wasn’t possible without an emotional bond. She wouldn’t have hated Michael nearly as much unless she’d loved him first. Perhaps naively, she had imagined that they would be a couple forever. They’d made their vows and promised to love each other forever, after all, and she’d descended from a long line of families that had done just that. Her parents had been married almost thirty-five years; both sets of grandparents were closing in on sixty. Even after their problems arose, Sarah believed that she and Michael would follow in their footsteps. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, but when he’d chosen the views of his family over his promise to her, she’d never felt so insignificant in her entire life.
But she wouldn’t be upset now, if she was really over him… Sarah finished her glass and rose from the couch, not wanting to believe that, refusing to believe it. She was over him. If he came crawling back to her right now and begged for forgiveness, she wouldn’t take him back. There was nothing he could say or do to ever make her love him again. He could marry whoever the hell he wanted, and it would make no difference to her.
In the kitchen, she poured her third glass of wine.
Michael was getting married again.
Despite herself, Sarah felt the tears coming. She didn’t want to cry anymore, but old dreams died hard. When she put her glass down, trying to compose herself, she set the glass too close to the sink and it toppled into the basin, shattering instantly. She reached in to pick up the shards of glass, pricked her finger, and it began to bleed.
One more thing on an already terrible day.
She exhaled sharply and pressed the back of her hand against her eyes, willing herself not to cry.
***
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
With crowds pressing in around them, the words seemed to fade in and out, as if Sarah were trying to listen to something from a distance. “For the third time, I’m fine, Mom. Really.”
Maureen reached up and brushed the hair from Sarah’s face. “It’s just that you look a little pale, like you might be coming down with something.” “I’m a little tired, that’s all. I was up late working.”
Though she didn’t like lying to her mother, Sarah had no desire to tell her about the bottle of wine the night before. Her mother barely understood why people drank at all, especially women, and if Sarah explained that she’d been alone as well, her mother would only bite her lip in worry before launching into a series of questions that Sarah was in no mood to answer. It was a glorious Saturday, and the downtown area was thronged with people. The Flower Festival was in full swing, and Maureen had wanted to spend the day browsing among the booths and in the antique stores along Middle Street. Since Larry wanted to watch the football game between North Carolina and Michigan State, Sarah had offered to keep her company. She’d thought it might be fun, and it probably would have been, if it hadn’t been for the raging headache that even aspirin couldn’t ease. As they talked, Sarah inspected an antique picture frame that had been restored with care, though not enough care to justify the price. “On a Friday?” her mother asked.