CHAPTER ONE
THE POLICE DIDN’T BELIEVE ME.
A jury wouldn’t have, either, if I’d gone on trial, and most definitely not the judge. My attorney had more than a few reservations about my story. Ms. Allerton hadn’t said as much. She didn’t need to. I saw it in her eyes, could tell by the way she shuffled and reshuffled her papers, as if doing so might shake my lies clean off the pages, leaving only the truth behind in her inky, royal blue swirls.
After our first meeting I’d concluded she must’ve known early on—before she shook my hand with her icy fingers—that I was a liar. Before she’d walked into the room in shiny four-inch heels, she’d no doubt decided she’d heard my excuses, or a variation thereof, from countless clients already. I was yet another person claiming to be innocent. Another criminal who’d remained adamant they’d done nothing wrong, it wasn’t their fault, honest, despite the overwhelming amount of evidence to the contrary, a wall of impending doom surrounding me.
And still, at the time I’d believed the only reason Ms. Allerton had taken on my case pro bono was because of the amount of publicity it gave her firm. Reducing my sentence—for there would be one—would amplify her legacy as a hotshot lawyer. I’d accepted her help. There was no other option. I needed her knowledge, her expertise, saw her as my final hope. I now know her motivations were something else I’d miscalculated. All hope extinguished. Game over.
If I’m being fair, the judgments Ms. Allerton and other people had made about me weren’t completely wrong. I had told lies, some, anyway. While that stripped away part of my claim to innocence, it didn’t mean I was entirely guilty. Not of the things everybody said I’d done. Things I’d had no choice but to confess to, despite that being my biggest lie of all.
But I’ll tell you the truth. The whole truth and nothing but. I’ll start at the beginning and share everything that happened. Every last detail leading up to one fateful night. The night someone died because of me. The night I lost you, too.
I won’t expect your forgiveness. Our relationship—or lack thereof—will have gone way beyond that point. No. All I can hope for, is that my side of the story will one day help you understand why I did the things I did.
And why I have to do the things I’ve not yet done.
CHAPTER TWO
Fifteen months earlier
MY HEELS DRAGGED AS my legs took shorter steps than usual, an unmistakable sign my feet weren’t heading in a direction I wanted to go. The hems of my old frayed jeans dragged on the sidewalk, soaking up the gray slush—the final vestige of the snow dusting most of Maine had received earlier that Friday afternoon, dumping the majority of it right on top of Portland.
The freezing, soggy fabric of my pants had turned into frozen fingers snatching at my ankles, and I cursed myself twice. Once for not believing the weatherman when he said snow would hit mid-October, and again because I’d donned comfy sneakers as a pathetic sign of protest. At almost thirty and an East Coast native, I really should’ve known better.
While my heart protested, my brain made me quicken my pace toward Monroe Hospice. I tried hard not to imagine what Dad might look like today. If I did, I feared I’d turn around, scuttle home to my little apartment, which had become more of a refuge since his diagnosis. Never mind my pathetic and humble abode’s dire need for odorless carpets, proper windows to keep out the draft and paint that didn’t come off the walls in banana-peel strips. Despite its state, I longed to be at home, close the curtains, pull on two sweaters and hide for the weekend, trying to pretend Dad wasn’t sick. Wasn’t dying. That this wouldn’t be his last Thanksgiving, and he would make it to Christmas.
Forty-eight hours had passed since I’d visited. Even in such a short amount of time I wasn’t sure what condition I’d find him in—the pallor of his face, how much more sallow his skin had become as it stretched over his jutting cheekbones, translucent as raw phyllo pastry.
Pancreatic cancer—the inoperable, terminal kind, the doctor had said eight weeks ago, although it felt as if multiple lifetimes had passed since our world had been turned upside down. I’d refused to believe it when Dad told me. Insisted they’d made a mistake, handed him somebody else’s test results by accident. The thought of losing my father, the one person I cared for the most in the entire world, filled me with horror. At the rate of his decline, we’d be lucky if he made it another month.
I’d barely slept since the diagnosis, the only advantage being I’d stayed ahead of schedule with the website designs for my clients, even though I caught myself staring into space far too often. Working so much couldn’t prevent my mind from traveling the path marked Life after Dad. It was bleak down there. Empty and cold. Lonely. A place filled with despair, anger and hate. Somewhere nobody should be forced to go, yet a destination almost everyone ended up at some point, and in my case, before I’d done something—anything—to make him proud.
I hoisted my bag over my shoulder, wishing for the umpteenth time I’d emptied it before setting off, and had left my notepad-cum-sketchbook and camera at home. The latter was an older, large digital Nikon. It had belonged to my neighbor’s deceased husband and had therefore been free—a big part of the appeal—but it now made the straps of my bag dig into my skin.
“You’re an idiot,” I said and shifted the weight. Even if Dad let me take his picture, I’d be incapable of focusing the lens on him without bursting into tears.
I took another few steps, caught sight of my reflection in the store window and quickly looked away, stuffed my hands deeper into the pockets of my jacket, which already bunched more snuggly around my middle than it had when I’d bought it at the thrift store a few weeks ago. We’d never been on good terms, mirrors and I—it was why I preferred holding the pencil or being on the other side of the camera—and I had more reasons to avoid them now. Unhappiness did peculiar things to people. For me, it translated into lank, greasy hair, a total lack of makeup, and a pattern of shoveling as much comfort food—translation: any food—down my throat as fast as I possibly could.
I’d never lost anyone before, nobody close anyway, no one I’d sobbed into my pillow for, or bargained over with a higher power. It petrified me. Seeing my dad—a strong and burly truck driver with a marshmallow heart—be reduced to no more than a shell within a matter of weeks was already frightening enough, but I suspected the worst was yet to come.
I shuddered, pulled the hood of my jacket over my head to stop the bitter winds from assaulting my ears and remembered our conversation about the “technical arrangements” for his funeral, more specifically, what he didn’t want.
“Get them to play ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ by Queen,” he’d said.
“Dad, there’s no way I—”