All of the Lights (7 page)

"
All you had to do was tell the truth..."

I squeeze my eyes shut one more time as another round of tears streak down my face and I furiously wipe them away with the back of my hand. After I set Freya down on the island in my kitchen, she watches me curiously as I sweep both wine bottles off the counter, uncork them, and dump their contents down the drain.

Tonight I just don't trust myself.

My phone chirps in my purse and for a fleeting moment, my heart somersaults in my stomach. It's short-lived because it's just Bennett making sure, once again, that I'm okay. I wanted it to be someone else checking up on me, but by now, I'm sure he's tossed my number in the trash right where it belongs.

I pound out a quick reply only because I know Bennett will just keep trying if I don't.

"This could've all been avoided if you'd just done the right thing from the beginning..."

Light eyes flash across my mind, wide with horror and I think he reaches for me—I've never been able to figure out why. He says my name and his eyes dart around frantically as he yells for help, but he doesn't get very far. Three cops materialize out of thin air and haul him away, slapping handcuffs around his wrists as I writhe on the ground, my blood splattered around me, numb with agony.  

My memory is still hazy at best, but I do remember seeing a phone in Sean Callahan's hand before they shoved him away from me.

I can't make sense of it. How did he get there so quickly? Why was he in Philly? And the dark eyes I remember seeing right before that tire iron slammed into my knee...where did they go?

"You know what you're going to do, Raena?" my dad hovers above my hospital bed and peers down at me with raised eyebrows. "You're going to tell the truth."

My entire body feels like it's on fire and somewhere, I think I hear my sister crying softly in the background for me. A hand squeezes mine and I have to blink a few times before the cloudiness clears. My eyes find the window first, where Bennett paces in the hallway. Lucy smiles weakly at me and squeezes my hand one more time before she looks to our dad again.

Sand coats my throat. These stupid pain meds just make me feel like I'm sitting three feet away, watching this scene play out, and there's nothing I can do to take control of my body because I can't move.

"But—"

"You saw Sean Callahan," my dad cuts in, this time a little more forcefully than before. "That's it."

My sister leans forward and squeezes my hand again. "Dad, I thought she already told the cops that—"

"It doesn't matter. Sean Callahan was found on the scene right next to you. He could've killed you—why else would he be anywhere near you if it wasn't to hurt you? After what you've just been through, I understand why you're confused. I really do. But there was no trace of anyone else on that scene except you and Sean Callahan. There's no other possibility or explanation, sweetheart."

For the first time in my life, my dad looks at me with just a little bit of tenderness, a little bit of worry. He's right. He has to be right. Nothing else makes sense, at least not now. And he cares, doesn't he? He's genuinely upset that something so terrible has happened to me, that my attacker could've done worse, that I'm lucky to even be alive, and that's when my memory begins to blur.

"When the detectives come back in here, you're going to tell the truth. Aren't you, Raena?"

I take a deep breath and nod.

And in the end, his definition of truth consists of whatever story gets him what he wants.

I'm so sick of this...so sick of letting my dad dictate and demonize at every turn. Manipulating me into doing exactly what he wants. What have I been hanging onto this whole time? Some misplaced sense of loyalty that's never returned? Some false, pathetic hope that
this
time or maybe
next
time, things will finally change between us? If telling those detectives exactly what he wanted me to that day wasn't enough, than nothing ever will be.

There's no point in trying to live up to expectations that never even really existed. I'm just a tiny blip on his radar. A smudge on his shoe that needs cleaning. A task he can easily delegate to someone else.

But maybe my dad's right. Maybe it's time I finally start telling the truth.

Because I'm 99.9 percent sure that Sean Callahan has only been in prison these last seven years because I listened to my dad instead of my gut.

There's no amount of rationalizing that can make that particular truth go away. Or the fact that my dad used his high-reaching connections to ensure Sean received the maximum sentence for assault with a deadly weapon—something that's basically unheard of just about anywhere given the lack of real, concrete evidence against him. Or the fact that nearly the entirety of my statement at the scene conveniently disappeared. Or the fact that everything was settled outside of court, where I wouldn't have to testify because, as my dad said, "
I shouldn't have to be put through my attack all over again."

The only real caveat is the fact that Sean pled guilty. At the time, I thought it proved I'd made the right decision. Why would an innocent person admit to something he didn't do?

I'd heard rumors through the years that Sean had acted on advice of counsel, that there was no way he'd ever come out on top against my dad's heavyweight lawyers and my blind finger-pointing. Even the court of public opinion found him guilty and the press ran with it. After all, to them I was just a 20-year-old college student in Philly trying to start over after a troubled youth. A victim of simply being the mayor's daughter. Always a victim of something.

And to them, Sean Callahan was a monster who'd taken his grudge against the man trying to destroy his community out on his innocent daughter. And considering who
his
father was, it wasn't much of a leap to believe the Callahans would be capable of a plot like that.

"It's those Irish genes," I'd heard around Back Bay shortly after Sean was sentenced to 10-15 years with little chance at parole. "Stubborn and angry."

Of course, everyone in Southie stood by him, even after he pled guilty. They believed Sean was being unfairly prosecuted for just being in the wrong place at the wrong time, that the only crime he was guilty of was being his father's son.

Then Jack's words echo in my ears, "
Maybe it'd be a little different visitin' him every week if he actually did what they said he did."

That's not something he would share so casually to a stranger if he didn't truly believe it. And somewhere, deep down, he just confirmed what I've always known, but could never admit out loud.

But if Sean wasn't there to hurt me, then what
was he doing?
If he didn't shatter my knee with a tire iron, then who did? Why?

"All you had to do was tell the truth..."

I've spent seven years living in doubt, self-hatred, and everything in between. It's time to find answers. It's time to finally make sense of what happened to me. It's time to stop lying.

Even though my hands are shaking and tears are still flowing down my cheeks, I feel strong for the first time in my life. I feel like I finally have a purpose. I feel like I finally have some power.

And so, with my dad's voice ringing in my ears, I dig through my closet until I find some paper to write on. This is probably the most reckless thing I've ever done, which is really something considering I've spent almost half my lifetime doing reckless things.

This is different. This is bigger than me because this is about righting a wrong that I never should've allowed to happen in the first place.

Maybe
this
is really that precipice I've been hovering over all this time. Maybe
this
is what's been headed right for me since I moved back to Boston. Maybe
this
is that risk I've been too terrified to take.

My pen skitters across the page and I rewrite the letter three times before I'm finally satisfied with my efforts. It will probably end up returned and that's nothing less than what I deserve, but I have to do it. After doing a quick search to get the address, I carry it to the mailroom in my bare feet and throw it in the outgoing box before I lose the nerve.

I nod to myself.

The truth.

Finally.

Jack

I never should've agreed to this. There are plenty of reasons I could've skipped out tonight: I was already running late from visiting Sean and had to get my ass to the bar, but nope. No amount of protesting, excuses, or grumbling is enough to topple the master.

It's a true testament to her skills that I'm sitting here at the kitchen table with a smile on my face. Not a real smile, sure, but my mom isn't picky.

"Here you go, sweetheart," she leans down to set a big glass of milk next to my plate with her hand on my shoulder.

"Thanks, Ma."

She takes a second to ruffle my hair and I dip my head down in a half-hearted attempt at dodging her grasp. Now that she has that little display out of the way, she continues this embarrassment train as she sinks into her chair across from my dad and directs her attention to the fourth member of our table.

"So, Payton, how is everything going at the bar? I hope my boys are treating you okay."

"Everything's great," she replies politely as my dad passes her a plate of mashed potatoes. "I really love working with all of you."

That sweet smile on my mom's face just reeks of manipulation and honestly, I feel bad for Payton. She's a nice girl and with her dark curly hair and doe-eyes, I probably should feel at least a spark of interest on principle alone.

But I don't. And she really doesn't deserve what's happening here tonight.

The poor girl's only been waitressing for us for a couple of weeks and already, my mom's got her sights set on her like this is her last hope at ever getting any grandchildren. But, seeing as how the baby of the family is in prison and her oldest son has been married without any kids for years, I can't really hold it against her.

So, for her sake, I endure the rest of this dinner, filled with awkward small-talk and too many hopeful nudges from my mom to get me to ask Payton out for a 'real' dinner. Thankfully, after she's doled out the apple pie and ice cream, Payton sees the writing on the wall and politely heads home.

"I don't understand you," my mom wags a finger at me as she sweeps my empty plate off the table. "She's a sweet girl, Jack. You could've at least offered to walk her to her car or something."

Finally, after some long, bated silence during dinner, my dad chimes in without even looking up from his paperwork. "Maybe he just didn't want to get her hopes up, Maura. You know, unlike some other people in this room."

She shoots my dad an exasperated glance from over her shoulder. "So sue me for trying, Roark."

My dad just shakes his head and checks out of this conversation by flipping a page over. Now, unfortunately, that means the attention is back on me.

"I'm sorry," she lifts a shoulder and drops a plate into the sink. "I just thought the two of you would hit it off...maybe make a nice couple down the road."

I meet my dad's eyes from across the table and his lips pull apart in a wince. We both know exactly how this conversation is going to go and we also know it has more to do with Sean than it does with me. Still, I'm surprised she hasn't dropped the whole
you're 30 now, Jack, and you're not getting any younger
argument. So, I have to make a choice here: I can play along and make her happy or I can be honest.

"Ma," I smile softly and reach for her hand. "I like working with her—at least, from the few times I've actually worked with her."

"You like her?" her voice is filled with so much hope and for a second, I almost give her what she wants just because I don't want to do anything to make that hope disappear.

"Sure, Ma. I like her. And if I decide I want to see her outside of the bar again, maybe let me do it on my own terms next time? I mean, come on, it doesn't make me look too good if I got my mom settin' up dates for me, yah know?"

She huffs out a laugh, but she squeezes my hand and that smile on her face tells me I've made my point.

"Okay," she laughs and with that, goes back to putting the rest of our dishes in the sink. "You better make sure you stay for another piece of pie before you head off to work though."

Crisis averted.

"Ah, I don't know," I pat my stomach a little, but she's probably not going to take no for an answer. "You trying to fatten up or somethin', Ma?"

"Never," she grins.

She doesn't give me any time before setting another plate of that sinful apple pie in front of me. Well, now that it's sitting here...

I take a healthy forkful of pie and shovel it into my mouth just as she sets another plate at my dad's elbow. He eyes it carefully, weighing whether or not he really needs it and when she nudges it just a hair closer to him, he blows out a deep breath and rolls his eyes to the ceiling.

"I guess I can resist anything but temptation," he sighs and begrudgingly picks up the fork.

The familiar sentiment makes me grin and I shake my head. Right. Like anyone could resist her apple pie for very long.