Almost Innocent (3 page)

“
I
’ve got
to tell you.” Danni Samms,
the
Danni Samms, smiled as she leaned her forearms against the giant table in the obnoxiously large conference room where my meeting was taking place. “I wasn’t going to read this.”

“She wasn’t.” June Wells—
oh my god, June Wells
—chuckled from her seat next to me, crossing her legs and pointing her more-than-I-make-in-a-year high-heeled toe at me around the edge of the table. “I had to force her, and she complained for days before she started. Then once she opened it, I didn’t hear a peep!” June laughed, raising a single brow.

Panic started to rise within me. When I read something I enjoyed, I told everyone about it—from my friends to the cashier at the grocery store.

As if sensing my worry, June shook her head slightly. “That means she liked it.”

When I’d gotten the call for this meeting, the receptionist had said that I would be meeting with a SammWell rep. I’d assumed she meant that I was going to see some low-level chump whom I would have to convince to take my first few chapters to the company’s founders. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I would be shuttled into a top-floor glass-walled room with the two legends themselves.

And never, ever in a million years would I have imagined that they both would have read the sample I’d sent. This was a dream. It had to be. I was going to wake up and find that this whole screwed up morning had never really happened.

“This,” Ms. Samms spoke again, slapping her hand harshly on my manuscript, “is bloody brilliant!” She lowered her head, giving me a demanding look that had me worried. “Tell me there’s more.”

I opened my mouth to assure her that there was, but before I could answer, her business partner spoke up. “Of course there’s more!” She leaned on the table in a way that mirrored her partner, her dark blue eyes sparkling from beneath her graying hair as she watched me. “I want to know the answer to the question everyone is going to ask. The O’Connor family—are they based on anyone specific?”

I swallowed. Of course they would ask the question I dreaded most of all. I’d practiced a hundred different answers to this inquiry, but none of them seemed remotely viable now. Taking a deep breath, I smiled, trying to hide my nerves. “Does it resemble a real family? That was not my intention.”

June smiled, her bright red lips making her teeth look abnormally white. “That, my dear, is the correct answer.”

Danni nodded. “That is the way you’re always going to answer when you’re asked. And you will be asked. Often. If we do this right, it’ll be a bigger mystery than the families in
The Nanny Diaries
.” Her tongue darted over her bottom lip. “Except when you’re with us.”

Nanny Diaries
? That was a HUGE book. Did they really think I could sell that many copies? Or that that many people would even read a little book written by a debut author? I glanced at June, anticipating her disagreement.

Instead, she was watching me closely, as if waiting for my reaction. “We may not be lawyers, but the confidentiality of our clients is the most important thing to us. It is our job to sell your work. You need to be honest with us always and trust that we can do our job better than most. If you don’t tell us everything though, and something comes out later, we may not be able to twist the truth enough.”

Danni bobbed her head in agreement. “Think Erica Damon.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Exactly!” June exclaimed. “Ten years ago, she had a book that took the industry by storm and had the world at her feet. She could have been a household name. Now she’s nothing more than a liar who couldn’t publish another book even if it was literary gold.”

“He lied,” Danni explained. “Claimed his work was a memoir when in reality it was the same as every other book on the shelf—a fictional story inspired by his life’s events.”

“If you write a book based on real life events and sell it as fiction, it could bite you in the ass in the same way. People will draw their own conclusions, connect dots that aren’t necessarily connectable.” June tipped her head. “But as long as you tell us the truth, we can explain away any similarities readers may find.”

“And focus instead on your talent, how real you write your characters, and what a gifted story-teller you are,” Danni finished.

“So”—June’s eyes sparkled again—“the O’Connor family—should we recognize them?”

I held her eyes for a heartbeat. Part of me wanted to protect them still, and more than that, I wasn’t sure I trusted these two women.
You can’t trust anyone, Gabs. At the end of the day, outsiders want to destroy us, and this family will protect its own above all else.
Declan’s words bubbled to the front of my mind—the words that had haunted me for years.

“Do you think you recognize them?” I asked.

Danni laughed. “Oh, I like this girl.”

June tapped a finger next to her pursed lips. After a minute, she nodded. “Okay. Let’s do it this way. Yes, I see some similarities between the O’Connors and a very real, very noticeable family here in Maine. However, the book has really just begun, hasn’t it? I’m not sure it was your intention to create those resemblances. As you write more, keep that in mind. When we meet again, we’ll talk about this more.”

“You want to meet again?” I tried to keep my voice neutral, but the excitement was hard to hide.

“Of course we do. This is brilliant. Absolute gold.” Danni slid a packet I hadn’t noticed before to the empty spot in front of me. “This is our contract. We want you to take it home, read it through, then call us early next week.” She stood, signaling the meeting was over.

June followed Danni’s lead, standing and nodding at me before offering me a hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Gabriella. I look forward to working with you in the future.”

Danni shoved a hand in my face before I’d even let go of the first. “I cannot wait to get my hands on more of this book. I’m not a patient woman, so don’t make me wait too long.”

I nodded, words escaping me.

Then June stepped close again, her expensive perfume overloading my nostrils. “Before you write any more, I want you to think about what I said. If you are writing about your own experiences and a specific family, I want you to think long and hard about how that family will react to this book. I can spin anything for the masses. But even I can’t hide the truth from the other people who lived it. How will they feel about their story being told?”

I thought about her veiled warning as I merged my car onto the highway and headed home. When I’d started writing, I never intended to publish. Putting the words on paper had been a coping mechanism. One that was for my eyes only.

For years after everything happened, I was too busy with school and Grady to let my mind wander. The nights when I woke up in a cold sweat, terrified that
he
was there, that he was coming after me again, I’d write to Declan. Half the time I didn’t know what I wrote down or if it even made sense. It was just my way of processing what had happened.

After I got my first job, I didn’t have time to dream. A preschooler, a forty-plus-hour work week, and grad school had a way of eating up every second of every day. I wrote to Declan still, but those letters weren’t filled with incoherent thoughts. No, the letters I sent then were fewer and further between, and they told stories of Grady. I never mentioned me, other than to tell him I missed him.

After I received my master’s degrees and took the position at the university, my life became overrun with work and the chauffeur duty most eight-year-old boys required. I didn’t let myself think of Dustin or Declan or anyone else, or what had happened. I should have. I should have gone back to a counselor, talked it out with someone, but I couldn’t bear the thought of someone trying to social work the social worker.

So last year, while sitting at one of Grady’s never-ending hockey practices, I started writing, never intending to write our story. What came out surprised me. At that point, I believed the truth would set me free.

Yet June was right. If I published this book, it would be out there for the world to see. There would be no taking it back. Even if readers never figured it out, the Callaghans would. At that point, the fact that I was Grady’s mother wouldn’t be enough to protect me from Moira’s wrath.

In all honesty, that woman deserved whatever backlash came her way. As did the numerous levels of law enforcement officials who continuously turned a blind eye. And Dustin… death wasn’t good enough for him. He should spend eternity rotting in the fiery depths of hell.

Fi and Grady were innocents though. Guilty simply because they had been born into the wrong family. The repercussions of this book would haunt them long after people forgot the words I’d written. Could I do that to them?

Then there was Declan. When I’d started this whole thing, he was behind bars, and I assumed he was going to stay there. I wrote what I did to process my life because I couldn’t talk about it with the one person I wanted to. Now that he was out, this book would affect him most of all. The truth might set me free, but it would only make Declan a prisoner again.

I saw the sign for Watertown and flipped on my blinker without thinking. Grabbing my phone, I dialed Fiona again.

“How’d it go? Can I now brag that my sister is a department head?” she asked.

I felt a pinprick of guilt over the lies I’d told. I hadn’t wanted anyone to know about the book. Probably because Fi was supportive and amazing and a better sister than I deserved and she would want to read my work. Then she would know just what a horrible person I was. So instead, I’d asked her to keep Grady for a couple of nights and get him to school, telling her that the university had put me up for a promotion.

“They’ll let me know in a few days if I got the job,” I lied. “I need you to give me something though.”

“Anything.”

“Declan’s address.”

“Okay,” she said the word slowly, dragging it out. “Almost anything.”

“I need to see him, Fi. I’m never up here. It’s on my way home. You have Grady again tonight, so it’s the perfect time for Dec and me to have a long overdue talk,” I argued in a rush.

She said my name like a mother scolding her child, and I was sure she was going to deny me. She sighed. “He’s still at the house.”

That surprised me. He may have hated the small city he grew up in, but he despised his parents’ house even more. I’d been under the impression that Moira sold all the properties after we moved. “Thank you.”

“Be gentle with him, Gabs. I worry about him constantly.”

I promised I would, told her I’d call Grady later, and thanked her again.

I drove to the house I’d once considered a second home, unsurprised that there wasn’t a single car in the circular driveway when I pulled through the open gate. It was still early afternoon, and if Dec was working, he wouldn’t be back for hours. For a moment, I wondered if the alarm code was still the same.

I couldn’t handle being alone inside the monstrosity that was the Callaghan house though. There were too many memories in there. I’d drown in my own misery before Declan made it home.

After parking in front of the garage, I walked to the garage window and glanced inside, not surprised to see his motorcycle and tools taking up the space that should be open for his car. I couldn’t keep the smile from my face.

Some things never changed.

I could see him now, the younger, friendlier version, sitting on his knees, blue jeans covered in grease, can of beer cracked open and next to the not-legal teen, the old Harley torn apart around him. A contagious smile plastered on his lips.

For every negative memory I had from the inside of this house, I had, at least, two positive ones from out here. Sitting on the steps, watching him work while we chatted and laughed about nothing and forgot who we were for a few minutes, those were some of the best moments of my teenage years.

Dec glanced up when the door opened, even though I was trying to sneak in, and he gave me the lopsided grin I loved. “Hey, hey, Little G!” he called as he twisted his wrench. “Comin’ to visit?”

I nodded, hurrying down the steps into the garage, then plopped my butt down on the last one. “I just needed a little air.”

He dropped the metal tool onto the concrete floor with a loud clank and turned in my direction, his Caribbean Sea-colored eyes scrutinizing me in a way no one else’s could. His brows knitted together the way my grandpa’s always did when he got my report card. “You okay?”

I wanted to tell him, to let someone in so they could help me carry the weight of this secret. I couldn’t though. Especially not Dec. I wanted to. God, I wanted to let it all out. But I was too afraid of what would happen if I did. He’d either tell me to suck it up and go back inside, which would destroy me, or he’d kill his brother, which would destroy him.

Instead, I put on the best fake smile I could manage and shook my head. “Yeah. Whatchya working on?”

He tipped his head toward his motorcycle. “She’s been running a little rough, so I’m cleaning the carbs.” He picked up a bottle of beer and gulped half of it, never taking his eyes off me. “When you gonna go for a ride with me?”

I laughed, shaking my head. “When hell freezes over.”

“Come on, now. Don’t you trust me?”

I smiled. We’d had this conversation hundreds of times over the last few years. It was always the same. “Oh, Dec, it’s not you I don’t trust. It’s the bike that you have lying in pieces every time I come over.”

He scrunched up his nose and looked at the parts surrounding him as if he was surprised they were there. “Yeah, there’s that.”

I couldn’t help but giggle. He was such a goober.

He stood, wiped his hands on the back of his jeans, and walked to me with more swagger than any eighteen-year-old should have. The way he carried himself, with so much self-confidence, drove all my girlfriends crazy. And made me roll my eyes.

When he dropped onto the stair next to me, his knee bumped mine in a friendly manner and he offered me his beer. I shook my head, but the back of my hand brushed the back of his. I should have pulled away, but instead, I leaned into him farther.