Breaking Glass (30 page)

Now

The lights flicker, then brighten. The room is intact as if nothing had happened. “What the hell was that?” Spake asks.

I swallow hard. Spake apparently saw something, but not what I saw. I’m hallucinating. I’m sure of it. I wonder how long I have until I slip into a world where fantasy and reality merge into a single nightmare.

Is this why my mother took the plunge?

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

Derek Spake wheels me slowly back to my room. Standing on the threshold, he says, “Somebody should lock Patrick Morgan up and throw away the key.”

My good hand draws into a fist. All those years prancing around naked in locker rooms. What was Ryan thinking? How did he hide it? “Why didn’t he tell me? I’m his fucking best friend, for chrissakes.”

Spake’s face reddens. “Would you still be?”

I’m a little queasy, and I’m not sure I know the answer. “I hope so,” I whisper.

“His father found us together in his room,” Spake says in a monotone. “So reconstruct that scenario. I don’t know if Ryan’s ever told you what life was like living under that man’s roof. It’s a wonder he’s lived this long. Ryan is an expert at hiding bruises.”

I lower my head. Another thing I’d missed. It never occurred to me that Ryan might be suffering in his own private hell. I’d been so worried about Patrick Morgan messing with me, I never suspected he would lay a hand on his own son.

“Do you think he’ll come out of this?”

“God, I hope so,” Spake says, shuddering.

I wake to find my dad staring down at me with a bemused half-smile. “I really can’t look away for a second with you, or you wind up here.”

“One-legged people tend to fall over a lot.”

His smile collapses. “Marisa says you’d been rummaging around in the attic. What the hell were you doing up there?”

“Digging up the past. That’s what historians do. In truth.”

Dad flops into the plastic chair opposite me. I sit up to face him, my leg dangling over the side of the bed. My muscles are twitchy and restless from lack of use. I want to run. Or at least hop.

“You don’t have to sneak around, Jeremy. You can just ask me about things.”

I laugh. Really hard. “Right, Dad. That’s you—the guy with the lantern, ye old truth seeker of Riverton. Either that or you are the blindest man alive. Or,” I pause and let my smile fade, “you’re the biggest fucking liar this side of the Hudson.”

Dad’s brows slam down over his eyes like he’s strapping on a battle helmet. He catches himself before he grabs my wrist. “Take that back, Jeremy,” he says, his jaw quivering.

“Or what? You’ll beat me like Patrick Morgan beats Ryan?” I pause and watch the storm clouds gather in his eyes. “What are you so fucking afraid of, Dad? Did you know what was driving Mom crazy? You
had
to know.”

Dad folds in on himself, crumpling into the chair. “You found out.”

“There’s an attic full of shit, Dad. Do you know why Mom would have been obsessed with an accidental death that happened over thirty years ago? Or don’t you?”

Dad’s eyebrows spring up. “What the
hell
are you talking about? What death?”

“The articles Mom saved. There must have been hundreds. I found them.”

Dad’s mouth drops open and hangs slack. “She saved articles? About what?”

In truth, Dad never has been much of a liar. An Olympic-gold medal avoider of unpleasant topics—but skilled liar? No. His face twists in confusion that solidifies into shock.

“So you didn’t know.” I scratch my head. “What the hell did
you
think I found out?”

Dad is gray. Literally. His eyes shift from side to side. He exhales in a long, weary sigh, as if he’s finally let go of a breath he’s been holding in for years. I feel the tug of another root pulling free. “Celia. Celia and me.”

Now it’s my turn to take the bullet that slams into my gut. “What are you saying, Dad? That you’ve
been fucking
Celia Morgan?”

“Yes. For years.”

“What? Did Mom know
that
?”

Dad slumps forward in the chair, his face resting against his palms. “You figure it out. You’re the historian.”

But I don’t say anything. My lips are too numb. His face still buried in his hands, Dad mumbles. “Celia and I were together in high school. We broke up soon after. Only we didn’t.”

Dad raises his head and looks at me, his face haggard, exhausted. “We were poor, Jeremy. Both of us. Dirt poor. I lived in one of the apartments over the stores in town with your grandmother. I could never have afforded law school without your mother’s help. She was so beautiful and kind. And rich as hell. But she was fragile and breakable. I think her parents were relieved someone would take her off their hands.”

“Didn’t you love Mom?” My insides are writhing, full of slithering snakes.

“I suppose. Though I knew there was trouble ahead. But she was totally dedicated to me. Dependent. She willfully overlooked everything. I guess you could say she loved me more.”

I lower my head, my eyes tracing the pattern of the linoleum tiling. I want the waters to rush in between the cracks and wash me away. “You fucking bastard.”

Dad hesitates, and continues. “Celia waitressed at the Riverton Diner. After her parents died a few years later, she had no inheritance and could barely afford the taxes on their house. Patrick wanted her because she was the one girl who
didn’t
want him. When she finally went for him, it was like planting his victory flag straight through my heart. Only an arrogant ass like Morgan couldn’t see the truth behind our masquerade.”

I shake my head slowly, the room spinning in a slow-motion whirlpool. From its edges, I think I see Susannah looking on, smiling, arms folded over her chest.

Poison roots, toxic roots. I wonder how far down into the earth they reach and ask myself how I feel, now that Dad is finally revealing his full hand. I decide that maybe I preferred his polite silences.

But once roots are unearthed, you can’t put them back into the ground.

Dad continues, but I’m looking past him, darkness teasing the edge of my vision. Susannah’s image is coming into focus. And she’s not so pretty. Her hair is bushy, as disheveled and wild as an abandoned bird’s nest. Her hands reach for me with skeletal, dead tree fingers. I’m following in my mother’s footsteps. I’m losing my mind, just like her.

“Jeremy,” he says, his voice growing tinny and distant. “I hurt your mother. Terribly.”

I swallow hard and blink back the cresting wave of darkness, force Susannah to the edges of the room. I feel sorry for Dad—first a crazy wife and now me. “So that’s why you let Patrick Morgan walk all over you all these years? Because you were fucking his wife. Does he know?”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t be alive if he had any solid evidence,” Dad says miserably. “But lately, I’ve been beginning to wonder if he does know. And only a sick fuck like him would enjoy the leverage it gave him. Patrick Morgan inherited his law firm from his father, and from his grandfather before that. They built this town. They have connections that reach all the way to Albany, and some say right to the White House. No one can touch him, Jeremy. He could do any crooked deal he wanted and assume I’d stay silent.”

My frenzied mind crawls over the facts at hand. “Have you ever heard of a guy named Douglas Bernard Lewis?”

Dad’s face colors. “That was the accident you were talking about—Doug’s death. He was my best friend. An amazing guy. A big guy. Star quarterback, and smart as hell. We were all friends. Me, Patrick, Doug. Your mom, Celia, and Trudy. We did everything together. Until Doug fell through the ice on the reservoir and drowned.”

Dad continues, lost in the memory. “Back then Trudy and Doug were the
it
couple. She was a stunning girl. But I don’t think Trudy ever had her head screwed on right after Doug died. She started distancing herself from the rest of us. Getting into trouble. After high school she moved away, some say to have a child. But she came back years later, twisted and strangely religious.”

“Your mother was petrified of Trudy,” Dad says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Trudy Durban killed Susannah herself, buried her in the backyard under a rosebush, and then prayed for her immortal soul.”

Dad and I stare at each other blankly. My head is spinning, but my mouth can’t shape words. The darkness rises like floodwater. Susannah is walking toward me, shaking her head.

“And what about Mom?”

Dad squints at me and slants his head. “Your mother was always sensitive and prone to depression. I couldn’t really say when things started to take a turn for the worse. I guess I never realized how much his death upset her. I always thought it was because of me.”

I want to tell Dad I’m sorry. Sorry for being too much like Mom. Sorry for what lies ahead for us both.

“We should get going,” he says finally, and stands, straightening his rumpled clothes. He walks to the wheelchair, rolls it over beside me, helps me in, then leans down, and looks me in the eye.

“I don’t blame you if you hate me, Jeremy. But no matter what I’ve said, the horrendous choices I’ve made, I will always love you. I can’t stand the idea of anything happening to you. Do you understand?”

He hugs me, careful not to jar my sprained arm. I reach around him with one arm and hug him back. “I’m sorry, Jeremy. I’m sorry for all the shit I’ve put on you and put you through. It’s no wonder you drank.”

I don’t answer. I just stare at the untied lace of my single sneaker. I don’t want to slip into insanity. I want to fight this. If I can solve Susannah’s murder, I can be free of her terrifying visits. I can be free of the madness that wants to claim me.

“I just want you to get better, Jeremy. I want you to kick the drinking, get help for all the demons that are tearing you apart. And most of all, I want you to walk.”

“I know that, Dad.”

“Chaz is coming in the morning. Your leg will be ready soon. He says once it’s in, you need to be fit immediately, even with this setback, or you’ll lose muscle tone you may never get back.”

This shocks me out of my numb state.

“Huh?”

“Lyle Hoffman put in a rush order on your electronic C-Leg. He’s gotten the insurance company to cover most of the cost and he’s donating the rest. He’ll also cover the remaining cost of the custom running blade, which he wants to fit as soon as you get used to your new leg. You must have made quite an impression on the guy.”

Suddenly, I’m hyper-aware of the wheelchair seat chafing against my butt and I want, more than anything, to be vertical. Despite the toxic roots, the bombshells, and the hallucinatory ghosts trying to drag me with them to the grave, a small thrill of excitement works its way through my insides.

“A leg,” I repeat.

Then I remember that Ryan is lying unconscious, hovering near death. “How’s Ryan?”

“Alive. As far as anything else, the doctors are still trying to figure that out.”