Breaking Glass (36 page)

“He’s dead,” he says flatly. “Patrick Morgan is dead.”

“What the hell? I thought you went home.”

“I started to. Then I thought about it. As long as Patrick Morgan could breathe in oxygen, I wouldn’t be able to rest.”

“Shit.” My heart starts to pound. “You didn’t.”

Spake walks to the bedside. Ryan lifts his head and huffs softly.

“I didn’t have to. When I got to his room, there was this strange wind. His heart monitor was going nuts. I slipped outside and seconds later the doctors came stampeding in. But it was too late.”

Spake leans over and kisses the top of Ryan’s head. “You don’t have anything to be afraid of anymore,” he says.

I stare at my knuckles and wish, more than anything, that it were true.

I walk to the handicapped spot, a perk I’ll have the pleasure of enjoying for the rest of my life. Overnight, the cold snap has thawed. The air is unseasonably warm. Water drips in tiny diamonds from the glittering branches, and the skin of ice encrusting everything has started to liquefy. The slick ground under my feet is spongier. I make it to my car without fear of falling on my butt.

I turn on the car radio and try to blast away my exhaustion. Dad wasn’t thrilled that I missed my appointment with Chaz, but my whole body is sore from my twisted sleep, hunkered in the bed with Ryan.

Our triangle has completely caved in on itself, I think.

I’m the only side left standing, and even that’s just barely.

And not for long, if I can’t figure out how to put Susannah back where I should have left her in the first place.

To try and calm down, I switch on the radio full-blast and let an ancient hip-hop song shake my bones. For reasons I can’t explain, I turn down the same route Dad took the other day and pull to a stop. Turning off the radio, I open the windows and cut the engine, the only sound the tinkling of a thousand drips as the melting ice plinks from the skeletal branches. The sun beats down in a slanting mimic of spring. The air carries a teasing hint of life, which has no place in the middle of January.

Before I know it, I’m out of the car, leaning on my cane just in case the uneven ground rears up to meet me. Then I’m hobbling through the gates and up the slushy path, past the eternal resting place of Douglas Lewis to the ground where my mother’s bones lie.

Breathless from the effort, I make it. Without falling once. Without the sky going dark around me, I stare at her tombstone.

Teresa Winston Glass

Born January 10
^th
, 1961

Beloved wife of Paul. Beloved mother of Jeremy Michael
.

I gulp in air. I’d forgotten today is my mother’s birthday. Had she drawn me here? By opening the door to the beyond, did I make it easier for Mom to get a message through?

I’m overwhelmed with a sorrow deeper than any grave.

Slowly, I ease myself to the slushy patch of ground in front of her headstone and curl up in front of it. And for the first time I can remember, I allow the tears I’ve bottled up for nine years to flow.

Somehow, despite the cold wetness seeping through my pants, I fall asleep, cradled in her arms.

And dream.

In the distance, I see Susannah stroll across the frozen terrain of the graveyard, her black dress in sharp contrast to the sun-washed whiteness of everything else. Her bronze hair gleams in the bright light, and blows ragged though there’s no breeze to speak of.

It’s the dream Susannah, not the dark revenant that’s been haunting me. But her features are obscured, blurred by a bright haze. I squint and realize I’m not sure who it is, after all.

Silently, the figure approaches and I realize Veronica is gone. I’m one-legged and stranded, hopping crazily from tomb to tomb to get away.
I’m dreaming
.
This is still the dream
.

I make it to the edge of the cemetery, but there’s no place left to go except straight into the water of the Gorge.

The figure draws closer. I see it is not Susannah at all.

It’s my mother.

Silently, she stops at her own grave and smiles at me. Then she leans down and pulls at the ground, but instead of clumps of earth, she’s pulling up the wood planking of a floor.

I wake suddenly, the sun sinking between the crosshatch of branches, gripped by a chill deep in my bones. And I know I hear it, borne by the wind that whistles between the graves.

Dreams never lie, Jeremy
.

C H A P T E R
t h i r t y - s i x

Now (January 10th)

It’s almost dark when I get home, soaked and freezing. I try to slink up to my room, but with a metal leg sprouting from my thigh, the art of sneaking is going to require a lot more practice.

Dad calls out to me from the dining room. “Jeremy!”

I find him seated at the table behind an avalanche of papers, reading glasses perched on his nose. He stands abruptly, scattering more papers, and peers at me over the rims. “Where the hell were you?”

“I went for a drive.

“You could have called.”

“Cell battery died.”

Dad throws up his hands and sits down with a sigh. “Some things never change.”

“What is all this?” I ask, gesturing at the blizzard of papers.

“Paperwork for Trudy Durban’s murder trial.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.
You’re
going to represent her?”

“Of course not. I’m just helping out. You know, for old time’s sake.”

“Old time’s sake.” I drum my fingers on a part of the table that’s not covered in papers. Ever the historian, on the lookout for details and the things others miss, I scan the mess. “Just how close were Mom and Trudy?”

“They were inseparable in high school,” Dad says, returning to his work. “But after graduation, they stopped speaking to each other.”

“You think Trudy Durban is fit to stand trial?” I ask, working hard to sound casual, my eyes combing the pile.

Dad scribbles something on a yellow pad and mumbles. “She’s being evaluated, but I doubt it. She seems to have snapped completely. She keeps repeating, over and over, that Patrick Morgan is the devil. And Ryan is the son of the devil. And the town must be expunged. And a whole bunch of other nonsense about the Lord’s justice and an
eye for an eye
.

“Her ravings aside, there’s nothing to suggest that Patrick Morgan killed anyone. However, there’s plenty of circumstantial evidence that Ryan did kill Susannah, and Patrick was helping him cover it up.”

I stand so quickly, Veronica locks on me and I fall back into the chair. “Ryan didn’t kill anyone. Maybe
Trudy
did it herself! The woman is clearly insane.”

“I don’t know,” says Dad. “There’s no sign of Susannah anywhere. It’s been two months, and the police are about to declare her presumed dead. And with Patrick gone, people are talking. It appears the initial police report
was
tampered with. Everyone with a grudge against the Morgans, and believe me there’s no shortage of them, has come out of the woodwork. I’m going to be busy for years helping Celia fend off the lawsuits.”

I scratch my head. “I know Ryan didn’t do it. I just have a gut feeling that…”

Dad cuts me a look. “Not that again, Jeremy. Weren’t you the one who suspected him in the first place? Are you feeling okay? You’re not having hall—”

“Dad! I am not fucking nuts. I’m saying that, based on the evidence at hand, I just don’t think he did it.”

“Jeremy, there’s enough damning evidence to support the possibility. You may even be called in as a material witness.”

“This is ridiculous. How can Ryan stand trial? They can’t send someone as—as messed up as him to jail.”

Nestled in the white mountain of papers my roving gaze lands on a small manila envelope labeled
keys
. I note it for future reference.

“Disability is not a ‘get out of jail free’ card,” Dad says, “The fact that Ryan tried to kill himself is very damning.” Dad takes off his glasses. “If it’s determined that he is mentally competent, he can stand trial.”

Tired and frozen, a nasty cold coming on, I clump up the stairs to my room. I strip off my wet clothes, remove Veronica, throw myself onto the bed, and stare at the ceiling, wondering if I can summon Susannah at will.

Come
, I think.
We need to talk
.

Time passes, an hour maybe. My eyelids are so heavy. But before they slip closed, darkness descends. The room goes cold. Gusts of wind hurl papers around and tear at my curtains. I feel her weight lower on top of me, and automatically, despite myself, my body responds.

But no. This is business. I roll over on my side and curl in on myself like a millipede.

“C’mon. Did Ryan kill you or not?” I ask wearily. “If you say he did, I’ll believe you. I’ll make sure he pays for it. I swear.”

Wind slams my door shut.

I sit up and speak into the blackness that engulfs my room. “Or do you want an innocent person to go to jail?”

The door reopens and slams shut again. The lights in my room flicker back to life.

I fall asleep. I do not dream.

The morning of January eleventh dawns bright, another unseasonably warm day. It’s also the day Patrick Morgan will be cremated at his wife’s request, his ashes sprinkled into the Gorge. It’s a small ceremony, just Dad, Celia, and a few relatives. It’s decided that Ryan, still recuperating from his injuries, is not well enough to attend. And I flat out refuse to go.

Because I’ve come down with a cold, I get out of PT for another day. But I’m restless and lonely in the big stuffy house, just me and Veronica. She gets me where I need to go, but she’s not very supportive beyond her job description.

Chaz’s PT boot camp really has paid off. I can walk for miles at a pretty fast clip without getting too tired. Slowly, Veronica has become an extension of me. The stump feels lost without her warmth to cradle it.

The same way I feel about Marisa.

Jittery, my head spinning with loose ends and anxiety, I call Marisa to come out for a walk since it’s such a nice day. Before I leave to meet her, I shuffle into the dining room where Dad has left his paper mountain range. The envelope labeled
keys
beckons from its place under the pile.