Sister Dear (25 page)

Emma allowed herself to be swept away, carried on a raging river, dangerous and uncontrollable.

When they lay on the floor, legs entwined, his fingers tangled in her hair, he drifted off to sleep. Emma watched the pulse in his neck, the regular rise and fall of his chest.

She wanted to believe him.

I love you.
Emma played the words over in her head.
I love you.

Everything was in place. All he needed was a little incentive.

She was looking out for him. She knew what was best. She'd put the plan in motion nearly four weeks earlier, when she stopped taking her birth control pills, began eating better and walking more. Three days ago, Emma had even stocked up on prenatal vitamins. She reached out and stroked his hair.

Now, it was up to Mother Nature to do the rest.

THIRTY-TWO

ALLIE

2016

Allie hurried her steps, tucking her hair into a ponytail and clutching her bag to her side. Below a row of gray storm clouds, the sun hung low on the horizon, turning the sky shades of burnt umber and orange.

As she turned on Ben's street, a crack of thunder echoed in the distance. This time of year, afternoon storms cropped up off the Atlantic in what seemed like minutes, sending torrents of rain across St. Simons Island and into Brunswick.

Frowning, Allie cast a glance at the sky. For now, the rain was holding off. She prayed it would stay away at least until she reached Ben's door. But when she reached the sidewalk in front of his parents' house, the small white structure looked dark and closed up. Even the Live Oaks looked dark and intimidating, with their huge, gnarled branches dripping with Spanish moss.

Allie ran her eyes over the windows of Ben's house, searching for a sign of life, a flicker of movement. She walked to the edge of the yard, looking for a clue that his family still owned the property. His car wasn't there, and the mailbox wasn't marked with a name.

She wondered again why Ben had given up the political life he'd been so passionate about. What had happened to change that?

Behind her, Allie heard the rumble of a car engine, smelled the faint, acrid odor of exhaust. If a neighbor was pulling up and parking, she couldn't just stand here in front of Ben's house.

She felt like sprinting, or at least breaking into a jog. The last thing Allie needed was the driver of the car reporting her to the police for loitering. She shielded her eyes, pretending to block out the setting sun, and slowly ambled away.

“Allie?”

She whirled around in surprise.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” Ben said, talking to her through the open window of his car. His forehead was wrinkled, but he didn't look angry. He pulled over to the curb and parked.

Allie bit her lip.
Calm down. Just explain.
She watched as he stepped out of the vehicle. “I'm sorry. Hi.”

Ben watched her thoughtfully, his expression guarded and serious. He probably pitied Allie, felt sorry for her, and was just trying to be nice before telling her to leave.

He finally answered. “I heard that you were back,” Ben said slowly, as if the words were difficult to pronounce. “How are you?”

“I wish I knew,” Allie said. She tried to smile, but the corners of her mouth wouldn't move. She could almost touch Ben. He looked the same, other than a few gray flecks in his short, thick dark hair, tiny wrinkles around his blue eyes. “I just found out that you were back too. Emma said you've been back for a few weeks, I guess?” She hesitated. “I hear you're doing some freelancing.”

Ben nodded. “You heard right. I've been writing and reporting for about two years on the side. It's been really good. About a year ago, I realized that since I was working from home, ‘home' didn't have to be Atlanta. I could come back here.”

“That's great,” Allie said, looking up at him. He was still so handsome it made her catch her breath. And he did look happy.

“How's Caroline?” Ben asked, shifting his weight from one side to the other. “I've seen her around a little. From a distance.”

Allie thought about this. It wasn't a secret that Ben used to be her boyfriend, but maybe no one had reminded Caroline. And why would they? It would only dredge up bad memories.

“She's angry. Her world's been turned upside down again.”

“Of course.” Ben stiffened, then looked toward the house.

“I won't keep you,” Allie said. “But I didn't just happen to be wandering by.”

“I didn't think you were.” Ben crossed his arms.

Allie sensed the abrupt change in attitude, the slight edge to his tone of voice. As if to emphasize his displeasure, thunder rumbled, still miles away. “You know, I shouldn't be here. This was a mistake.” She started backing away, nearly falling over the curb.

“Whoa.” Ben jumped forward to catch her arm.

His touch, warm and steady, sent waves of emotion through Allie's body. Breathing hard, pulse thudding, she glanced up into Ben's eyes. “Thank you.”

After another beat, Ben let go of her, almost regretfully. “What do you need, Allie? I assume you walked all this way?”

“I did. It's not that far.” Allie began to explain, and the rest came out like the rush of a waterfall. “I'm here because of Caroline. Ben, I saw her for the first time in ten years.” Allie's voice caught. “She'd been avoiding me, so Emma invited me over, but then someone made copies of that editorial—you know, the one from ten years ago—and put them all over the school—”

“Slow down,” Ben said, holding up a hand. “Why don't you come and sit down for a minute?”

As they approached the house, she gathered her thoughts.

“So Caroline's not too happy you're back?” Ben asked. “Is that it?”

“More or less. I don't know.” Allie's shoulders sagged as they sat, side by side, on the top porch step. “She doesn't believe me, Ben. I told her . . . I told her I'm innocent.”

“I'm sorry.” Ben's eyes flickered. Was it pity? Pain? Regret?

“I appreciate that,” Allie replied softly, turning her head to look at him. “I really thought that if . . . if you could talk to your brother . . .” She closed her eyes. She'd never forget walking in the woods on the path behind the stadium. And then stumbling on Ben's brother, Coach Thomas, and two players.

“And what would that prove, Allie?” Ben asked, his voice hushed. “Would it change anything?”

“You saw what the coach did,” Allie whispered.

Ben stared at the ground, jaw tight.

“If he could talk to Caroline. Explain what happened. Even for a few minutes . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Ben raised both hands, as if to press the words away. “No. He has a wife. They're about to have a baby girl. I can't upset them. Ask him to reopen that wound.”

Allie was quiet.
What about my wounds?
“There were other guys on the team,” she added. “What about them?” A flicker of hope caught fire inside her. She paused and caught his eyes, locking onto his gaze. “And you're a journalist. You could write a story. Pressure someone to reopen the case.”

This time Ben hesitated.

“I think . . . I've always thought that the sheriff might have had something to do with Coach's death.”

Ben's head swung around. “Wait, what?”

“I do,” Allie said, this time with more conviction.

“How? Exactly how would you know that?” Ben asked, frowning.

A bolt of lightning cut across the darkening sky as the words
slapped at her, cold and hard. A surge of anger broke through. “He hates me. He fast-tracked my case and didn't even look for another witness.”

“That's not a reason.”

Pursing her lips, Allie tamped down her frustration. She had to stay calm if Ben was going to listen. “I think it was hard for him to be objective—he was too close to the coach. Gaines knew bad stuff was going down.” She swallowed. “Gaines is the county sheriff and he did nothing. He looked the other way.”

“You're right,” Ben mused, wrinkling his brow. “But that doesn't make him a killer.”

Allie pulled her knees in close, wrapping her arms around them. “Ben, if the coach was giving those kids steroids . . . and if Gaines knew his career was about to get blown apart, he might have snapped.”

“He is a bit of an egomaniac about the whole sheriff thing,” Ben said and raked a hand through his hair.

“A bit?” Allie closed her eyes. Leave it to Ben to sugarcoat a rat, long tail and all. She didn't know how he'd survived the cutthroat world of politics for so long.

“Listen, I'm trying to hear what you're saying.” Ben sighed. “But I'm worried about you. Why are you deliberately trying to jeopardize your parole? Aren't you thinking about that?” He tilted his head to look straight at Allie. “What will that do to Caroline? How will that help?”

“But—”

“Don't say any more, please. I can't do this, Allie.” He shifted his gaze to the ground. “I have to go. I'm sorry I can't help. Really. Good luck.”

As her eyes welled with tears, Allie realized she'd been reckless and stupid to come here and ask for a favor. He'd pledged everything
a decade ago, and she'd forced him away; he wasn't going to sweep in and save her now.

A gust of wind rustled the trees above their heads while Ben stood up.

“Caroline—she's all I have,” Allie cried out. She couldn't stop the words from jumping from her lips, from reaching out and attempting to catch him.

As thunder rumbled in the distance, Ben pivoted back to face Allie, his face pained and full of sympathy. “I know.”

As the first raindrops began to fall, he turned and walked away.

Allie's heart plummeted.

This time Ben was the one saying good-bye.

January 2007

Ben hadn't been called as a witness, though opposing counsel spent a full two days interrogating him before the trial. During his deposition, he'd stated that Allie had never been violent. That she'd been focused on medical school, her daughter, and her family.

At the start of the new year, Ben had taken a top post in Governor Sonny Perdue's administration and couldn't visit Brunswick more than a day or two because of his new duties. It exonerated him, and Allie was glad. If she was forced to sit and look into Ben's eyes, seeing his disappointment, his bewilderment, she thought she might die a little more each day.

It was awful enough that each hour they sat inside the courtroom, her mother and father appeared more stricken, their skin and faces becoming almost translucent. It seemed, by the end of the testimony, one or both of them might vanish into the atmosphere.

Allie suffered gut-wrenching anxiety when the prosecutor held up photos of the dead coach and close-ups of the man's bloodied
head. He talked about fingerprints, Coach Thomas's skin under her fingernails, and hair fibers. The attorney talked about the murder weapon authorities had found near the coach's body—a wooden chair leg with no identifiable prints. To emphasize the brutality of the crime, the prosecutor passed around photos of the coach's family with their smiling, happy, sunlit faces.

Next, a recording of the anonymous 9-1-1 call punctuated the courtroom. The jury sat transfixed as a muffled female voice, breathy and anxious, told authorities she'd seen a blonde woman outside the pharmacy. She described shouting and the sound of something being broken. When the wail of an ambulance pierced the room, the call ended abruptly.

When the lead lawyer for the prosecution stepped forward, members of the jury began to shift and stir, readying themselves for a reading of Allie's newspaper editorial.

After enduring a traumatic line-by-line dissection of her own words, Allie tightened her fists as a self-assured and arrogant Sheriff Lee Gaines took the stand. Even without a word, Gaines commanded authority in his dark, pressed uniform, reminding everyone that his very presence was law.

The sheriff remained polite and patient while he responded to questions about his life in Brunswick, winning election after election, and his wife's accident. Next, Gaines took nearly sixty minutes describing the horror of finding his friend, the coach he loved like a son, dead. His voice cracked as he told of his disbelief at finding Allie Marshall hovering over his body at the crime scene with blood on her hands.

A loud gasp escaped from the back of the room, causing the judge to bang his gavel and lecture the crowd before Allie's team could begin their cross-examination. When the room came to order, the sheriff leveled his gaze, unblinking at the lawyer as he approached the bench.

Allie's attorney posed two questions after reminding the jury that Gaines's own wife had almost died that night. Could he have remained focused? Why wasn't he at the hospital with June?

But as he asked, the man's voice wavered. His confidence faltered as the broad-shouldered sheriff on the stand stared him down. In her seat, Allie shivered as if the blood in her veins had been turned to ice.

Gaines lifted his chin and gazed out into the audience packed into the small courtroom. His voice, confident and deep, resounded in the small space. “My wife was being cared for by the finest team of professionals in Georgia. Every minute I wasn't with her, I worked the case and led my team,” he replied. He leaned forward, willing everyone to listen. “I'm not a doctor. I couldn't do a thing for June other than pray and hold her hand. She loved Coach Thomas too. June would have insisted, had she been able to, that I bring the perpetrator to justice,” Gaines replied, his eyes swiveling to Allie. “That's the knowledge that kept me focused.”

Under the table, Allie pressed her fingernails into the skin on her palm. The prosecution fast-forwarded through the remaining questions, looking smug. Any following objections were overruled.

The next witness was a medical doctor, an expert who testified in DUI cases across the southeast. For the next hour, prosecutors hammered Allie's blood alcohol measurement of .04 into each jury member's psyche. The state's legal limit for intoxication was .08, but the lawyers pressed that impairment of safe driving and sound judgment began after one drink.