Won't Let Go (16 page)

“So you’re just going to rot in jail for a crime you didn’t commit. Because dammit—” my voice rises a few octaves—“it may have been your car, you might have been behind that wheel when they found you, but I know, I know you didn’t do it. So who did?”

“Why are you so sure of yourself? They caught me red handed. His blood was smeared against the bumper, skin and hair were stuck in the grill, his broken body was twisted unnaturally under the wheels...” His voice peters out.

My stomach churns and bile rises in my throat. I swallow thickly, take a deep breath, and push down the disturbing image of Embry mangled beneath a car. “Because I know you didn’t do it. I can see it on your face, the torment, the feeling you’re getting as you rehash those moments. I’m not the only one out there who knows you didn’t do it. And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to prove your innocence.”

“But why?” he stammers.

“Because,” I say, then I flip open a page of Embry’s yearbook and smash it against the bulletproof glass. “So, who did it?”

He sighs. “I don’t know.”

I pull the book back, turn the page, and press it against the glass again with a loud thud. “The hell you don’t. You must know something. Tell me about that night then, what the papers didn’t say. You can help me. I
know
you can.”

Elliot’s mouth is pressed in a hard line, he wrings his hands together and the chains and cuffs scrape against the table. He leans forward. “Okay, I’ll tell you what I know, but I don’t see how it will help.”

“It will. I promise you, Elliot, it will.”

He sucks in a deep breath of air, his chest puffs out, then he exhales. “It was Friday night...”

When I leave Elliot, my head is spinning. No wait, I think my whole body is reeling. I must have tripped at least a dozen times on the way out. I threw up in the visitor's bathroom. And now as I drive back to Willard Grove, I can’t control my jittering hands. They shake my body and the steering wheel so much I can barely concentrate on the road. I’ve never been so confused in my life.

Elliot replayed that night—to the best of his ability. Not leaving out any details, he took everything I thought I understood about Embry and crushed it.

His ghostly form is nothing like how he
really
was.

Not even close.

They are like black and white. Polar opposites. And I can’t even begin to understand how I feel about that.

Elliot gave me names, told me who to talk to, but three years can easily trample those leads. How many kids from that class are still around? But that doesn’t stop me from pulling out my cell. I scroll through my contact list and find Allison’s name. The conversation is short. She agrees to meet me at the donut shop in an hour. I’m hoping she can help me, point me in the right direction.

But as I drive, all I can hear are Elliot’s words. I’m playing them back like a tape recorder on a loop, even though I don't want to. I don't want to replay the conversation, because it hurts. Embry can't, he just can't be that person. I don't want to believe it. But I try to find the hole, to figure out the secret, pushing aside as much of my feelings as possible.

My brother might have been a dick, might not have cared about anyone but himself, but he never missed a game. Not one. He was always there to watch me play. At least until that night,
Elliot said.
What made it more complicated, him watching every pass I threw, every catch I made, was that he was better. He could have been better, and I knew it. He chose to stand down when my parents made it a point to choose me, put me on a pedestal and not him.

That’s when he started getting into trouble. If he couldn’t be a star in their eyes, the perfect child, he strived to be the bad son. Drugs, alcohol, ditching class, you name it, and he was a master at it. Teachers always said, ‘If he’d just apply himself.’ And he was, everyday. He just wasn’t applying himself at what they wanted.

I blink, pull the car back towards the center line and take deep breaths, in and out, in and out.

But I can’t stop the loop.

Even when I try, Elliot’s voice still resonates within my mind.

I don’t know why, but I was so angry at him for missing that game. I mean what’s one out of the dozens he did come to? But he missed one of the most important games of my life. I had the ball and made a sweet pass. It soared through the air and landed perfectly into my teammates hands. It was the farthest I had ever thrown—record breaking—and it bothered me he missed it.

After the game, I found him at the donut shop. It was our after game ritual. But he was trashed, falling down drunk. He smelled like a brewery. Puke covered the front of his shirt, and he could barely string more than two words together. It might have been the lowest I’d ever seen him. Hell, he couldn’t even remember where he put his wallet and had no money to pay for his cup of coffee. But I wasn’t doing so great myself. After the game I had shot-gunned a few beers, pounded back some shots. I was flying high off a celebratory buzz.

After the third honk from a car trying to pass me, I figure I’m probably a menace on the road. I have to pull over. Either that or I’m going to get myself killed, or worse, kill someone else. I shove open the door and fling myself out onto the road. Walking around to the passenger side, I slide down against the tire, letting it hold me up as Elliot’s voice still consumes me.

What you have to understand is Embry was always selfish. He’d break some girl’s heart and toss her to the curb. That’s why most of the guys loved having him around. They’d be there to swoop in and pick up the pieces. After any girl had been with Embry, she was an easy target for the guys she had, at first, overlooked. When you’re nursing battle wounds, a football player or a band geek is the perfect way to forget
.

I don’t think I can hear any more
, I remember saying. He was tarnishing the very guy who held a huge piece of my heart. My hands are tightly wrapped around my stomach like I’m holding in my insides. As if I let go, they’d spill out. But Elliot didn’t stop.

You wanted to hear this, so suck it up and listen,
he said, but I remember the expression on his face.

He could see what his words were doing to me—even if he didn’t understand—because they were doing the same thing to him.

It was torture, pure and simple.

Every once in a while he’d mess up the wrong chick. He’d piss someone off, and they’d come looking for him and a fight. Because hidden in the shadows of most every girl, is a guy who secretly pines for her. You know, the whole unrequited love bullshit. That night was no different. When the rest of the team showed up, and a few other kids from school, someone tried to pick a fight. I remember, he shouted, ‘Why her? Why’d you go and have to mess with her?’ At the time I didn’t even know who ‘her’ was. It was hard to keep track of Embry’s latest conquest. I swear it changed almost weekly. But Embry didn’t care, never batted an eyelash as the guy came at him full force, fists flying. He just sat on his stool, smug as a bastard, and took it.

Why did you let someone pound on your little brother?
I asked. My voice cracked from so much listening.

I didn’t. I never did. I stood up for him even when I felt he deserved it. Even though I was watching him ruin his own life, flushing it down the toilet along with his puke and pride, I never forgot what he did for me. He seemed to give up a part of his life, just so I got to be stronger in my own. I took a few hits in the face, but then something awakened in Embry, and maybe even in me, because the next thing I knew, the fight was no longer between Embry and some other guy. It was between Embry and me. A fight to be on top or something. I didn’t even see the window, not until it was too late, and we both smashed through the front of the shop and spilled out onto the street.

We scuffled for a few minutes more, the whole of the donut shop standing around watching, until Embry gave up. He just stopped. No more fists, no more kicks. He just fell to the ground, broken. The last thing I remember was hauling him off towards my car. He was alive. He was defeated, but alive. And the last thing the entire town remembers? A huge fight between two brothers. No wonder they didn’t think twice when they found us.

I asked,
Who was the guy? Who’d he piss off so much?
Praying that with a name, answers would come.

Michael Gunn.

I repeated the name to myself, over and over. It was the first real lead I’d gotten and now it was seared into my mind. I close my eyes and envision the letters perfectly.

But I still had doubts if this really was the true culprit as I said,
I still don’t understand. Even if this Michael guy was livid, is it really reason enough to kill someone?

Now, that I don’t know. I’m just telling you how it was. I’m sorry. I can see you’re upset, but that’s not the worst of it. Not by a long shot.
And for the first time Elliot scooted his stool closer, his abdomen pressing tightly against the ledge of the table. He reached his hands towards the glass and pressed his fingertips onto the surface. Maybe it was a kind gesture, to take my mind off what was coming, or maybe it was what he needed at that moment too, because when I pressed my own fingers against the glass his shoulders slumped and so did mine.

I hug myself tighter, continuing deep breaths.

This is the moment that changed everything, and in the scheme of things it’s not that bad.

Not really.

It happens all the time.

However, I had built up Embry in my mind so much, fallen in love so hard with the idea he was truly the perfect guy that I thought nothing could change that. But Elliot’s next words took it all away in an instant.

I found out later, after the accident, that Embry had gotten someone pregnant. She told him she was thinking of having it, but he said he’d never be a father to the child. That he wanted nothing to do with it or her.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I stood up and shoved my way towards the door. Elliot called out after me,
Danielle Blake!

I lean to the side and wretch, puke spills out of my mouth, hitting the gravel with a splatter.
How could he do that to someone?
He really did treat women like trash, using them up and throwing them away.

As I stand at the counter of the donut shop, eyes scanning the board, I wait for Allison. She’s late.
And here I thought she’d be one of those punctual freaks.

“Can I get you something?”

I’m desperately wishing I could actually get a decent coffee. That’s what I’d like the barista impersonator behind the counter to get me. However, I know it’s useless, a lost cause. And I sigh, because I know it’s not her fault, and that taking my frustrations out on her isn’t fair.

I clear my throat and say, “Coffee, black.”

The barista shrugs. “Suit yourself,” and passes me my coffee. It’s in a cream colored mug, tiny hairline cracks spider across the ceramic.

I toss a crumpled bill on the counter, saying, “Keep the change.”

 The barista smiles and graciously takes the tip.

Strolling up to the same table as last time, I sling my bag over the back of the chair and sit down. I have to push my sneakered foot against the leg of the table to steady it before I put down my coffee and get comfortable. I glance out the window, looking out over the bare street. A few pieces of trash flitter by in the spring breeze.

I take a sip of coffee. It’s bitter from old beans and the fact it’s probably been sitting all day, but I let the warm liquid slide down my throat, giving me a jolt of energy. Even if it’s crappy, it’s still full of caffeine.

Only a few minutes pass before the door chimes, announcing the presence of another customer. Allison breezes in and her eyes immediately fall upon me. With a quick shrug of her shoulders, she mouths, “sorry,” as she bustles towards the counter with her cement filled bag.

I can’t help but look down at my old, worn in and torn jeans, simple concert tee and my sneakers. It’s nothing compared to how put together Allison looks. Almost as if she’s trying too hard. She’s wearing another pair of tight skinny jeans, pink pumps, and a flowy fuchsia peasant top. It all suits her perfectly, but again I wonder why long sleeves in this heat. And as she turns from the counter, I see she’s pulled the whole look together with a matching necklace and earrings. Sure, I’ve seen this back in California, but maybe I was expecting overalls and rubber boots here. I guess this isn’t that kind of town, after all. Even here in the middle of nowhere, people know what a Macy’s is. Not that I’ve spent a lot of time in one.

“Sorry, I got caught up,” she says breathlessly. Like me, she slings her purse on the back of the chair, sets down her coffee and apple fritter.

“No problem,” I say, and then bring my mug of coffee to my lips, taking a slurp before setting it back down.

Allison wastes no time digging into her fried in lard, goes straight to the hips ball of dough and artificial fruit.
Fritter. I mean, apple fritter. Wasn’t I going to try and be nicer?

“So what’s up? You sounded kinda serious on the phone.” She rips off another chunk of fritter and shoves it into her mouth.

“I just want to ask a few questions—about what you told me the other day.”

She looks up from the table. Her eyes roll, making this huge inconvenienced gesture. “You’re not still going on about your house, are you? I mean I told you everything I know.”

Reaching over my chair, I plunge my hand into my bag and yank out Elliot’s yearbook. I place it on the table. I swear Allison’s eyes grow just a bit wider when she sees it. Or maybe she swallowed her coffee wrong.

“You were right,” I say.

Her face relaxes. “Right—about what?”

“About the brothers. That story you told me? It was true. Elliot Winston tried to kill his own brother. Embry.”

Her hand rises to cover her mouth. “Oh, that’s terrible, just terrible,” she mumbles.