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Pete and I sit in silence until we’re alone. My fingers are still round his wrist.
I let go. ‘It’s my fault,’ I say, dropping my head into my hands.
‘Don’t say that,’ says Pete, shaking his head. ‘You know what people are like on the roads. It was school run time too; it’s always mayhem on that street. I should have kept him closer. If anyone should be blaming themselves, it’s me.’
I nod. ‘I’ve tried to slow him on that tricycle before – it’s impossible. It’s going in the bin.’
‘You can try – Ethan loves that thing. Come on now.Let’s not jump to any conclusions,’ he says, and the words hang like dead weights over my shoulders. They seem pointed. He’s biting his tongue, and I appreciate it – even though I can hear what he wants to say as loudly as if he’d actually spoken.You’ve got a reputation for false accusations. Don’t make it worse.‘Let the police sort it out.’ His legs are twitching and he gets up. Pete is such a doer, a man who always wants to be on the move. ‘Can you believe it about Glenn?’
I shake my head.
‘I wonder what happened.’ He pulls out his phone, glancing at it and frowning. ‘I’ve got to …’ He points at the screen.
‘Go. I’ll be fine here.’
He nods, already dialling.
Glenn is dead.Good. At least he can’t hurt anyone any more.That’s the first thought that pops into my head. Then the righteous anger turns to guilt.But the people he hurt won’t get justice now either.He’s died as a victim of false accusations, his precious reputation upheld.And that’s your fault.
It’s too much of a coincidence. I speak out about Glenn. Glenn dies. My son is put in the hospital.
My stomach clenches and I retch acidic bile on to the floor.
6
Adrienne
I take the long way back to my tent from registration, trying to avoid running into anyone I know. Although I want to find Pete, I’m in no hurry to bump into other elites. I prefer the anonymity of being amongst the fun runners. Most people are already wearing their race numbers, bibs pinned proudly to the front of their moisture-wicking tops. But I’ve buried mine deep in my backpack.
That number:13.I can’t wear it. It marks me out as Boones’s pick, and I don’t wantanyspecial attention. The doubts I had about coming here all resurface at once, bubbling up inside me. I already felt like there was a target on my back. The number ‘13’ makes the bullseye even more prominent.
Even more reason to find Pete. He’ll know what to do.
I hope he’s OK. The doctor, with his concerned frown, has me worried.
This is the first race we’ve started together since we split up almost a decade ago. Despite my nerves about competing against him, I’m glad we’re here together. It feels right somehow. After all, racing was how our relationship had begun. Supporting each other. Driving to remote trailheads in the early hours of the morning. At checkpoints he’d be waiting for me with a bowlful of reheated spag bol, a steaming-hot coffee and a Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut bar. I’dslump into a chair, stuffing my face, and he would tend to whatever needed attention – blisters on my feet, chafing on my back, tightness in my shoulders. I’d do the same for him on his races, ready to cheer him up if he came into the checkpoint feeling down or to give him a detailed update on his competitor’s timings and his splits. Sometimes I’d have to spoon-feed him his macro-balanced fuel, force him to drink electrolytes, anticipate his needs like a toddler. We’d both got so good at reading each other.
Until we weren’t any more. After Ethan, it became harder to feel like a team. I still wanted to compete, but he wanted me to take a step back. My coaching became more intense, required more time away. Pete couldn’t understand how becoming a parent made me a more ambitious runner, not less. When we couldn’t resolve things, we went our separate ways. We divorced when Ethan was barely a year old.
Ironic that only a couple of years later, I did stop racing. But that had been a choice born out of fear. Pete saw what not racing did to me, and later he encouraged me to get back into it. So when I confided in him that I’d not only been invited to Hot & Sandy, but that I would be running in it, he’d surprised me by giving me a big hug. He told me how proud he was of me, talked excitedly about how we could look out for each other on the course. It felt like we had turned a corner in our relationship.
The fun runner tents are bustling with activity – some people have lit fires outside and are boiling water for hot coffee and rehydrating meals, but most are busy organizing their gear and getting to know their tentmates. We elites have our own section clustered at the far end of thebivouac. I must be getting close since I spot two of the Moroccan runners – Nabil and Farouk. There’s a crowd of journalists round them, taking photographs and asking them questions in French and Arabic. They’re in tent number one.
I pass my own assigned tent, number six, and see Mariam but I don’t stop. I don’t even drop in my backpack. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen …
Finally, I’ve found the right place. There’s a photographer in front of this tent too. I pause. With the camera up to her eye and a dark mass of curls cascading down her back, it’s hard to make out her face. But there’s something familiar in her profile – her stance – that stops me in my tracks.It can’t be.She lowers the camera and I take a cautious step forward.
Is this what Boones meant about finding answers? We haven’t spoken since that terrible night – and it’s not from lack of trying on my side. Every attempt at contact I made had been blocked. Eventually, I gave up.
It was actually easier for me that way. Leave her in the past, along with the rest of it. Move on – or at least try.
She leans forward, helping pull someone to their feet. A man. Now this is a face I’d recognize from any angle. And he’s wearing an expression I’ve seen a few times before as well: anger, disappointment, frustration. My instinct is to go to him, to comfort him – even though we’ve been divorced for ten years.
Do they know each other? How is that possible?
He looks at her and she cups his cheeks with her hands. It’s such a close intimate gesture that it takes my breath away. Not as close as what they do next, of course, whichis kiss. His shoulders relax; she is the one taking his sadness away now.
My stomach twists in pain; it feels like betrayal, even though it shouldn’t. My intake of breath must have made a sound, because Pete’s eyes slide over and catch mine.