Page 75

The sun had risen; it was shrouded in silver and charcoal clouds by the time Carrie arrived at her father’s house.

She’d called along the way, but he hadn’t answered. His truck was in the driveway. Carrie used her key to unlock the front door.

Inside, the shades and curtains were closed, the air stale with a hint of Irish Spring soap and Vern’s cologne.

“Dad! It’s me and Emily!”

No answer.

“Dad!”

Holding Emily, she split a curtain, letting in some light when she heard a rustling in the living room.

“Dad!”

A grumbling led her to the living room, where she found him on the sofa under a blanket. He groaned in protest when she opened another curtain. Light illuminated a bourbon bottle, a glass and pill bottles on the coffee table.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.” His voice was raw. He stood slowly, coughed, scratched his chin, then winked at Emily. “Be right back.”

A moment later, the door to the hallway bathroom closed. Nerves rippling through her, Carrie busied herself cleaning up the bottle, glass and pills, starting coffee. She got Emily’s high chair, placing it next to the counter. After hefting her daughter into it, Carrie cut up an apple and banana for her.

She stopped.

The print edition of that morning’s Chronicle , bearing that terrible headline, was unfolded at the end of the counter. Vern, being old-school, still had it delivered. He returned from the bathroom. Her eyes lifted from the paper, meeting his, and her voice quivered. “Did you read it?”

Vern’s face betrayed nothing as he lowered himself into a chair next to his granddaughter, his shining eyes gazing upon Emily with all the love they could hold.

“She looks more like you every day, darlin’.”

“Dad,” Carrie said, her tremoring evincing her determination. “Was Hyde’s confession false?” She stabbed the paper with her finger. “This story says I did it. Tell me the truth. You must know.”

He turned to Carrie, rubbing the edges of his mustache, steeling himself to unlock whatever he was keeping from her. He inhaled, let it out.

“I found a gun in the woods that day. A Glock. It was one of mine.”

“Oh, God.” Carrie steadied herself at the counter.

“I told no one. No one knows.” Vern looked off. “Ben McGraw and Eve Trainor put things together—your run-in with Abby and Erin at school, then the dance hall. Ben and Eve went hard at you. But with your injury you couldn’t remember.”

He paused before continuing.

“What they had was circumstantial. No evidence,” he said. “We don’t have to register firearms in Texas. So they had no link to my personal collection. No reports of a missing or stolen gun. I didn’t list all of my guns on insurance, so the records were inconclusive. They did have a partial, unidentified, larger shoe impression at the scene, but the DA said they had nothing strong enough to sustain a charge.”

Staggered by what her father had revealed, Carrie sat in a chair, staring at nothing, her mouth opening slightly.

“Do you know what this means?” She held her head, then added, “You said you found the Glock—where is it?”

Letting out a slow breath, Vern found the words. “Far from here. I threw it in the San Jacinto River. It’ll never be found.”

A soft cry escaped from Carrie.

“Were there casings, too?” she whispered.

Vern shook his head. “I never found any that day, nor did our crime scene people.”

“Wait,” Carrie said. “The story, the files Denise showed me, said some of Abby’s and Erin’s personal items were taken. Did you find them?”

“No. You probably don’t remember getting rid of them. I figured you staged things. You always were so interested in my crime scene books.”

Absorbing the details, Carrie returned Emily to her chair, bracing as a tidal wave of truth swept over her. Shaking her head, Carrie sat at the table, raking her fingers through her hair.

“The truth was always lying right there, right in front of me. The thing I did. The horrible thing I did. Of course I wouldn’t let myself remember that. But what does this make me? ”

“Carrie.”

Vern placed his hand on her shoulder; she shoved it away.

“Why did you do this, Dad?”

Sadness filled his eyes.

“I was protecting you. You’re quick to anger, like me.”

“Like you?”

As this new horror landed in front of her, Carrie stared at him.

“How did Mom die, Dad?”

Vern swallowed as if in pain.

“She died because of me.”

He turned to the staircase, replaying it in his mind.

“We were arguing at the top of those stairs. She was mad at me. She took a few steps down and froze. Her head shook, spasmed, and she collapsed down the stairs. I reached for her, but I was too late. It happened so fast.”

Carrie’s voice creaked in anguish at hearing this account for the first time.

“It’s the truth, Carrie. I swear, I didn’t touch her. But my twisted, stupid jealousy at her success, at feeling like other men, her clients, were getting more of her than I was, angered me. That argument killed her. Your mother died before my eyes, and it was my fault.”

Vern took a moment, and Carrie saw her father as the haunted, dying man he’d become.

“I’ll never get over losing her. And I couldn’t lose you, too. That’s why I protected you. To make sure you would have a life.”

Carrie shook her head, trying to fit the pieces together.

“But it’s all a lie. It was me. You should’ve done the right thing and turned me in. You covered it up, obstructed justice, broke the law.”

“I got my death sentence. I don’t have much longer. It’s down to months now.”

They looked at each other.

“Carrie, you were never going to know about the woods and the gun. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.” He seized the Chronicle and tossed it. “It all came apart. Hyde was a suspect. Hyde was a killer. Hyde was going to be executed. Putting it on him would’ve put it all to rest.”

“But now…” Carrie wiped the tears from her face. “I have to live with this monstrous thing I’ve done. I should confess— I—”

“No, Carrie, no—just—”

“Just what, Dad? Live a lie?”

“Carrie, listen to me.”

“No! I need to figure this out.”

She got Emily from her high chair, collected her things and left.