“Did that actually work?”

“For a while. I healed up, and I went to Dave—Micah’s dad. I asked him to teach me how to lift. I said I wanted to build myself up for baseball.”

“You wanted to get stronger.” His version of her martial arts.

“And I did. They’d decided I’d go to medical school, and I’d decided I’d apply for baseball scholarships when the time came. I wouldn’t tell them. I’d earn scholarships, save my money, get a job, whatever it took. And when I turned eighteen, I could get out. He’d never hit Britt, and she just had to get through a couple more years. I’d do whatever I could to look out for her. But he was never going to beat me like that again.”

He bit into a slice. “And, of course, when I played college ball, the Oriole scouts would be amazed at my skill and scramble to sign me on the spot.”

“I heard you had amazing skill. State, Athlete of the Year.”

“It’s all I wanted in the world. But things changed again.”

He told her about the dance, Ashley.

“Ashley Grandy? Grandy’s Grill Ashley?”

“That’s her.”

“She’s terrific.”

“First love.” He patted a hand on his heart. “It was a great night, a sweet night. Until I got home—four minutes after curfew—and he was waiting.”

Darby listened with growing horror. The viciousness, the ugliness, the desperate boy trying to protect his sister. Fighting back only to have his own mother attack and betray him.

“But, my God, how could they believe you’d attacked your family that way?”

“Because Dr. Bigelow said I did, and Eliza stood right with him and said the same.”

“No one believed you?”

“Dave did. He believed me, he stayed with me. He stayed the whole time, on the way to the hospital, in the hospital. I’ll never forget it. He called Emily. He argued with the officer, but the officer had his orders from Graham’s friend the chief.”

Shock jolted her. “Not Lee!”

“No, not Lee, he wasn’t in Lakeview back then. My arm was pretty fucked up, I’d have surgery later. But the bone doctor stabilized it. And she fought, too, but they had orders. I asked Dave to take my house key, get my notebooks from where I’d hidden them. And they hauled me to Buncombe.”

“What is that?”

“Kid prison. Want another half a beer?”

“No.” She felt a little sick. “No, thanks.”

“Coke? Actual Coke’s what I’ve got, not the southern term for soft drink of any kind.”

“I…” Maybe he needed a minute, too. “Yeah, Coke’s good.”

When he went inside, she thought of her mother, and her absolute certainty her mom would have stood up for her against anything, anyone. How she had. How she stayed with her in the hospital, stayed with her while she talked to the police, to lawyers. Always there.

When he came back, sat, she leaned forward. “Your mother let them do that to you?”

“Without a qualm.”

“Then you’re right. She wasn’t a victim. She was as much an abuser as he was. You must have been terrified.”

“Numb by then mostly. Can’t say I spent an easy night. What I didn’t know was while I was being locked up, Britt was sneaking out of her hospital room. He’d been there when she woke up, threatened her, had her basically in isolation. No phone. She got into another room, used the phone to call Emily. Emily was already at the hospital trying to get some answers.”

As he spoke, she imagined the little girl, hurt but making her way down the stairwell in bare feet and a hospital gown. And the woman who loved and believed her getting her out. Getting her to the police.

“And there was Lee. Detective Lee Keller of the Asheville PD,” Zane continued.

“That’s how they met?”

“Yeah. He listened. I don’t know how much he believed at first, but he listened. Dave got my notebooks, drove back to Asheville, to the police. Lee believed enough to do what cops do. He made calls, asked questions. He talked to the resort, found out I’d come in that December already injured. Oh, and Graham had tried the ‘he must be on drugs’ gambit, but my tox was clean. Lee knew the old chief, and he went at him, cop to cop, laid out the evidence. The ski accident story fell apart just like the bike accident story. Lee came to see me at Buncombe, got me released into Emily’s custody. And he arrested Graham and Eliza.”

“He deserves someone as terrific as Emily. He’s a hero.”

“He’s one of mine.”

“Did they go to prison?”

“Eliza did a few years. He did eighteen and change. He’s out on parole now.”

Darby heard Zane’s earlier comment echo in her head.

Should’ve been more.

“How do you feel about that?”

“There’s nothing for them here but humiliation. He lost his medical license, and won’t get it back. Eighteen years inside. I feel pretty good about it.”

That was the lawyer, she supposed. She wasn’t as convinced the boy inside the man felt the same.

“Have you ever been to see them?”

“What for?”

“I think that’s a very healthy attitude. I’m not a therapist like your sister, but I’ve been to one. After Trent,” she explained. “But I think severing all ties is healthy. They’re toxic. Plus, your family’s here, and they’re terrific. I love that Emily and Lee fell in love. It gives it a nice dusting of goodness. She’s your mom.”

“She is, in every way that counts. Let’s get all the hard stuff over with. How’d you lose your mom?”

“Hit and run.”

“Ah, Jesus, Darby, I’m sorry. Did they get the driver?”

Darby shook her head. “She liked doing this three-mile run on Sunday mornings. It’s quiet, there’s a bike path to run on. They figured the car just mowed her down, kept going. They said she died on impact, and I hope that’s true. They found the car abandoned about a half a mile past. Stolen.”

She paused to drink. “The guy who owned it—classic ’67 Mustang—had been refurbishing it with his son. It was in their driveway when they went to bed, gone when they got up. They figured kids hot-wired it sometime during the night. Joyriding, drinking, smoking weed. The car reeked of both, but they’d been smart enough after they’d hit my mother to get rid of the cans or bottles, empty the ashtray, wipe down the doors, the steering wheel. No prints, no DNA.”

“Did they look at friends, classmates of the son of the owner?”

“Yeah. They looked at a lot of people, but they never found anything. Worst day of my life. She was a great mom.”

“What about your dad?”

“He left when I was about four. It was the—you know Springsteen? ‘Got a wife and kid in Baltimore, Jack. I went out for a ride, and I never went back.’”

She shrugged it off. “He was a decent guy for all that.”

“How do you figure?”

“Well, they had savings, he didn’t touch them. He didn’t take the car—left it at the bus station—didn’t take anything but his clothes and his Gibson guitar. He just couldn’t hack husbandhood, fatherhood, familyhood.”

“As Britt would say: How do you feel about that?”

“I’m okay with it. I hate that he hurt my mother. She loved him. I barely remember him. I remember he was never mean, and I wonder if he left because he was afraid he would be if he tried to stay in a life that didn’t make him happy.”

“You’ve got a pretty healthy attitude yourself.”

“We’re a couple of healthy individuals.”

“We should—First.” He angled his head. “It occurs to me that outside of family, which includes Micah, Dave, and Maureen, I’ve never told that long saga to anyone. I have to think about why I told you over beer and pizza.”

“People tell me stuff.”

“Maybe. Anyway, now that the hard stuff is done, we should have dessert.”

“Dessert?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “This is turning into quite the event. What have you got?”

“I have Swiss Rolls.”

“Little Debbie?”

“Of course.”

“Classic, I’m in.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

They ate Little Debbies while dusk crept in and the sky over the western mountains burned.

“That’s another painting,” Darby pointed out. “Imagine sitting here, eating classic snack cakes, watching the sunset, and listening to the water spill melodically over rock and into its pool.”

“You’ve already sold me that.”

“But imagine anyway. You need a hummingbird feeder.”

“Why?”

“Hummingbirds,” she said simply. “Some of what I plant out here will attract them, and songbirds, butterflies. But they’d appreciate a good-looking feeder. This is so nice. I could play with your grounds for pretty much ever.”

“I bet you could.”

“But that’s it for tonight. I’m going to load your dishwasher as a thank-you for food and drink.”

“I could say you don’t have to do that, but why would I?”

She rose, stacked plates, cleared the table. He followed her in, watched her deal with the dishes.

“You know,” he began, “we haven’t talked about that outside-the-ballpark kiss.”

“Should we?”

“Here’s what I’m thinking. You’re a client of mine; I’m a client of yours. I think that washes the client deal out.”