Keep Them Close(54)

I can tell myself all of that. The chance that he’s learned his lesson, that we can get back to a place we once occupied, now that he’s been appropriately chastened. But despite what my brain tells me, my feet stay planted firmly. The harder he tries to pull me toward him, the more desperately I resist, the more I realize that the rip will never heal.

“We’re past that point,” I say. “We need to find a time to tell Gray. Probably this summer, because he’s not coming home for spring break. In terms of finances, the money, the property, we can split everything equally. But we’re not getting back together.”

I fit my earbuds back in my ears and start down the sidewalk.

“You’ve changed,” he says.

“God, I hope so.” I don’t look back.

“This isn’t over,” he calls to me.

I don’t respond. But I’m sure he’s right.



* * *





I’m showered and ready for a long day at the office when Harp buzzes me on my phone.

“Hey. I promised you info on Trinity Casto, a full workup. Sorry it’s taken so long.”

“Your timing’s good,” I say, “if you have something for me.”

“I didn’t think I did at first,” she says. “All I found was kind of a messed-up childhood. Her mother went to prison when Trinity was seven and Max was four. Dad divorced her, moved the kids away, and got a restraining order against her.”

“Oof. That’s rough. Why’d she go to prison?”

“That’s where it gets interesting,” says Harp. “She pled guilty to a DUI.”

“A DUI.” I’m backing my SUV down the driveway but stop. “Wait. Don’t tell me.”

“You got it,” she says. “Trinity’s mother was Carmela Muller, the woman who hit Luke with her car.”





45


Luke

“Third inning,” squawks Alan McIntyre through the speakerphone. “Leadoff hitter.”

“Hang on…got it,” I say as I sit at my kitchen table with my laptop open, watching a replay of Mortimer’s game last night against North Park. Our starting pitcher, a junior named Theo Rodrigo, got chased in the fourth after giving up back-to-back jacks.

The Peacocks stand at 12–7 on the year, on a current three-game losing streak. An okay record, but Alan will be under pressure to do better. This time last year, we were 16–2.

“Roddy’s not keeping his hand tucked,” I tell him. “When you bring it back, you always keep your knuckles between the ball and your body. He’s opening up too soon. You see that?”

“I do now. Fuckin’-A right I do.”

“You lose control and velo. Okay, next pitch. No. Fuck. C’mon, Roddy.” I pop sunflower seeds into my mouth, chew them up, spit the shells in the trash can, as I watch Roddy throwing his changeup. “He’s not selling the change. Keep telling him, it’s a fastball until it’s not. The leg kick, the stride, should be identical. Look at him, he looks like he’s about to…fuckin’ get down on one knee and propose marriage.”

My phone buzzes. A text message from Allison: I’m here. Need 5 mins.

Yeah, well, I need a lot of things I can’t have. Like a normal sister.

She texts again. I know you’re in there. And I know you’re awake.

I’m busy, I respond.

Doing what? Prepping for your tee-ball lesson tonight? Let me in.

“Mac, I gotta do something. Call you back in five. Go rub one out or something.”

“At my age, that takes more than five minutes.”

When I’m off the call, I walk to the front door. I crack it open just enough to fill the frame and no more. The cold morning air slips in around my ankles, sharp as needles. Allison stands on the porch in a dark coat belted tight, hair perfect, makeup crisp. She looks like she’s heading into a courtroom.

“Let me in,” she says. The sun is low and bright behind her, throwing long shadows across the frost on the walkway.

“No. Say what you have to say, then leave. Or better yet, just leave—”

“Fine,” she says. She lifts her chin, bracing herself the way she does when she’s about to deliver something that will hit hard. “Trinity,” she says. “Trinity’s mother is Carmela Muller, the one who hit you with her car.”

I don’t answer fast enough for her liking. She reads it right off my face.

“You already know,” she says, blinking. Not a question—more like she’s talking herself through it. “You already knew? How long?”

“Always,” I say. “First time I met her. Last October, at the mara—”

Her hand raps across my face, a good, hard, open-hand slap.

“What’s with you hitting me all the time—”

“You didn’t tell me? Me?”

“Why should I—”

“That woman’s had an agenda from the start!” she cries. “She probably hates all of us.”

“No,” I say.

“She seduced Finley,” she says. “Not that it would’ve taken much effort—”

“Would you quit saying that? She’s not sleeping with Finley. She’s been interviewing him for the documentary. That’s why she meets with him.”