Keep Them Close(55)

Allison considers that a moment, eyes darting, before her eyebrows rise and her chin dips. “And you believe that?”

“Finley is the last person on earth she’d sleep with,” I say, feeling myself shaking, the rage rising.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” I say. “It means—”

“Tell me why.” Allison grabs a handful of my shirt. “Why is Finley the last—”

“Because he cut the brakes on my bike.”

The words feel satisfying, finally releasing them. Allison steps back, as if jolted with a prod, her mouth closing into a small “o,” her hand frozen in midair.

“Because the accident wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for him,” I go on. “I wouldn’t have lost my ability to pitch. Her mother wouldn’t have gone to prison. A family wouldn’t have been ruined. So no, I’m pretty sure she didn’t pick that guy and decide, ‘Yeah, I’m gonna fuck his brains out.’?” I take a breath. “She wants the truth to come out. Everyone made her mother out to be some monster, driving recklessly and drunk. Yeah, okay, she was slightly over the legal limit, but the story sounds a little different when you hear that I was riding wildly out of control and came flying into her path because I had no brakes.”

Allison’s gaze fixes on a spot far away.

“Brake lines were fine when I rode to school,” I say. “But at some point that day they were cut clean through. A clean cut. A deliberate cut. Her lawyers were ready to prove that. Photos, expert testimony—”

“No,” Allison says, her voice firm, finding herself on familiar terrain of law and proof. “If that were true, she would have fought her case. She would have—”

“She pled guilty to DUI,” I say. “Which she was truly guilty of. They had her on that. She took it and the eighteen months. She wasn’t willing to risk up to a twenty-year sentence on the other charges, the reckless driving and all that, which her lawyers said was a possibility, especially with all the bad publicity she got.”

Allison wraps her arms around herself, feeling the chill.

“You know I’m right about Finley,” I say, “don’t you?”

“No. No.” She steps back off the porch. “I don’t believe it. That can’t be right—”

“Say it, Allison. Say it. Finley did this to me.”

She shakes her head furiously. “She’s poisoning you, Luke. She’s hurt and angry and she wants it to be true.”

I step out onto the porch, a brutal slap of wind finding its way under my shirt. “I was his friend. I always stood by him. When he—that incident at my school last June? The parking lot of my building? The road rage? The man who almost died?”

She nods, her eyes cast downward.

“I risked my career, I risked prison, to pull those security discs from the video room and replace them with blanks. And then I meet Trinity and find out that this is the same guy who could’ve killed me that day on the hill.” I jab a finger in Allison’s direction. “And now you, of all people, are protecting him?”

“No—not protecting him. I just don’t believe what she’s trying to convince—”

“Say it!” I shout. “You know it’s true. Finley did this to me. Say it!”

“No—”

“Then leave!” I cry, my anger boiling over. “Don’t talk to me again, Allison. Ever.”

My voice breaks on that last word, emotion clogging my throat. I step back inside and slam the door behind me. I walk into the kitchen, do a couple circles, fists clenched, breath coming too fast. I walk into my family room and take it out on one of the couch cushions, punching it over and over until I’ve reached exhaustion, until I’m panting like an animal.

“Fuck this,” I say. “I’ve held on to this long enough.”

I pull out my phone and type a message to Allison: Did you really look hard at the state’s evidence in my case? I think you missed something in that car inventory.

I hit send. It feels good, satisfying. It will cut.

“Let’s see you talk your way out of that one,” I whisper.





46


Allison

I drive to the office in a fog, on a phone call with Vivian through my car speaker about a reluctant witness, but seeing Luke’s face the whole time, hearing his words. At the office, I drop my bag by my desk, put the food I bought this morning from Conger’s in the small fridge in the corner. I set out my materials for the 9 a.m. Zoom call with the congressman. I have a few minutes before it starts.

When I lay my phone on the desk, I see a text message from Luke from fifty minutes ago. That must have been almost right after I left his townhouse, after he slammed the door on me.


Did you really look hard at the state’s evidence in my case? I think you missed something in that car inventory.

Something drops inside me, though I can’t source the feeling of dread—I don’t know what he means. The inventory, he said, the state’s inventory of the contents recovered from Trinity’s Toyota after Luke was arrested. I’ve seen the list. I never personally inspected the items. And now I can’t—I’m no longer Luke’s lawyer.