With the help of Release, he was exonerated after it was found that no crime had been committed. Six hundred and ninety-four days after being incarcerated, he was freed.
*
Rye had returned to his hometown, where his wife and daughter were buried next to each other, where the lake restaurant was owned by a new family, where half the people suspected him of murder. He’d let his parents sell the Honeybee House when he was in prison, moved in with them when he got out. He endured the hateful looks and hollers from the people who’d—no matter the evidence—never believe he was innocent. He tried to live there, got a job doing heavy construction working with Hunter’s brother. Demolition. Worked extra shifts to keep himself sore and exhausted, because if he was sore and exhausted, life would feel like punishment, and he deserved to be punished forever for walking away from Christine and Brenna.
*
Once he made the decision to end his life, the obsessive observing was like burning everything in a glass jar before he said goodbye. And although suicide had crossed his mind a lot in prison, it wasn’t until he got out that he’d realized his freedom hadn’t been the answer. He still didn’t know what the answer was. Hell, he didn’t even know what the question was anymore.
A day before he met Tallie on the bridge, he’d called Hunter, who was executive chef at a ranch restaurant in Big Sky now. He and Savannah had recently had a baby girl, and Hunter had told Rye he wanted to keep a respectful distance because he knew how devastating it would be for Rye to see Hunter and Savannah and their baby girl when Rye no longer had his wife and baby girl there with him. Rye told him he wanted to hear about their daughter and meant it when he said he was happy for them, that they’d be amazing parents.
When he talked to Hunter, he thought it’d be the last time. Tried his best to keep his voice even when he told Hunter to tell Savannah hi and he hoped to see them soon, the next time they left Montana for Kentucky—Christmastime. Instead, Rye pictured them flying in with their baby for his funeral once his body was found, if it was found. And he hated himself for having to do that to them—kill himself and bring more darkness into their lives when they’d recently been warmed by so much light.
He’d called his parents and talked to them like normal, too, neither of them asking where he was or what he was doing, because he was a grown man. He told his parents he loved them. Got off the phone, ditched it for his new one, and cried privately before hitching to Sugar Maple, a town seventy-five miles away from Bloom. He’d sold his truck a week before, lying to his parents and saying he was on the hunt for a new one.
Rye caught rides with two more truckers before making it to Louisville and walking aimlessly. Louisville because Christine and Brenna loved the Louisville Zoo, especially the baby elephant. They came as a family to visit at least once a season. And he’d thrown that money in his backpack because when he was released from prison, people had given him the money they’d raised for him when he was inside. There was more of the money; he’d left it at his parents’ place, and his suicide letter would’ve told them exactly where, once they received it in the mail.
He had prayed for life to give him a break. He had prayed for God to give him a sign. He had thought All this will haunt me forever before he climbed up on the bridge on Thursday, praying. He didn’t want to die, but he had no other option. It was the only way. How else could he make it all stop?
TALLIE
Tallie couldn’t help but cry, seeing photos of Christine and Brenna for the first time, photos of Rye with them. His Eleanor Christina and Briar Anna. Christine was bright-eyed and so cheerleader-pretty that she looked as if nothing bad could ever happen to her. Brenna had Rye’s hair, the same splash of cinnamon freckles. She was so small and alive in the photos—in one of them, holding both hands straight up in the air, with her mouth wide open in squeal. Tallie stared at it, half waiting for the picture to make a sound. One of the websites offered a link to the audio of the 911 call Rye’s neighbor made, and Tallie caught her breath. Closed that tab on her phone as quickly as she could before it played.
Rye sat and then stood while Tallie looked at his mug shot: a T-shirt the color of peas, his eyes weary, his mouth an arrow. A photo taken the Christmas before Christine and Brenna died: the three of them laughing, wearing antlers on their heads and ugly Christmas sweaters, Brenna on Rye’s hip, Christine with her hand on his stomach, looking up at him. A family portrait: Rye playfully smushed between his strawberry-blond mother and his dark-haired father, a wide oak tree flush with green behind them. She stepped away and smoked as she flicked through article after article, photo after photo of his life before she met him.