Chương 9
“But he died later.”
“Four days.”
Ethan looked down.
“Did you stay with him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I was in surgery.”
The answer surprised him.
Mara pulled her shirt up just enough to show the lower edge of the abdominal scar.
“This wasn’t cosmetic.”
“I know.”
She dropped the shirt.
“No, you knew there was a scar.”
He accepted that.
After a while he said, “Why do you think it was your fault?”
“I went back.”
“So did he.”
“I was the senior person.”
“By six months.”
“It counted.”
“You told him not to.”
“I knew he wouldn’t listen.”
“That doesn’t make his decision yours.”
Mara stood.
“I’m not asking you to solve it.”
“I’m not.”
“It sounds like you are.”
He looked frustrated.
“What am I supposed to do when you tell me you’ve spent eight years thinking you killed your friend?”
“Listen.”
“I am listening.”
“Then don’t give me the answer after thirty seconds.”
He stood too.
“I’m not giving you an answer. I’m telling you what I hear.”
“I know what you hear.”
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“You deciding what everyone else gets to understand.”
Mara stared at him.
Ethan’s voice remained quiet.
“You’re angry people are turning you into a hero because it makes the story simple. Fine. I get that. But you’re doing the same thing to yourself in the other direction.”
“That is not the same.”
“You have one sentence too.”
Mara’s jaw tightened.
He looked at her.
“I went back, so Pike died.”
She stepped away.
“Don’t.”
“Why? Because it’s wrong?”
“Because you weren’t there.”
“You’re right.”
He nodded.
“I wasn’t.”
The room went still.
He picked up his jacket.
“I’m going to get lunch.”
“Ethan.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“That’s not what I—”
“I know.”
He stopped at the doorway.
Then gave a tired half smile.
“See? I know things too.”
He left.
Mara sat on the bed.
She wanted to throw something at the door.
Instead she noticed one of his socks under the dresser.
She picked it up.
Then, because she was furious and petty and thirty-four years old and tired of being emotionally reasonable, she threw the sock at the wall.
It slid down without effect.
“That was pathetic,” she told the empty room.
Her phone rang.
Sloane.
Mara nearly declined it.
Then answered.
“What?”
Sloane was quiet.
“Bad time?”
“Yes.”
“I can call later.”
“You were told not to call at all.”
“I know.”
Mara closed her eyes.
“Why are you calling?”
“The police contacted my attorney.”
“Okay.”
“I wanted you to know I’m cooperating.”
Mara said nothing.
Sloane continued.
“I’m not going to fight the fact that I hit you.”
“That’s a low bar.”
“I know.”
Mara opened her eyes.
Sloane sounded different.
Not transformed.
Just tired.
“I’ve been advised not to speak to you,” she said.
“Then your attorney is smarter than you.”
“Probably.”
“Why are you?”
A pause.
“Because everybody around me is trying to turn what I did into something else.”
Mara sat.
“Welcome to the week.”
Sloane let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
“My mother says it was exhaustion.”
“Was it?”
“No.”
“Your board?”
“Alcohol and event pressure.”
“Were you drunk?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“My attorney wants me to say I had one glass.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s probably relevant.”
“I wasn’t drunk.”
“Then don’t imply you were.”
“Do you enjoy this?”
“What?”
“Being impossible to manipulate.”
Mara looked at the wall.
“No. It’s exhausting.”
Sloane was quiet.
Then: “I hit you because I was angry that you wouldn’t put on the wrap.”
“I know.”
“I thought the photographer would put you in the campaign pictures.”
“For the veterans foundation.”
“Yes.”
Mara waited.
Sloane said, “I hear how that sounds.”
“Good.”
“I had spent six months trying to get that program funded.”
“Also true.”
“Our largest donor almost walked the week before because he thought the campaign imagery was too political.”
Mara frowned.
“My scars are political?”
“No.”
“Then what does that have to do with me?”
“Nothing. That’s the point.”
Sloane inhaled.
“I was already trying to control everything. The guest list, the speakers, what people wore, which photographs would go out. I asked you to cover up. You said no. Then the photographer turned toward us and I…”
She stopped.
“You hit me.”
“Yes.”
“Because I said no.”
“Yes.”
There was no useful response.
Sloane’s voice tightened.
“I’m not telling you this as an excuse.”
“Good.”
“I’m telling you because I keep wanting there to be one.”
That was the first thing Sloane had said that Mara trusted completely.
Mara leaned back against the bed.
“What do you want from me?”
“I don’t know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Then figure it out before you call again.”
Sloane was silent.
“Mara?”
“What?”
“I am sorry.”
Mara looked at the faint reflection of herself in the bedroom mirror.
“I believe you’re sorry.”
Sloane exhaled.
“That’s something.”
“It’s not forgiveness.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
She ended the call.
That evening Mara left a second voicemail for Mike Reeve.
“Mike. What I said yesterday was cruel. I used something I know about your grief to win an argument. I’m sorry. I’m not asking you to call me back. I’m going to correct Weller’s statement publicly. I’ll send you what I plan to say before I post it, not for permission but so you’re not surprised.”
She paused.
“And Pike made his own choice. I’m not taking that away from him so you can punish me, and I’m trying to stop taking it away from him so I can punish myself.”
She almost deleted the voicemail.
Then sent it.
The statement took six hours.
Not because it was long.
Because every sentence seemed to belong to somebody else the moment she wrote it.
Lena objected to the first version.
“You sound like a lawyer.”
“I’m trying not to make it dramatic.”
“You’ve removed all human language.”
Ethan objected to the second.
“You never say Sloane’s name.”
“That’s deliberate.”
May you like
“Why?”
“Because this isn’t a revenge statement.”
