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“You’re a woman,” I say, looking up over the top of the papers. “How can you do this?”
“I don’t know what happened,” she says. “And I don’t make these rules—this is just how the world works, and I’m just doing my job. But this is the only win you’re going to get here, kid. I’d consider yourself lucky that he’s even offering because if he didn’t have business to conduct in this town and a whole lot of money to lose if he doesn’t get his building permit, he wouldn’t be.”
“What?”
“My card is on the front. Give me a call when you’re ready to sign.”
She stands, picking up the briefcase next to the chair, and leaves through the front door without another word.
“I’m not signing this,” I say after the door closes. “You can’t make me.”
“God damn it, Amelia. For once in your life, would you climb down from that fucking pedestal you look down at the rest of us from and think about what you’re doing? Frank? Will you tell her what you told me?”
“Mel, I’ve known your family my whole life,” the officer says. “And I want you to know that I read the report, and I believe you—and I believe your mom—about what happened here that night. But it doesn’t really matter what I believe, and I’m here to tell you where we are at and how this is going to go down if you don’t sign those papers and decide to move forward with this.”
I meet his eyes, and he continues.
“Another officer interviewed the suspect at the hospital the other night. He admitted to having sex with you and said your mother chased him off with a gun after she caught the two of you together—out of jealousy. Then, after your fiancé found out about your affair, he attacked him in the hotel bar.”
“So? He’s lying. No one is going to believe that. Why would I—I would never sleep with him. Or anyone else. Ever.”
“Mel, these cases rarely make it into the courtroom. There was no DNA evidence. You and Ty both have juvenile records, and everyone saw you leave the bar that night drunk after a fight that very well could have been where your injuries came from. Not to mention, you showed up at the hospital with enough alcohol and diazepam in your system to take down a horse; how you walked through the front door is a modern-day fucking miracle.”
“But—”
“And if that’s not enough, he wants to charge Ty with attempted murder. He vocalized that he was going to kill the man and brandished a knife before the employees were able to break up the fight.”
“So what I just—I just let him get away with it? I just keep pouring him coffee at the café while he turns our town into fucking…Lake Tahoe or Starbucks or whatever he’s trying to do? I just let people think Ty attacked him because I was cheating? I…I lose everything?”
“No,” my mom says. “You use your brain. You sign the papers and take the money, and you leave just like you always wanted. You win, Mel. Don’t you get it? That’s how you win, not how you lose.”
“Stella,” I plead, “help me.”
“I need my son back, Mel,” she says, still not meeting my eyes. “My husband is dying. And I need my son back.” With that, she pushes her chair back and stands. “If you love him like you say you do—”
“You know I love him,” I cry. “I have loved him my whole life.”
“Then you’ll sign the papers.”
“He won’t like it,” I tell her. “He wouldn’t want me to.”
“He doesn’t deserve to rot in jail for this,” she says. “Do the right thing, Mel. For all of us.”
With that, she leaves through the front door, too, leaving me with just my mother and Frank, who stands to leave as well.
“If you want to fight this, I’ll do whatever I can to help you two; I just don’t see how it could end any other way,” he says, then pulls the door closed.
I drop my head into my hands. Footsteps indicate that my mom has left the table, too. I hear her rifling around in the kitchen, then the distinct sound of ice clinking against the bottom of a glass cup, and realize she’s pouring herself a drink.
I look up, staring straight ahead at the bullet hole in the wall. It sits just to the left of another one of those stupid wooden signs like the one in the bathroom.
Every house has a story to tell. This is ours.
This is ours.
“I told you about him,” I say as she pours her drink. “I warned you. You didn’t listen.”
“You hate everyone,” she replies. “And yes, I made a mistake. And if you want to blame me, that’s okay. But you know where I really messed up with you?”
