Page 124 of Nobody's Fool
“Promise me first.”
“Promise you what?”
“That you won’t hurt them. That you’ll protect them.”
So will the truth protect them? And if it won’t—if it ends up the truth will hurt them—will I have to break my final promise to her?
“Kierce?” It’s Marty. “You okay?”
I nod.
“Your doctor called. So did Molly. We made a deal I’d have you back by now.”
Standing is hard, what with your arm in a sling. Marty comes over to help me, but I shake him off. I get up with a grimace. I brush off the dirt with one hand.
By the time we drive back to the hospital, I’m hurting pretty good, but I don’t want to take another pill. Molly is there. She hugs me gently, sniffs, and says, “You need a shower.”
“It’s a hospital,” I say. “Can’t you give me a sponge bath?”
“I’m glad you’re feeling better. But no. Get showered and in bed.”
She helps with that. Night falls. I make her leave. She and Henryare staying with her sister because I don’t want them home without me until I know it’s safe. I fall asleep. Not deeply. I call it hospital sleep. It’s a shallow snooze, skimming the surface of consciousness. I don’t know if it’s the machine’s beeping or the lowered voices or just the fact that you’re in this place that houses so much fear and pain. The doctor tells me I can be released the day after tomorrow, and like any rational human being I am ecstatic.
I get a text message right before I fall asleep. It’s from Judith Burkett:
Caroline will see you tomorrow at noon. Don’t be tardy.
Tardy. Who uses the wordtardyexcept when you’re talking about school?
Then:
Please don’t upset her.
I hit the thumb emoji on both messages because I don’t want to say anything to her. Then I pound my pillow and try to make myself comfortable. It doesn’t work, but eventually the drugs do.
It is early the next morning when a whisper awakens me.
“Kierce?”
I don’t move, don’t even open my eyes. I recognize the voice. It’s Polly.
“Gary’s watching for the nurse,” Polly says in the same soft whisper. “Visiting hours don’t start for another three hours. But we found something we need you to see.”
I blink my eyes open. I’m still groggy from the drugs. “Polly?”
“You were right about Scraggly Dude,” she says.
“What?” I try to sit up. “What did you find?”
“We did what you suggested—went through all the inmates whospent any time in the past eighteen years at Sing Sing Correctional Facility. We sorted them in reverse chronological order, which is why it took so long. Naturally it was a huge job. The guy you call Scraggly Dude? He was clean-shaven back then. His hair was short too.”
“But you found him?”
“Yeah. We did. His name is Brian Powell. And guess who his cellmate was for a full six months.”
I knew it and yet I still can’t believe it. “Tad Grayson?”
She nods.
