Chapter 18 #3
Mrs. Wilks set another plate of pancakes in front of me, their golden warmth rising in soft, curling steam.
But as I stared down at them, all I could see was Wren in that accident—how she must have lived through it.
The terror as everything spiraled out of control, the agony of waking up to a shattered world, and the crushing weight of grief when she realized what had been taken from her.
It was overwhelming to contemplate. I felt like I was at a crossroads.
Should I pursue the story and uncover the truth buried beneath the wreckage of that night?
Or should I stick to the safer piece, the one about Henry and our grief group, the one that wouldn’t threaten to unravel lives?
Two stories. Two paths. But only one I could present to Colin.
I knew which one he’d prefer. But what would it cost?
Whose pain would it amplify, and whose secrets would it expose?
The more I dug, the more it felt like someone worked hard to bury the truth, and the harder it became to walk away from it.
I searched online for any detectives tied to the accident.
One name kept appearing: Detective Bill Andrews.
After digging through old articles, I learned he’d retired from the NYPD a year or so ago.
I tried to call the department, hoping they’d have some contact information, but it was a dead end.
Frustrated, I turned to social media. There wasn’t much to go on—Detective Andrews didn’t seem like the Facebook type—but to my surprise, I found an old profile under his name.
It hadn’t been updated in years, but there it was: a blurry photo of him holding a fish.
Classic. A small detail made my stomach drop.
His high school? Everston High. Small damn world.
As I stared at the screen, trying to figure out my next move, a familiar voice interrupted my thoughts.
“Wren eats her pancakes like that, you know,” Rita said, sliding into the seat across from me, her gold bracelets jingling as she gestured toward my plate. “Isn’t that funny?”
“Rita,” I said, startled. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, I just wondered how your poem was coming along,” she said, though I knew better. She had that glint in her eye she always did when fishing for gossip.
“I’m working on it,” I replied vaguely, knowing she wouldn’t leave without more.
“Well, I’ve been working on mine,” she said, producing a piece of paper from her pocket and unfolding it on the table. The handwriting was unmistakably hers, a mix of endearing loops and squiggles.
“Do you want to hear it?”
I looked at her. “Sure,” I said. “Let’s have it.”
She cleared her throat dramatically and began to read:
From grief something new can be born.
A silver lining amid the ache and mourn.
From the shattered pieces of broken dreams.
Joy takes root, at first timid, unlikely it seems.
Until blooming freely, unafraid to flow.
Love finds its place and begins to grow.
She stopped, looking at me expectantly.
“It’s great,” I said quickly.
“Does it stir any feelings within you?” she asked, leaning forward like a talk show host waiting for some sort of reveal.
I wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by the question. I hesitated, picking at my pancakes. “I suppose I find it hopeful?”
Rita groaned, exasperated. “It’s about you and Wren!” she said. “Finding new love even through grief.”
I nearly choked on the pancakes. “What?”
“Oh yes,” she grinned, clearly delighted by my reaction. “You two are my muses.”
“Rita,” I began, “I appreciate the sentiment, but Wren and I are…”
“Smitten,” she interrupted. “We can all see it. And how lovely for Wren after everything she’s been through. None of us really know her backstory, though, do we? Do you?”
I was trying to find out.
I kept my tone casual. “I prefer to know who she is now.”
Rita waved a hand dismissively. “You could write a poem about her,” she said thoughtfully. “That would make a nice follow-up to mine. I could even help you, if you want? I mean, we don’t know how good a poet Wren is, do we?”
I bit back a laugh and decided to steer the conversation somewhere more useful. “You know, Rita, there is something you could do for me?”
She perked up instantly, learning forward enthusiastically.
“I’m looking for someone,” I said. “A retired detective named Bill Andrews. He’s originally from Everston and used to work for the NYPD. I think he might have gone to school here.”
Her eyes lit up. “Ooh, I love a good mystery,” she said, practically buzzing with excitement. “I know just the person to ask.”
I grinned. “I thought you might.”
Wren was hosing down the side of the house when I arrived.
The tall, slender windows at the front of the house caught the fading golden light as it dipped below the mountain ranges.
The lawn, once overgrown, was now neatly trimmed, the flower beds replanted, fences freshly painted, and the front porch restored.
I was in awe of how she’d managed to restore the old house.
She noticed me as I walked closer and switched off the pressure washer, her face lighting up with a smile.
“I have a pie baking,” she said, pulling a few stray hairs out of her face. “I fixed the oven, installed a new range vent, and the hot water is finally working. Can you believe the kitchen is actually functional now?”
“I can’t believe the whole house is actually functional,” I replied, stepping closer to kiss her softly.
Her smile widened as she held me for a moment. I leaned back slightly, digging into my pocket and placing a bracelet on her hand. “You left this on my nightstand,” I smiled. “I’m surprised I noticed it actually, what with how worn out I was.”
Wren bit her lip, the corners of her mouth tugging up despite herself. “Do you want some pie?” she asked quickly.
“I’d love some,” I replied. Then, hesitating, I added, “Have you heard from Emerson?”
“No,” she said, leading me up the porch steps to the front door. “She’s not answering my calls or texts, but I called her mom, and she said Emerson’s been at the hospital nearly every day and night.”
Wren guided me into the kitchen. It was almost unrecognizable—new cupboards, freshly painted ceilings, modern appliances—but she’d kept the original wood, its weathered patina marked with age. She placed two plates on the counter, and carefully served slices of pie onto each.
“I googled you,” I said, taking a bite.
Wren nearly dropped her fork. “Oh.”
“I like your hair better now,” I teased, grinning. “And the cozy sweaters and overalls.”
She glanced down at her paint-smeared denim overalls, laughing. “Really? You didn’t like the Armani or Chanel?”
I pulled her toward me, pressing a kiss to her neck. It didn’t matter if she had been working on this house all day, all week, hours on end, she always smelled like lavender and rain, something so distinctly her.
“You’re an extraordinary writer, Wren,” I whispered. “I hope you never forget that.”
She leaned in to me, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m just not so sure that’s where I belong anymore,” she said softly, and the ache in her voice made my chest tighten.
“Well, maybe I can help with that,” I said, my own excitement bubbling to the surface. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
She pulled back slightly, curious. “What is it?”
“I’ve been doing some research,” I began. “About the accident. A journalist I know covered the story, and he gave me the details of the family of the young boy. I called them today.”
Wrens face paled. “You did what?”
“They don’t believe Lucy caused the accident,” I said quickly. “The boy, Alec, remembers a silver car, not Lucy’s green Jeep.”
Her voice wavered as she set her plate down. “We should just leave things be,” she said quietly. “That family has been through enough.”
“So have you,” I replied gently. “You said yourself that things didn’t add up, that you didn’t think Lucy was at fault.”
She turned away, her shoulders tense. “I said I didn’t think Lucy was drunk driving,” she said. “I was reading my manuscript to her when it happened. It was my fault she crashed.”
“Wren,” I pleaded. “I don’t think it was your fault. I really don’t.”
She picked up the pie plate and moved it toward me. “Have another piece, if you like,” she said, shutting the conversation down. “I have laundry to hang.”
Without another word, she left me standing in the kitchen, confused by her reaction.
I glanced at the pile of bar coasters she had neatly stacked on the kitchen table, a frame sitting nearby.
Wren had arranged them carefully, a collection of memories from Lucy’s travels—Phoenix, Trenton, Boulder, Maine.
Each one brought back for Wren upon Lucy’s return.
I knew they held so much meaning for her.
Just because someone dies, it doesn’t mean the love you have for them disappears.
If I wanted Wren, I would always have to share a part of her with Lucy, and I was prepared to do that.
Which is why I needed to clear Lucy’s name.
She couldn’t speak for herself. She didn’t have a voice anymore. But I did.
I had to find out the truth.