Chapter Twenty-Four
Levi
T he sound of grumbling stirred me from slumber. I nudged Finn, his sturdy frame unmoving. Another noise roused me further, prompting me to lift my ear from the pillow. It wasn’t Finn making the sound; it was my phone.
I answered.
A familiar voice. “This is Jackson Miller. There’s been an accident.”
The emergency room sign shone like a beacon on the empty Chattanooga streets. Although it was an hour away from Sutton, it was the closest hospital. My truck shrieked to a stop as I slammed my foot on the brake and rushed inside. “I need to see Elizabeth Shaw,” I urgently informed the woman at reception.
She glanced up with a hint of disinterest, her face etched with boredom, before slowly setting her book down and regarding me and then her computer screen. She moved slower than a grandma driving home after Sunday mass. “Please repeat the name. What is your relationship with the patient?”
“Elizabeth Shaw. She’s my mother.”
Anxiety gnawed at me as she sluggishly navigated her computer screen as if my mother’s life wasn’t in peril.
Jackson had only shared that there’d been an accident. I didn’t know if I was going to a regular room, the ICU, or the morgue.
“She’s in the ICU.”
I couldn’t wait for her to finish. I bolted toward a sign that marked ICU. My bruised ribs ached with the movement. The soles of my boots thudded against sterile linoleum tiles as I barreled past nurses, doctors, and visiting family members. The odor of antiseptic stung my nose. My arms shook and my fingers twitched with adrenaline.
Overhead, fluorescent lights zipped by in a blur as I raced down the hallway, frantically checking room after room. The first revealed an old man with a breathing tube. In the next, a woman lay asleep under layers of blankets. My rubber-soled shoes squeaked as I pivoted to the next room.
There, on the right. A nurse hovered over her body. Monitors blinked and whirred.
Mom was alive.
I let out a shuttering breath and braced my hands on my knees, weak with relief.
“Sir, you can’t be in here,” she said.
“This is my Momma.” I couldn’t control the shaking that gripped my body. I studied the woman who had loved me through every scabbed knee and broken heart. Her face was bruised and her eyes were closed. Butterfly bandages stretched across the skin of her temple. Her arm was bandaged.
Jackson rushed into the room. “Levi, come with me.”
“No.” I pointed at the nurse. “Please. Tell me if she’s okay.”
Jackson and the nurse shared a look. He nodded. She huffed before saying, “She’s in a coma. You’ll have to speak to her doctor for details. You must leave.”
Gripping my shoulder, Jackson steered me out of the ICU. He then deposited me in a waiting room where Lillian and Ezra sat side by side. What were they doing here? The pieces fell into place.
Courtney would have been with Momma.
Ezra’s face hardened when he recognized me.
Jackson propelled me down a hallway. “You know better than to go blazing through a hospital,” he scolded.
“Where’s her doctor? I gotta talk to him.”
He still held my shoulder. “I understand this is hard. My wife’s mother was injured too. We’re all doing the best we can to keep our wits and let the doctors work. I’ll help you find him after we talk.”
“Talk about what? What is more important than this?”
“The nature of the accident.”
That got my attention. I straightened, but the shaking didn’t stop. “What happened?”
“From what we’ve pieced together, your momma and Courtney were on Pine Road heading north when a Jeep Cherokee swerved into their lane and struck them. Your momma was driving. The Jeep was speeding. Hit the driver’s side. Your momma’s car flipped once and landed upright in the field.” He paused.
A buzzing echoed in the back of my skull. My stomach rolled like I might be sick. I should be connecting the dots, but I couldn’t. “What does this have to do with me?”
“The driver and passenger of the Jeep were scraped, but their conditions were okay. They were your boys.”
“My boys?”
“Football players. The Jeep reeked of alcohol when I arrived at the scene.”
Shock seared through the softest parts of my brain like a whiskey shot. Wooziness followed. Drywall cooled my palm as I braced myself against the hallway. Images surfaced to my mind from the night Marigold had left me.
School parking lot. Headlights. Jeep. Beer bottles. Trevor. William.
I let them go without even a whisper to the district or to their parents.
My voice shook. “They told you.”
Jackson leaned into my line of sight. “Told me what?”
I focused on him. “Why are you telling me this?”
A fluorescent light blinked on and off, casting Jackson in shadow and then light. “Because I wanted you to know that two of your boys caused a drunk driving accident involving your family.”
If they hadn’t mentioned my name yet, they would. They’d do anything to beat a juvie sentence.
I ran my fingers wearily across my face. “This is my fault.”
Jackson crossed his arms. The brim of his sheriff's hat case his face in shadow. “Excuse me?”
I might lose my job if the board found out I withheld information about criminal activity on school grounds. Heck, I might lose my job anyway.
The harsh light ceased its flickering, casting a blinding reflection on the gleaming floor, causing tears to well up in my eyes. Or was I crying? For Trevor and William’s uncertain futures? For Momma and Mrs. King?
With a trembling exhale, I told Jackson about the night I’d discovered the boys in the parking lot.
He swore. “I’ll have to write this in my report.”
“I figured.”
“Then why would you share it?”
“It’ll come up.”
He swore again. “The town won’t look kindly on this if—” He paused before finishing. “If lives are lost.”
There it was. Either my momma’s or Mrs. King’s future was uncertain. I needed to talk to a doctor. I should call my brother. “Are we done?”
He released me. “For now.”
The monitors ticked with precision, echoing a metronome’s rhythm. One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four . . .
Sheets and bandages covered Momma. I found comfort in her rising and falling chest.
The doctor said that the left side of Momma’s body had been badly injured. He told me about broken bones, abrasions, fractures, and head trauma. There was a chance that Momma might wake up—but there was also a chance she might not. I’d texted my brother, Colton, but hadn’t received a response.
The sound of footsteps drew closer. Seconds later, Jackson stood over me. “I thought you should have this.” He handed me a plastic bag heavy with items. “Your mom’s things from the wreck. Her car is being towed to a body shop. Expect it to be totaled.”
He left me with the bag. I set it on the sterile floor between my feet. Regular car things like sunglasses, hand sanitizer, and pens were jumbled together with one of Momma’s necklaces tangled at the bottom. The biggest item surprised me.
A worn leather journal that smelled of oil and gasoline.
I flipped it from front to back. Dad’s handwriting covered the pages.
I swallowed. Either Momma lied about knowing where Dad’s journal was, or this was a different one.
I leafed to the last entry.
Dear Elizabeth,
I realize you think I’m being dramatic when I write letters to you instead of verbally communicating. It’s my way of understanding what I’m thinking, and there’s been much on my mind lately.
Levi called today. He and Colton are following their dreams in Nashville. I told him we’d visit soon. I hope I wasn’t lying. Things are getting complicated.
He found me at the cabin. You know who. He’s angry. He doesn’t understand why I continue to let people believe that I turned Samuel in.
We alone know the truth. You, me, Samuel, Courtney. And him.
Samuel didn’t launder money. He did.
I didn’t turn Samuel in. He did.
Samuel and I didn’t realize what we were doing when we wrote in those notebooks all those years ago. Nothing happened as we imagined.
I wrote Courtney, and she fell in love with Samuel.
Samuel wrote him, and he betrayed us both.
We didn’t realize the power we had, the gravity of being a writer. In a way, we were playing God without even knowing it. But when we play God in our stories, we can’t make choices as well as He does.
God knew I needed you, Elizabeth. That’s why it didn’t work out with Courtney. I felt compelled to try since I’d made her, but things worked out as God intended.
I trust that Samuel and I still need him. The one we created. Or, more accurately, I suspect he needs us.
The reason Samuel stays in jail, and the reason I don’t tell folks I’m innocent, is because of love. You know this. I know this. I wish the world could see love the way we do. Most think it’s a feeling.
But we know better.
Samuel and I love him too much to let him be punished. Does he deserve it? Of course! But he wouldn’t be alive if not for us. We’d hoped our sacrifices would show him that our arms are forever open.
We were wrong.
Elizabeth, you were there the day he stumbled off the mountain straight from Samuel’s pen. You saw him and helped him gain a footing in life.
He won’t accept it. He’d prefer to see Samuel in jail and us at each other’s throats.
Our choices created him, and we’ll do what we can to give him every freedom, even if he hates us for it.
Because that’s what love does, right? Love gives in all things.
I love you, Elizabeth. I love you more than you could ever imagine. This trial will only bring us closer in the end.
Forever yours,
Duncan
This was what I’d been seeking. Momma had it all along. She knew everything, and despite that, she let me believe unfair things about Ezra, Samuel, and my daddy.
Why?
The journal added a new element to the Shaw and King feud. A third, unnamed party. A man who was most likely responsible for my dad’s death.
This confirmed what I’d suspected: Dad was murdered.
But I was wrong, too, because Ezra wasn’t involved after all.
The obvious question pained me: Why had Momma kept this from me?
Searching for answers, I read the letter again. She must have wanted to honor Dad’s wish to protect the mysterious unnamed man.
But how could she care for him if he’d murdered her husband?
The answer rocked me to my feet.
Because she loved him. She had to. Maybe not the way she loved Daddy, but she loved him. She was there when he was created and felt responsible.
Just like how I felt for Marigold.
For the first time, I realized she wasn’t in the waiting room with Ezra.
His name unhinged something inside me. Guilt tumbled through my chest like rocks breaking off Skeleton Cliff and crashing below. The pain settled in my stomach.
Ezra. My brother.
I wasted years hating him for a crime he had no hand in. He spent the same time despising both me and my daddy for the same reasons.
Dad made it clear in his note. He and Samuel chose to be punished for the fall of their creation. They wanted brotherhood, not strife, yet Ezra and I chose anger.
Momma and Courtney could have joined us over this truth instead of letting us hate each other.
Wait. The journal reeked of car fluids.
I jogged toward the nurse’s station. “Where’s Jackson?”
“He’s on his way to speak with the other family.”
I found him before he entered the waiting room. “Where did you find this?”
He looked at the book.
“Near the rear of the crash.”
“Could it have been in the glove compartment or in the backseat?”
“I only took items from off the road. You can gather the rest from the body shop.”
I slapped him on the back. “Thank you.” Someone could have hidden the journal in Momma’s trunk where it had been dislodged in the crash.
I texted Marigold.
Me: Where are you?
Marigold: At your momma’s house. She’s not here. I’m worried. Where are you?
Me: On my way.
Seeing Marigold made my heart’s rapid beats to gradually transform, like a fading drumroll, into a deep, ominous bass.
She raced onto the porch as I parked. “What happened? Beth and Courtney left last night, but they didn’t come home.”
Wrapping her in a tight embrace, I rested my chin on her head, released a trembling exhale, and then shared the crushing news.
“Can you take me to the hospital?” she asked. “I don’t know where it is.”
I showed her the journal. “This is what I’ve been looking for. It explains everything that happened between the Shaw and King family. Well, I hope. I only read one entry, but I suspect if it’s read cover to cover, it’ll tell the whole story.”
“What do you mean?”
“My dad didn’t kill himself. Ezra had nothing to do with his murder. This journal also suggests that characters can come to life through writing . . . which is exactly how I created you.”
She backed away.
My phone buzzed with an incoming text from Ezra.
Ezra: Meet me at the cliff.
My heart quickened its pace, a drumbeat of anxiety echoing in my chest. The message conveyed almost nothing, yet it explained everything. Jackson told Ezra about my involvement with Trevor and William. Ezra held me responsible and wanted revenge. I could give him the truth.
“Read on the way,” I said. “We need to stop at the cabin before meeting Ezra at the cliff. We’ll go to the hospital after.” I handed her the journal and jogged to my truck.
I turned off the radio as we drove. The noise distracted me. If Ezra was driving from Chattanooga, we had time. If things unfolded as I suspected, I had to take precautions, but they might not make a difference.
Replaying fragments of Dad’s letter in my mind, I struggled to decipher the truth from what I perceived.
Samuel wrote a man who was displeased with both Samuel and my dad.
Why was he mad?
The letter didn’t say.
This individual framed Samuel in a money laundering scheme and made it look like my dad had turned him in. Then he presumably killed my dad. And now Samuel had been attacked in prison.
I imagined how my dad’s death must have played out. They met at the Cliff. Dad tried to reason with him. The man pushed him over the edge. Maybe it was an accident, or perhaps it was intentional.
The part of Dad’s letter that impacted me the most was how much he loved this person. He loved him enough to let the town think he’d betrayed his best friend. Samuel was willing to give up years of his life in jail.
I was moved because I understood.
Marigold sat beside me with her nose almost pressed against the pages of the journal.
I loved her enough to tell her the truth.
I loved her enough to let her walk away.
And yes, I loved her enough to let her push me off a cliff, just like my daddy let the man in the letter. I would die for her if that were the only means for her to see the depth of my love. I’d allow it.
Was that what my dad let happen? Of course, he would have fought back, tried to save himself. Who wouldn’t? But when he realized his efforts were useless, did he surrender?
The bond I shared with Marigold felt paternal yet passionate, a blend of protection and freedom that transcended mere affection. A need to protect at all costs, but also to set free. We had the added benefit of attraction. I made her. I loved her. I’d do anything for her.
I understood my dad better than ever before.
Finn dashed toward the truck as I parked and jumped out. His tail wagged, slapping against the tires and my legs. He followed me as I sprinted inside. The sound of Marigold’s footsteps trailed behind.
I found the original journal on Dad’s desk, flipped past Marigold’s ballad and Finn’s limerick, and stopped on a fresh page.
And then I wrote.