Chapter 19 #2
“Michael Smith.” The words came out before Lydia could think better of them. “But he’s … um … he’s fine. He walked away. There was blood but no wound, and I don’t understand?—”
She was babbling now, could hear herself doing it, but couldn’t seem to stop. The shock was setting in properly, making her thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.
“Ma’am, I need you to take a breath,” Wyatt said, his voice gentle but firm. “Deputy Simmons is going to stay with you while I go check the barn. Can you do that for me? Just sit tight and breathe?”
Lydia nodded numbly. A female deputy materialized at her side. She was young, maybe twenty-five, with kind brown eyes and dark hair pulled back in a tight bun.
“I’m Deputy Simmons,” she said, crouching down to Lydia’s level. “Are you hurt anywhere? Any pain, bleeding, dizziness?”
“No. I’m fine. But Caleb … Mr. Byrne … he has a head wound.
It’s been bleeding for—” Lydia looked at her phone and couldn’t remember what time the attack had started, what time they’d arrived at the barn, how long she’d stood with a rifle pointed at her children.
“—I don’t know. But he needs a hospital. ”
“Ambulance is two minutes out,” Morrison assured her. “They’ll take good care of him.”
More vehicles arrived. An ambulance, lights flashing but siren blessedly silent now that they were on scene. Two more patrol cars. A vehicle marked “Crime Scene Investigation.”
The ambulance disgorged two paramedics, two men Lydia didn’t recognize. They converged on Caleb immediately, gently moving Lydia aside so they could assess the wound.
“Possible skull fracture,” one of them said, already pulling out supplies. “Definitely concussion. Pupils unequal. We need to transport.”
Lydia watched them work with a detached sort of fascination.
Watched them clean and bandage Caleb’s head, check his vital signs, and ease a cervical collar around his neck.
He protested through all of it—”I’m fine, just a headache, don’t need all this fuss”—but his words were still slurred and his eyes kept drifting closed.
“Mr. Byrne, you’re going to the hospital whether you like it or not,” the first paramedic said cheerfully. “You can come willingly, or we can sedate you. Your choice.”
“Bossy,” Caleb muttered, but he didn’t fight when they loaded him onto a stretcher.
The kids reappeared at Lydia’s side, pressing close. “Is Mr. Caleb going to be okay?” Eli asked.
“He’s going to be fine,” Lydia said, hoping it was true. “They’re taking good care of him.”
Movement at the barn door drew every eye. Sheriff Wyatt emerged first, followed by two deputies flanking Tom between them. Her ex-husband was handcuffed, his hands behind his back, his face blotchy and tear-stained. He was still crying. Great, shuddering sobs that made his whole body shake.
Lydia instinctively pulled the kids closer, turning slightly to shield them from the sight. But they were watching anyway, their small faces serious as they saw their father led away like a criminal.
Because he was a criminal. Had always been one, really, from the moment he chose to drink and drive with Rosie in the car. From the moment he chose the bottle over his children. From the moment he chose arson over letting Lydia go.
Tom’s eyes found hers across the yard. For a moment, they just looked at each other. Lydia saw grief there, and regret, and something that might be pleading. Like he wanted her to say something, to acknowledge him, to give him some kind of absolution. But that was between him and the Almighty.
She turned away.
She watched them put him in the patrol car, watched the door slam shut, watched the vehicle pull away with her ex-husband sobbing in the back seat. Watched until the car disappeared around the bend, and all that was left was dust settling on the frost.
“Good,” Rosie said quietly, and Lydia didn’t correct her.
Another paramedic approached. This one was a woman with short gray hair and a professional smile. “Ms. Harper? I need to check you and your children over. Just a quick assessment.”
Lydia submitted to the examination on autopilot. Let the paramedic check her pulse, her blood pressure, and shine a light in her eyes. Answered questions about pain (none), dizziness (a little), and shock (definitely).
The kids got checked, too. Eli submitted with patient resignation, answering every question precisely.
Rosie chattered through her entire exam, asking the paramedic if she’d ever seen anyone get shot (yes), if it hurt (probably), and if Michael was an angel (the paramedic looked confused by that one).
“Everyone’s physically fine,” the paramedic reported to Deputy Simmons. “But I’d recommend they see their regular doctor in the next day. And maybe talk to someone. A counselor. This was a traumatic event.”
Traumatic. That was one word for it. Lydia could think of about a hundred others, none of them appropriate for her children to hear.
Sheriff Wyatt returned, pulling off his hat and running a hand through thinning hair. “Ms. Harper, I’m going to need a statement. Everything that happened from the time you arrived this morning until now.”
So Lydia talked. Told him about coming to the barn to look for documents, about asking Caleb to come along because he was worried.
About entering the barn and finding Tom waiting with the rifle.
About his confession to setting the fire, his rambling explanation that he’d planned to rescue them, to be the hero.
“He admitted to arson?” Wyatt’s pen paused on his notepad.
“Yes. He said—” Lydia closed her eyes, trying to remember the exact words.
“He said he never meant for it to go that far. That he just wanted to scare me, make me realize I needed him. But the fire got out of control too fast. And he couldn’t—” She opened her eyes.
“He was waiting outside to rescue us. To swoop in and save us so we’d think he was a hero. ”
Wyatt’s expression darkened. “That’s a full confession to attempted murder. Multiple counts.”
“I know.”
“We’ll need you to testify. At the arraignment, and likely at trial if it goes that far.”
The thought of testifying, of having to see Tom again in a courtroom, made Lydia’s stomach turn. But she nodded. “Whatever you need. I want him locked up. I want my children safe.”
“They will be,” Wyatt promised. “I’m recommending no bail. Not with a confession to arson, attempted murder, and now kidnapping and assault with a deadly weapon. The DA will push for maximum sentences.”
Good, Lydia thought, but didn’t say.
Through it all, she kept looking toward the barn.
Looking for Ethan. But he was still inside, giving his own statement to another deputy.
She could see him through the open door, standing with his back to her, gesturing as he talked, probably walking through exactly what had happened from his perspective.
He’d come for them. Had come into a barn with an armed man, with no protection, and offered to trade his life for theirs.
The realization kept hitting her in waves. Ethan loved them. Loved her. Had been willing to die for them without a second’s hesitation.
And she’d pushed him away. Had picked a fight about groceries and credit cards and being a burden when what she should have said was “I love you.” Should have told him he wasn’t just a safe place to land, wasn’t just a temporary shelter from the storm.
Was home. Was family. Was everything she wanted and had been too scared to reach for.
Deputy Simmons brought her a water. Lydia drank it mechanically, not tasting it, just getting it down because the deputy was watching her with concerned eyes and wouldn’t leave until she finished the bottle.
Another vehicle pulled up, a blue sedan that Lydia recognized even before Mrs. Figgs climbed out. She hurried across the yard with surprising speed, her face creased with worry.
“Oh, honey,” she said, pulling Lydia into a hug that smelled like lavender and baking bread. “Are you all right? Are the children?—”
“We’re okay,” Lydia managed. “But Mrs. Figgs, I can’t ask you to?—”
“You’re not asking. I’m offering.” Mrs. Figgs pulled back, her hands on Lydia’s shoulders, her eyes fierce.
“One of the deputies called and said you might need someone to take the children for a few hours. Give you time to handle all this.” She gestured at the crime scene, the deputies, the chaos.
“I’ve got hot cocoa ready at home. And cookies.
And that cartoon channel the kids like.”
Lydia wanted to say no. Wanted to keep Eli and Rosie close, where she could see them, where she could make sure they were safe. But they were standing there watching deputies photograph the barn, watching crime scene investigators collect evidence, watching the aftermath of their father’s violence.
They needed normalcy. Needed cartoons and cookies and a grandmother figure fussing over them. Needed to not be here anymore. And they needed to eat. It would help with the shock.
“Take them,” Ethan said quietly, appearing at her elbow so suddenly that Lydia jumped. She hadn’t heard him approach, hadn’t seen him leave the barn. But he was here now, solid and real and alive. “Mrs. Figgs will look after them. We need to deal with this.”
“I can’t keep asking her—” Lydia started, because that old fear was still there. Still whispering that she was imposing, that she was taking advantage, that she was a burden.
“Lydia.” Ethan caught her hand, his fingers warm and callused and steady. “It’s okay. Let someone help.”
The simple permission, the acknowledgment that accepting help didn’t make her weak or selfish or wrong, broke something open in Lydia’s chest. She nodded, blinking back more tears.
So she bundled the kids into Mrs. Figgs’s car. Buckled Rosie into the back. Kissed both their foreheads, promised to come get them soon, and told them to be good.
“We love you, Mom,” Eli said, his arms tight around her neck.
“I love you too, baby. Both of you. So much.”