Chapter 44
“Oh, that’s terrible,” says Emily. “He was in the river all that time?”
“Yeah,” says Braedon. “But it’s better that we know. It’s better we’re not guessing what happened to him.”
Braedon sits up in bed. He feels both sad and calm. Like a real person of the world. Not a kid growing into it.
Emily walks a beach in Scotland, the sun rising over the North Sea. “It’s a good thing that lady told the truth, otherwise you might never know how it happened.”
“Yeah,” says Braedon. “She’s not a real criminal. She just did one bad thing. Protecting her son.” Braedon hears the words come out of his mouth and feels a stab of pain for not having a mother like that. A protector. He swallows hard.
Emily shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I suppose anyone could do one bad thing.”
Braedon blinks the sting out of his eyes and says, “Yeah, that’s what Dad says.
He thinks all people got some good and bad in them so he doesn’t get real judgey when a normally good person does a bad thing.
He says it can happen to anyone. It even happened to me when I snuck out with Daniel when I slept over at his house.
That’s why I didn’t get in huge trouble.
I just have to paint the shed out back.”
“Maybe that’s what happened with your mum. She did one bad thing. Do you think you’ll send her a message?”
“Dunno,” says Braedon. “But I did write to her. I just haven’t sent it. And I might not. Mei said it helps just to write it.”
“Helps what?”
“Helps a person get their thoughts and feelings out.”
“Oh,” says Emily. “Like when people post stuff on social media so everyone can say hang in there and so sorry and stuff like that?”
“Yeah,” says Braedon. “I guess.”
“What did you say?”
“Do you want me to send it to you?”
“No, silly,” says Emily. “I want you to read it to me.”
“Oh,” says Braedon. “Okay. Hold on.” Braedon flips over to the document he wrote to his mother. “Can you still see and hear me?”
“Yeah,” he hears Emily say. “Looks the same.”
“Okay. All right.” He swallows.
“Dear Eve,
“My name is Braedon Hawkins. I am twelve years old. I live in the United States. And I am your son. I have a picture of you. My dad, Clay Hawkins, gave it to me when I was little. It was taken at the party where you met him. And then a little while ago, I had the idea to use it to search for you, and that’s how I found you.
“I don’t blame you for not raising me. Maybe you were going through a hard time or couldn’t for some other reason.
Dad is doing a good job. And I had a nanny who helped when he was away playing football.
A few months ago we moved to Minnesota and I have a grandpa and old friends of Dad’s who feel like family.
“You don’t have to write me back if you don’t want to. I don’t want to cause any problems in your life. But if you ever want to, I’ll put my email address and phone number and Snapchat and Insta at the bottom.
“I just want to say hi and say I hope you’re happy and living a good life. And maybe someday, if you want, we could write messages or talk or even meet in person. But only if you want. I promise I won’t bug you.
“Your son …
“Blah, blah, blah.” Braedon flips back to FaceTime and adds, “That’s it. That’s the whole thing.”
“It’s lovely, Braedon.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Yeah. It kind of made me cry a little. I hope you send it. You know, someday, when you’re ready.”
“You really think I should?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thanks,” says Braedon. “Thanks for saying that.”
“Not at all,” says Emily. “Who knows, maybe you and I will go to London one day to visit her.”
“Yeah,” says Braedon. “Maybe. And oh, hey. Whatever happened to your mum and da? After they were fighting? I’ve been so caught up in everything here I forgot to ask. Sorry.”
“Oh, that,” says Emily. “It all blew over the next day. We were in a shop and Ma saw this painting for sale and fell in love with it. But it cost three thousand euros. She didn’t even dream of buying it.
Then later before dinner, Da said he was going out for a pint and came back with the painting all wrapped up like it was Christmas.
Now they’re carrying on like they just fell in love or something. It’s disgusting.”
“Your parents?”
“Yeah.”
“Kind of embarrassing,” says Braedon.
“I want to die.”
The day after Teddy’s funeral, Judd and Braedon head north to a fish camp on Lake of the Woods.
It’s a seven-hour drive from southeast Minnesota to the top of the state.
They will be gone for six days. The trip coincides with Deb leaving town to visit her sister in Seattle, and Mei’s week of continuing education where she’ll learn how to work with a robot during valve-replacement surgery.
Clay had planned on spending this week at home fishing the Root River and its tributaries. But he changed his plan after Teddy’s body surfaced in that river. Clay needs some time before wading its current again—it’s too easy to imagine Teddy’s body moving downstream. Too easy and too haunting.
Instead of staying put, Clay heads out for a week of fly-fishing in Wisconsin’s driftless area in and around the town of Viroqua. He stays at the Hotel Fortney, an obnoxiously romantic place on a quaint-as-hell Main Street.
Zoey tells Kimmich, Wahlquist, and the rest of the department that she’s vacationing up north to visit family. Only Sue suspects otherwise. But she keeps her suspicions to herself. She’s on Zoey and Clay’s side. It’s a match she’s hoped for since Clay moved back to Riverwood.
“It was too your idea I come along,” says Zoey.
“I remember you inviting yourself,” says Clay.
They sit up in bed drinking white Russians made with full-fat oat milk—Zoey is lactose intolerant—after spending the entire day on the river. They showered and dressed for dinner and decided they looked too good to go out. They ordered room service instead.
“No,” says Zoey. “I said I’d like to learn how to fly-fish. And you said you would teach me and you were going to Viroqua for the week. And I said sounds like a plan.”
“The way I remember it,” says Clay, “is I said I would teach you but I was going to Viroqua for a week. Implying that I would teach you when I returned. And you said sounds like a plan. Then you showed up at my place with your stuff, and here we are.”
Zoey laughs into her drink. “And then I said let’s just hang out for a week in a romantic hotel in a cute town and see what happens.”
“And I said”—Clay’s smiling so hard it hurts—“okay, but we’re getting separate rooms.”
“No you didn’t. You said separate beds. And then I said fine. I don’t want to get kicked in the middle of the night by a professional soccer player.”
“This is our third night,” says Clay. “I haven’t kicked you once.”
“That’s why I haven’t slept in the other bed,” says Zoey.
“And that’s what led to the sex,” says Clay.
“Is that what we did, have sex?”
Clay laughs hard. “I don’t know. It was hard to tell. You wouldn’t stop talking the entire time.”
“Well, someone has to teach you what to do.”
They laugh themselves into silence. A long, comfortable, sad silence.
Clay feels guilty for how much he’s enjoying this trip.
Zoey understands. She waits patiently for Clay to get through the moment.
The regret. The sadness. His missing Teddy.
A minute later, he lets it go with a sigh and reaches for Zoey’s hand.