Chapter 18 #2
I decided to make Sam’s Diner my headquarters for the day.
While I was actively avoiding Colin, I was also craving pancakes—three fluffy discs stacked high, generously smeared with butter and drenched in maple syrup, the only proper way to eat them.
As I settled into my booth, laptop open, I typed “B.W. Paisley” into the search bar, and a whole world unfolded before me.
Articles, interviews, a dormant website, long-inactive social media accounts, all of it showcasing a life far removed from the unassuming woman renovating an old house in Everston.
There were countless reviews of her literary works, each one heaping praise on her novels, poetry collections, and essays.
And then there was the plethora of photos, image after image that stopped me cold.
I must have stared at them for so long that tiny specks of light began to dance in my vision by the time my pancakes arrived.
It was Wren, but at the same time, it wasn’t.
The Brooklyn Paisley in the photos was striking, almost luminous.
Her dark hair was glossy, styled in loose waves that framed her face perfectly.
Her makeup was polished, her features enhanced just enough to seem effortlessly elegant.
She wore tailored outfits—sleek dresses, sharp blazers, pantsuits—that gave her an air of sophistication befitting an author who regularly graced bestseller lists and literary events.
She looked like someone who belonged in New York, walking into a gala or onto a stage.
She also, in many images, wore brown-rimmed glasses.
And then there was Wren—lovely, beautiful Wren. The woman I knew.
Wren’s hair was shorter, unevenly cut, as though she had done it herself.
The glossy waves were gone; sometimes there were flecks of paint in her strands.
She rarely wore makeup, and when she did, it was minimal, just enough to hint at some effort.
Her wardrobe was simple: usually jeans, flannels, and well-worn boots, better suited for hauling paint cans or repairing broken railings.
She wasn’t polished or glamorous; she was raw, grounded, and real.
It was like she’d peeled away every layer of her former self, trading Brooklyn Paisley’s poised confidence for Wren’s quiet anonymity.
She’d become someone who could fade into the background of a small town, someone completely unrecognizable from the woman the press had relentlessly photographed and dissected.
But even so, it was her. The eyes were the same—intelligent, soft, carrying depth.
I stabbed a fork into one of my pancakes, the sweetness of syrup barely registering as I chewed.
Determination burned in my chest as I scrolled through the sea of online content, hunting for anything that might untangle the truth of Wren’s story.
Among the flood of headlines, one jumped out: “Tragic Car Accident Claims Life of Author’s Fiancée, Involving Multiple Victims and Young Pedestrian.
” The article was by Lachlan Davis of the New York Times.
I remembered meeting Lachlan when I was covering Hurricane Sandy.
I spent weeks in New York reporting on the impact of the storm and subsequent recovery efforts.
We’d shared tips and coffee in the chaos of post-storm coverage.
Figuring it was worth a shot to ask about Wren’s accident, I emailed him.
To my surprise, his reply landed in my inbox within minutes.
Hi Olivia,
Nice to hear from you! Yes, I covered that story.
It seemed like an open-and-shut case, according to the police.
Here’s what I gathered: Lucy Halloran was reportedly driving a green Jeep while intoxicated.
She collided with the vehicle of John Doe and then veered onto the curb, striking a five-year-old boy.
The boy, Alec Lewis, was left paralyzed, while John Doe sustained minor injuries.
Halloran was pronounced dead on arrival, and Brooklyn Paisley was rushed to Mount Sinai for intensive care.
The family of the boy seemed at odds with the official version of events, though nothing ever came of it.
The mother, Kirby Lewis, owns an art gallery on Fifth Avenue and still resides on the Upper East Side.
It was a horrific crash, that’s for certain.
On a lighter note, I have to say, the “crap-flinging incident” of yours was legendary. We couldn’t stop watching the video up here. Absolutely hilarious!
Let me know if you’re ever back in New York—we should catch up.
Lachlan
I groaned at the mention of that incident, sinking lower into the booth. Lachlan had included a phone number for Mrs. Lewis at the bottom of his email.
“Another coffee, honey?”
I looked up to see Mrs. Wilks standing over me, coffee pot in hand.
“Please,” I replied, sliding my mug toward her.
“Anything else to eat?” she asked with a knowing smile.
I stared at my empty plate. “I don’t suppose I could order more pancakes?”
She laughed. “You can order whatever you like, Liv. I’ll have some more out soon.”
As she walked away, I tapped the number into my phone. After a few rings, a crisp, polite voice answered.
“Mrs. Lewis?”
“Yes, speaking?”
“Hi, Mrs. Lewis. My name is Olivia Piroso. I’m a reporter with High Country Broadcasting in Colorado. I’m calling about your son Alec and the accident he was involved in.”
There was a pause, her tone cooling. “What about it?”
“I’ve been investigating the accident and just had a couple of questions, if you have the time?”
“We’ve spoken to plenty of reporters,” she said curtly. “It didn’t change anything.”
I took a breath. “Did any of those reporters know B.W. Paisley personally?”
She hesitated. “No, they didn’t.”
“Well, if it means anything, Mrs. Lewis, her favorite color is yellow,” I said softly.
“She loves rainstorms, old books, and coffee cups that fit perfectly in her hands. She hasn’t been able to write the same way since the accident.
She remembers it differently too. I’m trying to find the truth—not just for her, but for Alec as well. ”
And Lucy, I thought.
“I knew her fiancée, Lucy Halloran,” Mrs. Lewis said.
“Professionally, that is. She was a well-known art dealer in the state. I own an art gallery and I often bought pieces from her. She was always professional, but she was also sweet. Obviously, I knew of B.W. Paisley. I have several of her books. I never met her, though. But Lucy would often talk of her in our interactions. They were planning a wedding, for crying out loud. And then this happened. It’s been a nightmare—the police report insisting Lucy was at fault, that she’s the reason Alec will never walk again.
No amount of so-called ‘investigative journalism,’ ” she added, her tone sharp, the air quotes practically audible, “will change that.”
“I can’t imagine it,” I said. “The difficulty in having to relive this, but I am just trying to understand what happened.”
There was a long silence. When she spoke again, her voice was laced with emotion.
“Alec doesn’t remember much about the accident.
He was running ahead of us, along the sidewalk.
We’d just bought him a new bike. My husband and I were just a few steps behind, but we were arguing over the fact that the chain had already broken.
We didn’t see it until we heard it. This explosion.
Screams. The police said Lucy was drunk and caused the crash, but Alec keeps saying it wasn’t her fault.
” Her voice wavered. “He still has nightmares. Sometimes they’re so bad, I can’t calm him down for hours. ”
“I’m so sorry,” I replied. “I can’t imagine what he’s been through, what you’ve all been through.”
“His nightmares are always about the car,” she continued. “He calls it a monster. A big silver monster. Which is just the thing—Lucy’s car wasn’t silver, it was green. It doesn’t add up to us.”
“Has anyone ever looked into this further?” I asked, leaning forward.
“The police told us not to talk to the press,” she replied. “They were very forthright about it. Said that it would only do more harm to Alec than good. I got scared. We wanted to focus on Alec’s immediate recovery.”
“I see.”
“That, and I didn’t think anyone would believe us,” she admitted. “But there was an EMT, he was on the scene. He was kind and he believed Alec. He might remember something.”
“Do you have his contact information?”
“Yes,” she said, “but we haven’t spoken to him in over a year.”
She gave me the number, and I quickly jotted it down.
“Thank you, Mrs. Lewis. I’m sorry again for everything your family has gone through.”
“We’re lucky we still have Alec,” she said, her voice softening. “I can’t imagine what Ms. Paisley went through. Losing your fiancée like that, and then having her memory slandered in the media. That kind of grief is unimaginable.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. It’s earth-shattering grief, I thought, the kind that brings you halfway across the country, running from it.
“Thank you for your time,” I said, and I ended the phone call.
Immediately, I dialed the EMT’s number. It rang several times before going to voicemail. I left a message, my voice steady despite feeling queasy.