Healed Heart, page 11
“Me too,” I say before ending the call.
I stare at the number written on the notepad. Another lead to follow, another name to chase. The path to the truth is paved with painful memories and grim discoveries, but I have to keep moving. I have to find out what really happened to Lindsay.
I dial Steve’s number with steel in my veins. The phone rings once, twice, three times, and then a rough voice answers.
“Hello?”
“Steve Chapman?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Uh…no. I’m not. Is Steve there? I got this number from an old classmate of his.”
“Your classmate doesn’t keep up to date.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is Steve’s brother Tom. Steve’s dead.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Angie
Visiting Ralph Normandy isn’t the way I wanted to spend my afternoon, but I have a strange feeling that I’m meant to be here. That it will affect Jason.
Yeah, Ralph’s a dick. He tried to blackmail me into sleeping with him, and he went whining to HR about Jason and me. Sure, he did it anonymously, but still.
Is there anything good in him to see?
I mean, he’s going to medical school, right? He wants to be a surgeon. A healer.
That’s worthy of respect, isn’t it?
Normally the answer would be a resounding yes, but this is Ralph.
Tabitha comes with me, but Eli chooses not to. He won’t cut class for Ralph, and I can’t blame him. I have enough guilt eating at me from doing that myself.
I’ve cut two classes in two days. My first semester, I didn’t cut any classes, even when I had that terrible cold. I dosed myself up with cold meds, wore a mask, and sat in class taking copious notes on my iPad.
“Here we are,” Tabitha says when we reach Ralph’s room.
I peek inside. Ralph is lying in bed while a nurse checks his vitals.
We wait outside the room until the nurse leaves.
“Come with me,” I say.
She cocks her head. “You sure? I’m not the one he wants to see.”
“You think I care?” I scoff. “Come with me. You’re here. Surely he’ll appreciate an extra visitor.”
I can’t forget that Tabitha kind of had a crush on Ralph for a while. She may still have one…
Nah. By now surely I’ve convinced her he’s a dick with ears.
God, I have no idea what that even means. It’s something Henry used to say when we were kids.
I grab Tabitha’s hand as I walk into the room to make sure she comes along.
I walk up to Ralph’s bedside, where he’s staring at me.
“Back so soon?” he says.
I roll my eyes. “I heard you summoned me.”
“And you came just like that?” He chuckles and then winces. “Fuck. It hurts to laugh.”
“Good. There’s nothing funny about any of this from where I’m standing.”
He glances toward Tabitha. “She can go.”
I look at Tabitha. Her cheeks are turning pink.
“She stays,” I say.
“I don’t think you want her to hear what I have to say to you.”
I squeeze Tabitha’s hand. “Anything you have to say to me you can say in front of my bestie.”
Did I truly just say that? Tabitha squeezes my hand back.
“Sorry,” he says. “It’s nonnegotiable. I asked to see you.”
I laugh at that. “What makes you think you have all the power here?” I ask. “From where I’m standing, you’ve pretty much been beaten to a pulp. You probably can’t even get out of that bed. I don’t think you’re holding any cards here.”
Part of me can’t believe I’m saying these things. I’m Angie Simpson, the introvert. I was always the peacekeeper among the awesome foursome. I never started anything. Never escalated a situation, never made it worse.
But I like this new side of myself. This new side that my time with Jason has brought out.
“You’d be surprised,” Ralph says. “I still hold the winning hand here.”
What the hell is he even talking about?
“It’s okay,” Tabitha says. “I can wait outside, Angie.” She unlinks her hand from mine.
“No,” I say. “Why does he get to dictate the rules?” I turn to Ralph, glare at him. “You want to talk to me? Then talk to me. Show me your fucking cards. That royal flush you think you’re holding. Because I think you’re bluffing.”
“Really, it’s okay.” Tabitha walks swiftly out of the room.
Crap.
I can’t say I blame her. He was making her feel about as welcome as a case of herpes.
I heave out a sigh. “You got your way. What the hell do you want?”
He smirks. “I filed a police report. Your boyfriend is going to be arrested for assault and battery.”
I glare at him. “Jason didn’t do this to you.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “And you know that?”
“Yes. I’m sure of it.”
“Oh? How are you so sure?”
I cross my arms. “Because he told me he didn’t, and I believe him.”
“You have no idea what you’re dealing with,” Ralph says. “The man’s no saint.”
“That man has seen more loss in his short lifetime than anyone deserves,” I say. “And now you want to make more trouble for him. What the hell do you have to gain by any of this?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” he says, closing his eyes.
“Yeah,” I say. “None of it makes any freaking sense. Why do you even care? Why do you care about me?”
“You’re a Steel,” he says.
I groan at that. “So, as I suspected. You’re after my money. You want me to pay you off not to file a report against Jason.”
“Oh, no.” He grins. “I already filed the report.”
“Did you?”
He lifts three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
I let out a scoff. “Scout’s honor? If you had any honor at all, you wouldn’t be doing any of this.”
“Yeah, I was never a Boy Scout anyway.” He drops his hand.
“Shocking,” I say, rolling my eyes.
He grins. Sort of. “But I did file a report.”
“You can also elect not to press charges,” I say.
“I could, but why would I do that?”
I grit my teeth. I’m so against paying anyone off. It’s never the answer. My family, with its wealth of resources, has been blackmailed many times, and our one rule is never to succumb, because it’s a never-ending cycle. Once you pay the person off, they can come at you again and again, demanding more money. Or they’ll tell their friends that you’re easy to get money out of, and soon you’re stuck in a cash-sucking spiral.
But I know Jason didn’t do this, and I won’t see him be arrested for something—God, go on trial for something—that he didn’t do.
So for now, I’ll at least make Ralph think I’m playing along.
“How much will it take?” I ask.
“You really think this is about money?”
I raise my hands in the air. “What the hell else is it about? I don’t have anything else you want.”
“But you do.” He narrows his eyes. “Didn’t I make that clear that night when I kissed you?”
My heart drops to my stomach.
“No way. I’m not going to bed with you. Hell, you probably can’t even get it up in this condition.”
But then my gaze is drawn to the tent underneath the sheet.
Fuck…
He nods toward his erection. “Most men are ready no matter what. It’s in our physiology.”
“Or maybe it’s just a symptom of some medication they have you on.”
“You think they’re giving me Viagra for my pain?”
“Viagra’s original use was as a vasodilator,” I say. “Maybe your blood pressure’s a little high.”
“Of course my blood pressure’s high. My body is stressed right now.”
“Which means it doesn’t need the extra stress of a sexual encounter.”
He laughs again, wincing. “Damn, that hurts, but it’s worth it. You really think sex is ever a stressor for men? Hell, it’s a stress reliever.”
I shake my head. “That’s not what I mean, and you fucking know it. You’re weak. Weak, Ralph. Your body’s been through trauma. So yeah, sex will be a stress.”
He shrugs. “Your call, Simpson. Climb on and take a ride, or Dr. Lansing goes to prison. And as pretty as he is, he won’t have much fun there.” He pauses a moment. “Unless he likes you taking the back door.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jason
I hold back a gasp. “What?”
“Yeah, I’ve got to go.”
“Wait!”
“What? I just lost my brother, man. I mean literally. Like an hour ago.”
An hour ago? My timing really sucks. “I’m so sorry. It’s just… Do you know a Ronny Burgundy?”
Breathing on the line.
At least he isn’t hanging up.
“Who is this?” he finally asks.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have identified myself. My name is Jason Lansing. I was married to Lindsay Davis, who was a classmate of Steve’s and Ronny’s.”
Another pause. Then, “Why are you asking?”
“It’s important,” I say. “Please. Did Steve ever mention him?”
Yet another pause, longer this time. “Yeah, he mentioned him a couple of times.”
“Do you remember anything he said about Ronny?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
“He didn’t talk about him much,” Tom says, his voice thick. “But I remember one time, he was drunk and started talking about how Ronny had disappeared off the face of the earth. Said it creeped him out how Ronny just vanished after high school.”
A chill rips through me at Tom’s words. “Did he ever mention where Ronny might have gone?”
“No. Then he couldn’t.”
“He couldn’t. Why?”
“Not after his accident.”
Accident? “What accident?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.
“Steve was in a car crash about five years ago,” Tom says. “It left him with some significant brain injuries, affected his memory. He could tell you every play he made in high school football but couldn’t remember what he had for breakfast.”
I silently curse under my breath. This is another dead end, and I’m running out of leads.
“Do you know anyone else who might have kept in touch with Ronny?” I ask, hoping for a lifeline.
“I was still in middle school when Steve graduated from high school,” Tom says. “Back then, I was the annoying little brother. He didn’t talk to me, and his friends totally ignored me. And of course, for the last five years…”
I’m feeling like shit for making this guy dredge up old memories when his brother literally just died. “I get it,” I say. “I appreciate this, and I’m really sorry about your loss.”
“Well…he really hasn’t been the brother I knew for five years. We all knew this was coming. I guess that’s why I’m okay talking to you.”
“Is there anything I can do? I mean, my wife went to school with your brother.”
“Wait… You said Lindsay Davis, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I remember her,” Tom says. “She was one of the few people who was kind to me when I was hanging around Steve.”
“She was like that.” My throat tightens at his mention of Lindsay’s kindness. It was one of the reasons I fell in love with her.
“Yeah, she was a sweetheart,” Tom agrees. “Wait a minute, there’s something you should know.”
“What?” I ask, my heart beating faster.
“Steve wrote things down sometimes, after his accident. Said it helped him remember. Maybe he wrote something about Ronny.”
“Do you think you could look?” I ask, hope surging in me.
“Yeah, I can look,” Tom says. “He kept a bunch of notebooks. If I find anything, where should I send it?”
I give him my email address. “Thanks, man. And again, I’m sorry.” I end the call.
Probably a dead end, but what the hell?
I feel bad for the guy. His brother just died, and some stranger calls to interrogate him about his brother’s high school friend.
If they were even friends.
Lindsay never talked much about Ronny. Just said he was a psycho and it didn’t end well.
Fuck.
This could all be for nothing. So some guy comments on Lindsay’s memorial a year ago. It was two years too late. Probably doesn’t mean a thing.
We learn in medical school to look at the obvious. When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.
Am I chasing a zebra?
Maybe it’s nothing.
Except it’s not nothing.
I know in the very marrow of my bones that my wife did not write that note.
She could have asked someone to write it for her, but…
No.
Anyone she asked would have come straight to me to warn me.
And she was perfectly capable of writing it herself. Even in the throes of the deepest mother’s grief, she still was able to function. She wasn’t going to work, but she was getting out of bed, making coffee, doing basic household tasks.
So it wasn’t her. But who, then? Who would have the audacity to sit at my wife’s bedside, take her hand, and help her pen a suicide note that wasn’t hers?
The buzz of my phone interrupts my thoughts. An email. I pick it up and see it’s from Tom. Attached is a scanned page from one of Steve’s notebooks. My heart pounds as I open the attachment and look at the handwritten lines.
Random musings about old football games, thoughts on the news, memories of work-related stuff. And then something that makes me freeze.
Ronny Burgundy keeps coming into my thoughts lately. Don’t know why. Haven’t seen or heard from him since high school. After graduation, he just vanished.
Nice that Tom got right on this, seeing that his brother just passed, but how is this supposed to help me? I already know Ronny disappeared after high school. Ralph Parker told me that.
Then another email pops up.
A note from Tom.
Found this with Steve’s notebooks. Looks like it’s from Ronny himself.
I begin reading the note from the jpeg he sent.
Dear Steve,
* * *
I don’t even know how to start this. I guess by saying that I’m sorry. Sorry for all the shit I caused back in high school, sorry for disappearing on all of you without a word, and sorry for reaching out now after all these years.
* * *
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. Reflection, I guess you’d call it. And it brought me back to you. To us. To what we shared and what we lost. I realized that if there was one person who might understand, it might be you.
* * *
I’m not in the best shape these days, Steve-o. I made choices that led me down some dark paths—paths that felt endless and suffocating. I ran, thinking I could outrun my mistakes, my guilt. But you can’t outrun yourself, can you?
* * *
I’ve ended up in a place where the past and the present collide, where I’m haunted by the ghosts of decisions made in haste and in ignorance. There are secrets, Steve, secrets that eat away at me, secrets that are buried deep, but not deep enough.
* * *
But I’m ready to take care of everything.
* * *
The time has come.
* * *
Thanks for being my friend back then, buddy. I’ll never forget it.
* * *
Ronny
There’s no date on the note, but because it’s with Steve’s notebooks, I assume he received it sometime during the five years since his accident. Maybe there’s an envelope somewhere. I can’t bother Tom again today, but I’ll ask later.
But something nags at me.
Something familiar about it.
And then I see it.
I fucking see it.
The handwriting. The distinctive slant to the right.
It’s damned similar to the handwriting on Lindsay’s note.
A chill settles over me, more unsettling than any cold winter night could ever be. My heart pounds so loudly, I think it might burst out of my chest. My hands tremble as I compare the two letters side by side on my desk.
Lindsay’s suicide note was written by Ronny.
My mind is racing now, thoughts spiraling out of control. Why would Ronny comment on Lindsay’s memorial page if he was somehow involved in her death?
Unless…
Unless it was all part of his plan.
A sense of dread washes over me as I consider this new possibility, followed by a wave of bitterness that lingers on my tongue like bile. If Ronny hurt Lindsay…
He will fucking pay.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Angie
He’s kidding, right?
Ralph seriously thinks I’m going to fuck him in his hospital room? With Tabitha right outside? Hell, with a whole staff of nurses and orderlies outside?
It’s not as if we can lock the door.
Though that’s the last reason why I’m not going to fuck Ralph.
“You’re delusional if you think that’s happening,” I reply, crossing my arms. “I’m not whoring myself to save anyone. Certainly not to someone like you.”
Ralph grins, a sick pleasure in his eyes at my obvious disgust. “Then I guess Dr. Lansing had better start preparing for prison. You might want to get him a butt plug—a big one—unless you’re already working his back door, like I said.”
