The Ones We Trust (18 page)

“It should have been me,” Nick says between sobs. “Why wasn’t it me?”

Gabe tackles his brother in a desperate embrace, and they tumble to the floor, and I can’t tell who’s crying harder, them or me. And then Nick throws his head back and howls, and it’s Nick, by a million trillion miles. I don’t mean to watch. I don’t even want to. But there are some things you just can’t look away from, and this is one of them.

After forever, I haul myself off the floor, trudge back down the hall to the tiny bed and—for the second time tonight—cry myself to sleep.

25

The next morning I awake, shivering and alone in the tiny room, the threadbare quilt tangled around my legs. My head pounds and my tongue is like sandpaper and I feel hungover, even though I didn’t have a drop of alcohol.

Fratricide. A brother shooting another brother. An awful, terrible, devastating accident, but still. How can such a thing be possible? How could that kind of tragedy happen? It’s as if the planet suddenly decided to grind to a halt on its axis and reverse directions. Summer turns into winter, bypassing fall. The sun sets in the east. The world feels the complete opposite of how it’s supposed to be.

I press two fingers to my temples and rub, but it only makes my headache worse.

In the light of day, Nick’s artwork assaults me from the walls and furniture, deathly shapes resembling bodies and mangled tanks and explosions of color, as do the memories of last night. The painted walls sway and darken in my vision as I think of what almost happened. What I almost
watched
happen. Thank God Gabe had been able to stop Nick from harming himself, but what about next time? When Gabe and I pack up and leave, who will stop Nick then?

I crawl to the tiny window at the end of the bed, blinking into the bright morning sunshine. The cabin, I now see, is at the edge of a large lake, a dark, shining pool surrounded by thick forest. If there are any other homes dotting its shores, they are well hidden behind the trees. As far as I can tell, Nick is completely alone in his refuge here.

As am I.

Gabe never came.

The sharp smell of bacon and eggs awakens my empty stomach, and I sit up straighter in bed, listening. Gabe’s voice says something I can’t decipher through the pine door, but from far enough away that I think he can’t be addressing me. I thrust my feet into my shoes, press my ear to the door and listen for more. Pans clank, and a man’s footsteps rattle the floorboards, but no one speaks. When the sounds fade away into silence, I sneak down the hallway to the bathroom and slip inside.

The first thing I notice is the lack of a mirror—which kind of explains Nick’s hair, if you ask me—and I don’t know whether to be sorry or grateful. After all the tears I shed last night, I’m not certain I would want to catch even a passing glimpse of myself.

But there is, hallelujah and praise Jesus, toothpaste, and I swipe a good squirt of it across my teeth and tongue with a finger. I squat above the filthy toilet, wash my hands and splash my face, and then I make my way into the cabin.

Gabe is at the stove, staring into the bubbling, popping frying pans and looking even worse than last night, if that’s possible. His face is pinched and wan, marked with worry lines I haven’t noticed before, darkened by new shadows below his eyes and his cheekbones, dipping into his beard. The table behind him is set for three, and my bag has been transported to a spot on the floor by an ancient couch. I glance around the room for Nick but find no sign of him.

“Did you get any sleep?”

At the sound of my voice, Gabe glances over his shoulder, noticing me for the first time. “No.”

“How’s Nick?”

He pokes at something in one of the pans with a wooden spoon. “He didn’t sleep, either.”

God.
Given what Nick holding that gun to his chin did to my heart, I can only imagine what it must have done to Gabe’s. A desire to touch him centers right in the middle of my chest, an ache that is so much more than physical. I go to him, threading an arm under his, the one with Zach’s name on it, and press my palm against his chest until I feel his heartbeat, steady and true, beating against it. He stills at my touch, but he doesn’t turn around.

Nick walks in then, carrying an armful of firewood, and I unwind myself from Gabe.

“Can I do anything to help?” I ask, and Gabe points me to the fridge, to the orange juice and milk and whatever else we’ll need for our breakfast.

Nick ignores both of us as he dumps his armload into a basket and sets about making a fire in the wood-burning stove. As far as I can tell, that rickety hunk of metal is the only source of heat in the cabin, and I hope for Nick’s sake it can produce plenty of it, and quickly. It’s barely the beginning of November, but just as frigid inside the cabin as out. I don’t know how he can stand living here once winter really hits.

Gabe distributes our breakfast over the plates, and we settle in at the table, Nick and I at Gabe’s elbows. I’m ravenous and desperately thirsty, and I chug the glass of orange juice Gabe pours me in four seconds flat. And then we eat, mostly in silence.

After breakfast, Nick slips outside to God-knows-where, and Gabe and I clean the remains of the meal in silence. Gabe is meticulous in his work. Long after I’m done he’s still scraping the pans, scrubbing the sink, hunching over the countertop, scratching at the dried smears of paint with his thumbnail until every last one of them pulls loose.

“Gabe.” I drape a palm over his hand, and now, finally, he stops. “What now?”

He straightens, and that’s when I see it. Pure, primal terror. His eyes are wide and bloodshot, rolling around like a terrified horse, and I feel a pang of sympathy angst, like a fist closing around my heart. After what almost happened last night, Gabe has so much to be afraid of. It’s only a matter of time before Nick has another flashback or, God forbid, holds a gun to his own head again.

“Did you clear the house of weapons?”

“Yeah, but what’s to stop him from going up the street and getting another one? This is hunting territory. There’s a goddamn gun shop on every corner.” He tosses his sponge back into the sink and dries his hands on his jeans.

“Nick should be in a hospital. You know that, right?”

“He’ll never agree to it.”

I say it as gently as I know how: “I don’t think at this point the decision should be up to him.”

Gabe doesn’t nod, but he doesn’t shake his head, either. He just stares at the floor for a long moment, looking so bereaved, so wilted and lost. And then he pushes off the counter and crosses the room to the window, searching, I assume, for Nick. Nick didn’t say where he was going when he walked out the door, and I could tell it was killing Gabe not to ask, the same way it’s killing me now to watch Gabe’s obvious struggle.

“Why don’t I call my father, get him to pull some strings? He’ll know which institution is best for these types of situations, who to strong-arm to find Nick a...” Gabe turns, and my words trail off at the look on his face, the way it clamps down and closes off. “What?”

“You can’t talk to your father about Nick, Abigail.” His voice is low and lethal, and there’s something about the way he’s looking at me. “You can’t talk to
anyone
about Nick. If you do, if this story gets out...”

He doesn’t finish, but he also doesn’t have to. Talk about words being deadly. If the truth about Zach and Nick ever broke, I don’t know how any of the remaining Armstrongs would survive.

“My father is not just anyone, Gabe. He probably already knows, and he can help, at the very least by finding the right spot for Nick.”

Gabe folds his arms across his chest. “What if your father was the one who gave you the transcript? Have you considered that possibility?”

“No, because that’s...that’s ridiculous. Dad was the one warning me away from you and your mom, remember? He was the one telling me not to open Pandora’s box.”

“Because he was the top of the chain of command. Maybe he’s ultimately responsible for splitting up the platoon, putting two brothers in a position to fire on one another. Maybe
that’s
the truth he didn’t want released into the world. That this whole disaster is all his fault.”

“Now you’re just grasping at straws. If any of that was true, if Dad wanted to cover up his part in any of this, then why would he have given me the transcript? Your theory doesn’t make any sense.”

“You sure about that? Your father wrote that memo, and he retired awfully suddenly. Why do you think that is?”

I hesitate, hardly a pause at all, but Gabe notices, and he knows he’s hit a sore spot. Dad’s retirement
was
sudden, and it never made any sense to me. He lived and breathed US Army, and even though he’s kept himself busy since retiring, he’s seemed a little aimless without it.

“Positive,” I say, and my voice tilts. It’s more than just Gabe’s obvious suspicion toward my father, and my defense of him. It’s that this conversation suddenly feels like a runaway train headed for a sharp curve. I’m watching it fly down the tracks, barreling toward doom and danger, and I have no idea how to stop it. “My father did not give me that transcript.”

“A couple of days ago, you weren’t so sure. In fact, you were so positive he was guilty, you sent the memo to your former boss. You said he was one of the bad guys, remember?”

His words slice into me with a knife’s edge. I don’t need this little reminder of the enormity of my transgression where my father is concerned. I have more guilt than I can stomach already. But it’s the way that Gabe says it, with unconcealed accusation in his tone, that gives the blade that last little twist.

“Because that story was going to break with or without me. Because I knew Victoria would be fair and impartial. That’s why I sent it to her.”

“There’s no fair and impartial with this story. This story has got to die.”

The train picks up speed, its wheels and joints groaning, the squeal of metal against metal. The curve looms in the not-so-far distance.

“What story?” I tilt my head, narrow my eyes and fold my arms over my chest, everything about the gesture a dare he make his accusation out loud.

“Words are as deadly as warfare, you said so yourself. These are words that will kill my mother. This story will destroy what’s left of my family.”

“What story, Gabe?” I lean forward as I say it, my last attempt at leaning on the brakes.

For the longest time, Gabe just stands there, his big chest puffing. Not all that long ago, I told him what happened with his brother gave his behavior a free pass, but he just nudged up awfully close to my boundary lines. What he says next will either turn this thing around or shoot us off the rails.

“I’ll call Mom,” he says finally. “I’ll tell her you’ve changed your mind. I’ll make up some excuse.”

“Fine.”

“She’s going to try to talk you out of it. She’s going to be relentless. When she calls, just don’t pick up.”

“Tell me what you want me to say, and I’ll say it.”

“I don’t want you to say anything. I want you to let me handle it.”

I hear his words, understand the weight of them, read between the letters for the real intent: Gabe doesn’t want me speaking to his mother, at all, ever again, because he’s afraid of what I’ll say.

“I see,” I say, and I do. I see the train skipping the tracks, shooting over the edge, bursting into flames on the rocky canyon floor. “You think I’m going to tell her about Nick. You think I’m going to write the story. You don’t trust me to keep Nick’s secret.”

His eyes search the floor, and I realize
this
is what it is really about. What it’s been about since that rainy evening he spent on my couch, when he came to apologize and request a fresh start. Gabe doesn’t trust me. He may have needed my help to find Ricky, he may have even grown to like me along the way, but deep down, he didn’t trust me. The pain of it steals my breath. After everything that’s happened between us, after his couch and my bed and Portsmouth, it guts me all the way through.

“You used me, Gabe. You
used
me in order to get to Ricky. You knew I liked you and—” I try to finish my sentence, but the words die in my throat as suddenly the horrifying extent to which he used me crystalizes in my mind, as clear and sure as the barbaric paintings covering the walls. I take two steps back until I’m pressed against a rickety table by the wall. “Oh, my God. You even
fucked
me to get to Ricky.”

He shakes his head in surprise, and his brows slam together. “Is that what you think?”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re wrong,” he says immediately, and then...nothing more.

“Okay, then. Tell me this. Why don’t you want me talking to your mother?”

Gabe hauls a breath to speak, then doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything at all. He doesn’t have to. His silence says more than words ever could.

My father always said every good warrior knows when it’s time to retreat. Now is the time.

I push past him, head for the door.

“Abigail, wait.” Gabe takes off behind me, his boots echoing off the scarred pine floor. “Where are you going? We can’t leave Nick.”

“
You
can’t leave Nick.” By now I’m out the door and rushing down the rickety steps. Patchy late-morning sunshine filters down through the heavy forest overhead, lighting up the still mountain air with golden sparkles. “But I can, and I am.”

“Abigail, are you—”

I whirl around so fast, my shoes send up a spray of dirt and gravel. “Am I what? Planning to write a story? Running home to tell your mom? Or do you have another accusation you’d like to throw in the mix?”

“I’m just trying to manage the crisis, to prevent the bad from getting worse. I’m just trying to get the train back on the tracks.”

If Gabe’s analogy wasn’t so goddamn heartbreaking, it might actually be funny. “So am I. Which is why I’m going to see my father.”

“You’re not... You’re not going to like this question, but I have to ask it anyway.” He takes a cautious step toward me. “What are you going to tell him?”

“First, I’m going to beg his forgiveness. After that—” I lift my entire upper body in a shrug “—you’re just going to have to trust me.”