Never Come Back

Chapter Twenty-eight

The phone woke me the next morning. It was Saturday, and normally I slept with the phone off on weekends. But I was still waiting for Paul to call me back, so I’d left it on. Maybe, I figured, if he called while I was half asleep it would be easier to talk to him, to get past the awkwardness of our fight and move on. And the sooner we moved on, the sooner he might be able to answer the questions raised at the lawyer’s office.

But the phone call that woke me wasn’t from Paul. I reached for the phone and looked at the display screen. I saw a local number, one I didn’t recognize. I wondered if maybe it was the hospital, but I didn’t answer. My mind was too foggy, my brain and body too tired from the week. If it’s important, I thought, they’ll leave a message or call back.

A few moments later the phone chimed, letting me know I did have a message. But I rolled over and closed my eyes. I kept them shut, trying to drift back to sleep. I had slept surprisingly well, considering that it was my first night alone since the break-in, and my body and mind wanted more. Only, when I closed my eyes, everything from the day before tumbled through my mind. Elizabeth Yarbrough. Ronnie wanting to leave the hospital. The bank statement, the picture, the “cousins”—

The phone rang again.

“Okay,” I said.

Maybe it was important. A message and a call back.

I rolled over and picked up the phone. The identity of the caller made my heart jump.

It was Paul. I held the phone in front of me, staring at the screen. My strategy hadn’t worked—I was plenty awake. And nervous to talk to him. For a split second, I thought about ignoring it, but I knew I couldn’t. He had reached out. And with everything going on, I couldn’t make it the way I always made it. I couldn’t do it all alone.

I needed help.

“Hello?” I said.

“Elizabeth…”

He sounded tired, almost as if he too were still half asleep.

“Paul? Are you okay?”

“I’m here,” he said.

“Where?”

“I’m here. On the phone.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Did the police call you?” he asked.

I knew—the message I hadn’t listened to. The call I hadn’t taken.

“Someone just called. But the police? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“No,” he said. “It’s Ronnie.”

“Oh, God.”

A burning pain crossed my midsection. It felt as if someone had placed a hot poker there, just rested it against my flesh and didn’t move.

Ronnie. What happened to Ronnie?

“Is he dead?” I asked.

A long pause. I heard Paul breathing.

“Paul?”

“He’s not dead,” Paul said. “It’s worse. He confessed, Elizabeth. This morning he told the police he killed your mom.”