Page 72 of Holding On

Between the alarm of her missing, the hospital, the doctors, my family, and the kindest nurse ever, I have over fifty-two texts. I just keep scrolling back.

And then I find one from her: 4:07 pm. Monday.

I open it up.

At first, I can’t tell what I’m reading. It’s a picture of some kind of legal paperwork. I start to hand it to Claire, who reaches for the phone, but what I’m seeing on the screen is so small that I have to reverse pinch it into view. Claire and Devon and Laurel scrunch in on my right, and Chloe puts her head over my right shoulder so we are looking at the same tiny screen.

It’s a blood alcohol report for Oliver Raymond Barr.

I stare at Maya. “Does Carlson have this too?” I couldn’t believe that fucker wouldn’t say anything about this—about our parents.

“No,” says Claire, “he doesn’t know. She wanted us to see this first.”

Maya closes her eyes and rubs her temples. She must have a wicked headache.

I take a breath, and for the first time that I can remember since that terrible day driving in a sleet storm, all of us Russos talk about the thing that has impacted us the most.

“This proves he was drunk,” I say. “Who’s the officer?” I reverse pinch again. A name—R. Bloom—sits on top of the line where the officer had to fill in his name.

“Mean anything to you?” I ask my sisters. I swing around to Jackson. “Anything?” Whoever this officer was, he told George the blood alcohol level over the phone, but in court, he claimed he never gave the test. At best, the results were recorded in as “missing.”

Jackson shakes his head at all of us, but he directs his next question to me. “Is this Barr guy from around here? Is he a local boy?”

“Yeah,” says Claire. “His son, Kevin, is in prison on arson and murder charges. Luke and Devon almost lost their lives to him.”

Jackson shakes his head. “No, I mean did Barr. Did Barr grow up here too?”

“He did.” Chloe wipes her eyes with both hands, sighs, and leans back into the cushions. “Dad used to say something about when they were all in high school together. Remember Claire? He said that Judge Barr used to be called Tank.”

“He played football?” Jackson is still standing near the table, though the beers are now sitting on the wooden surface, sweating. “Let me see that tox report.” I hand over my phone.

“First, you gotta send this to Finn and Nic. And Carlson.” He tacks on the last name as if just remembering.

“Not yet,” says Maya, speaking for the first time since her eyes closed. She opens them and they’re bloodshot. Her head must be exploding. Her gaze is fragile, but it lands on Claire. “Travis said you found something after the accident. Do you still have it?”

Claire pauses for a moment and looks at Devon. Then she rises from the other end of the sofa and disappears down the hall.

I explain to Jackson. “Laurel and I stayed home, but they took their bikes and went down the road to the crash site.”

Claire pads back down the hall holding a battered glossy white shoebox. She sets it on the coffee table and then stands back and lets Devon take over. First, Devon lifts the lid. Her hands are shaking. There’s something wrapped in a clear plastic bag.

The reveal is so anticlimatic that the only way I know I was holding my breath is by the searing pain when I release it.

It’s a brown beer bottle with Blue Turkey on the label.

“I know it’s his,” says Claire, “because Kevin Barr used to sneak them from his dad and bring them to school. Same brand.”

I can feel my heart sinking. Kevin Barr and half the school. It’s a Maine brand and cheap.

Something goes off in my brain, and I look at the tox report again. “One beer wouldn’t do that.”

“He’d been drinking somewhere else, then.”

“No,” says Claire, and she does her mom-wave as if trying to make the room quiet. “He testified. He testified that he was in Echo Bay to look at property, but the weather was bad and the guy never showed.” She sits back down and shakes her head. “But you know, it was so far out.”

I stare at her. “What do you mean?”

Devon glances at Claire and then me. “She means that bottle was nowhere near the accident site. We found it about fifty feet away.”

“Farther,” says Claire. “But it had to be his.”

I stare at the small brown bottle in the cardboard box. The label has faded, and the turkey feathers are barely visible now. Something trips in my brain. I know the answer to the next question Jackson asks.

“But you think he was a quarterback? So he could throw pretty far.”

I feel Jackson stand beside me, but he lets me speak first. “Claire, where’s your tape measure?”