Page 38 of Gone Tonight
The next afternoon, Coach died from his injuries. The papers reported that he’d been hit more than two dozen times with a baseball bat that was found at the scene.
By the time Coach was being removed from machines that had worked to keep his body alive, I was stepping off a bus, arriving in a city a hundred miles away from my hometown. The girl I was before—Ava Morales—was gone.
I had the gold watch James took off Coach’s wrist, a little cash, and a duffle bag with a few of my belongings.
James became the lead suspect quickly and I was a suspect, too. They called us the “Oak Hill High teen killers,” and a tabloid ran photos of the two of us side by side on the front page.
I knew no one would believe me if I told the truth and said James summoned Coach to the office and swung the bat before I even knew what was happening.
Of all the images of the night of the attack that I keep replaying, there’s one I go back to the most: James setting the bat down on the floor, then looking at me as he grabbed Coach’s limp arms and dragged Coach deeper into his office, leaving a trail of smeared blood.
James’s eyes were as gentle and untroubled as if we’d just finished making love.
His eyes were the most terrifying thing I’d ever seen.
When I saw them, I began to tremble so hard my teeth chattered. I tried to pick up the phone on Coach’s desk to call an ambulance, but James pulled me away.
Never leave fingerprints, he told me as he wiped down the bat with his T-shirt. Then he gave me instructions: We’d go home and grab whatever valuables we could—the old lady he boarded with had a safe in her bedroom James wanted to break into—then we’d meet at Pizza Piazzo at midnight. We’d run to a place where no one could ever find us. We’d be gone tonight.
James paused in yanking the gold watch off Coach’s wrist and stared at me.
He asked if I was going to come with him.
When I didn’t answer immediately, James let Coach’s arm drop roughly to the floor and he moved closer to me. I glanced at the baseball bat, still within James’s reach.
If I thought I’d been terrified before, now I knew true fear.
I blurted that of course I’d meet him at the restaurant.
James held up the watch close to my face and pointed to the twelve at the top of the circle. I heard the faint sound that would grow to haunt me: tick-tock, tick-tock…
James slipped the watch onto my wrist and told me not to lose track of time. He said he’d see me at midnight.
But I ran alone.
You were already growing in my stomach by then, even though I didn’t know it yet. I’d probably gotten pregnant that very first time with James, under the stars.
You gave me a new purpose, one that burned through me and keptme going during all the hard, scary times ahead. I knew I had to hide for the rest of my life. It wasn’t merely self-preservation. My goal was to keep you safe, too, Catherine.
Everyone would know you were the daughter of the teen killers. You’d be a curiosity, and worse, a pariah. And when James and I were both sent to prison, as we surely would be, my mother and father would probably be given custody of you. For long hours every day, while my father was at work and Timmy at school, you’d be alone with my mother.
I needed to do whatever it took to break the pattern.
Even if it meant that in a way, I would die, too.
CHAPTER FIFTEENCATHERINE
Diagnosing Alzheimer’s is a slow, methodical process. Symptoms appear gradually. At first, they’re typically overlooked or minimized. When they reach the point of undeniability, other potential culprits—brain tumors, strokes, hydrocephalus—are ruled out. In a small number of cases, genetic tests provide certainty, and brain scans can help afford a level of surety. But usually it’s a jigsaw method; individual pieces are put together until the picture becomes clear.
I know the exact moment I began to fear my mother might have Alzheimer’s. It was three weeks ago, when I called her cell phone to find out why she wasn’t home from the drugstore yet. She’d gotten lost. She didn’t say so, not exactly, but it was obvious.
After that, I watched her closely. The signs piled up so quickly it seemed impossible I’d missed them before.
Still, I didn’t catastrophize. I knew simpler reasons were likely the source of her symptoms.
I insisted she make an appointment with her general practitioner. That was the protocol. When no obvious factor emerged to explain her brain fog, we proceeded to the next level and saw Dr. Chen.
That morning in his office was when the puzzle pieces clicked into place—seamlessly, ruthlessly. The picture was undeniable.
