Page 96 of Gone Tonight
James killed my mother’s high school Poms coach. He went to prison. My mother disappeared the night of the murder. Her real name is Ava Morales.
The revelations slam into me, one after the other, like a flurry of punches.
When I’m close to the end of the second story—the one that says James skipped out on parole and there’s a warrant for his arrest—a tap on the door startles me. “Catherine? Are you okay?”
No,I want to cry, but I say in a hushed voice, “I’ll be out in a minute.”
I slip my phone into my purse. There’s a lot more information out there, but I’ve learned the basics. That’s all I can handle for one night.
I sit motionless in the small, white-tiled bathroom. I have no idea how to feel, or what to do next.
I finally stand up and turn on the sink tap, letting cool, silvery water trickle into my cupped hands. I splash it onto my face and use the hand towel to dry my cheeks.
Then I open the door.
I can tell the moment my mother sees me that she knows I’ve discovered the truth.
She is sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap. The room is shadowy and the illusion we created together—that she is older and frail—seems real.
All the questions that have been bubbling inside me funnel into this one: “What happened the night you disappeared?”
My mother bows her head. “I didn’t know what James had planned. I swear, Catherine, I thought we were only going to trash the office. Coach deserved that. He wasn’t a good guy.…”
Her voice trails off, then she continues. “Afterward, when Coach was dying, I wanted to call 911, but James scared me so much.… One minute, he was this gentle, caring person and the next—he was completely different.”
I nod for her to continue.
“We both went home to grab some clothes and valuables. I was supposed to meet James at the pizza place, but I drove in the other direction.”
I can understand. If I saw James walking toward me, I’d turn and run as fast as I could, too.
“Did James ever hurt you?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Never. But I believe he killed his stepfather. And if I hadn’t pretended to agree to run away with him that night, I think he would have harmed me, too.”
I take a few steps closer to her as I break through another lie. “Your family didn’t disown you.”
My mother’s eyes are painful to behold. They’re like shattered glass.
“No, they didn’t. I sent my father a note a long time ago with no return address and a coded message to let him and my brother know I’m alive. I couldn’t bear to think of them worrying, but…” Her voice breaks. “They didn’t throw me out because I got pregnant.Ididn’t even know I was pregnant with you until after I started running.”
My mother has a brother, which means… “I have an uncle?”
“Timmy.” A tear rolls down her cheek, like it costs her everything to even say his name after so long.
“How old are you, really?” I ask.
“Forty-one.” She swallows. “I was sixteen when I got pregnant and left home. Seventeen when I had you.”
I try to picture my mother at sixteen, on her own, completely terrified. My heart begins to thaw, ever so slightly.
Then she says, “I stayed hidden for you. I researched what happens to children of killers. Do you know Ted Bundy has a daughter?People think she’s living under an assumed name in Europe. It was bad enough I had to be in hiding. I didn’t want that to be your life, too.”
Something in her words snags on me. My mother is a victim, yes, but it isn’t that simple.
“You didn’t stay hidden just for me. You might have been charged as an accomplice. You did it to protect yourself, too.”
She nods. “Yes.”
