Big Lies in a Small Town - Diane Chamberlain Page 0,76
seemed over the family finances, with Martin’s design not being accepted for the post office. He shouldn’t be here in the warehouse, Anna thought, working for free. He especially shouldn’t be here with her.
It would be best if he didn’t come again, but as she watched him working side by side with the boys, giving directions she might not have known to give, she was very glad that he had come.
Chapter 31
MORGAN
July 9, 2018
I heard sirens the moment I stepped out of Lisa’s house for my walk to the gallery. The sound didn’t slow or stop; instead, it built on itself, one siren on top of another on top of another. The sounds alone were enough to take me back to the accident and set my heart racing. I stood paralyzed on the sidewalk in front of the house, trying to decide if I should go back inside and wait it out or start walking toward the gallery. Get a grip, I told myself, beginning to walk again. I was not going to live the rest of my life in fear.
The sound had settled down by the time I turned onto Broad Street, but then I found myself less than half a block from the clot of ambulances, police cars, and a fire truck. I froze. From where I stood, it looked like a horrific accident between a minivan and a delivery truck. I saw a stretcher and although I couldn’t see the person it carried, in my mind it was Emily Maxwell’s bloody body being loaded into the ambulance. I backtracked and took a cross street to avoid walking past the wreck, but it was really too late. The damage was done. My knees threatened to buckle. The whole world spun and I had to stop walking, pressing my body against the wall of a building to stay upright. I looked around for a bench I could sink onto, but there were none. Instead, I stood there, eyes closed, waiting for the worst of the dizziness to pass.
I thought I had myself under control by the time I reached the gallery, but as soon as I entered the foyer, Oliver looked up from his computer, eyes wide.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, pulling out his earbuds.
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
“Bull,” he said. “Are you sick? Your face is white.”
I sat down next to the table that held my paints and brushes. My palms were damp and I wiped them on my jeans. “I just saw an accident,” I said. “The aftermath, anyhow. It shook me up.”
“I heard the sirens,” he said. “Where was it?”
“Broad Street. I didn’t really look. I … accidents … I…” I looked away from him. I wasn’t sure what I’d intended to say.
He bent forward, elbows on his knees, searching my face. “You what?” he prompted. “Were you in an accident?” I could see the concern in his eyes.
I nodded.
“When … oh. The DUI?”
I nodded again. “It was so terrible, Oliver,” I said. “We almost killed someone.”
“What happened?” He straightened up again, all of his attention still on me.
Before I could stop myself, I began talking. “I’d been at a party with my boyfriend, and … we’d both had too much to drink.” I twisted my hands together in my lap. “I turned my car keys over to him. I thought maybe he was more sober than I was. Neither of us should have been driving. I was so stupid.”
Oliver frowned. “He was driving?”
“Yes, he was driving.” My voice sounded bitter. “And he drove too fast. About sixty miles per hour in a thirty-five-mile-per-hour zone. He went right through a stop sign at this intersection, and he crashed into a car. We nearly killed the girl who was driving it. She was in a coma for two months and now she’s paralyzed from the waist down. For life.” I looked over at him. “For ever and ever,” I added quietly.
Oliver’s frown was deep and troubled. “What about you and the boyfriend?” he asked. “Were you hurt? And why did you go to prison if he was driving?” Was he suspicious of my story? Who could blame him?
“We were completely okay,” I said. “Physically, anyway.” I thought of the inconsequential scar on my forehead beneath my bangs, then looked down at my hands where they rested in tight fists on my thighs. “But Trey—my boyfriend—ran off. He wanted me to say I was the driver.”