To Love and to Perish - By Lisa Bork Page 0,10

I entertained myself by watching all the people, having seen all the photographs at least a dozen times before. Ray appeared to be enjoying his beer. Cory’s gaze never left his placemat. I hated seeing him like this, so unlike his usual carefree, light-hearted self.

Just as the waitress delivered our sampling of appetizers—the only thing we could get Cory to agree to consider sharing—a breaking news story flashed onto the flat screen. Brennan’s photo appeared again, followed by photos of a car wreck, a young woman, and what appeared to be Brennan’s high school graduation picture. The closed captioning took longer than the live announcer and bled into the next story’s pictures. I had no trouble following the gist of the newscast.

Thirteen years ago, Brennan Rowe had been driving a car that veered off the road into a tree, killing a passenger and leaving him in a coma. The two had just left their five-year high school reunion. The young woman who died in the crash was named Monica Gleason, sister of James Gleason, victim of today’s tragedy. Worse, thirteen years ago, investigators believed Brennan Rowe had been driving drunk.

The gist: Brennan Rowe was already a convicted killer.

FOUR

I DIDN’T SHARE THE news story with Cory and Ray when we left the restaurant. The whole story had felt a little more Inside Edition than CNN, in line with the disturbing news trend toward sensationalism rather than fact. I hoped in the days ahead more information might come to light that would paint a different picture. This information wouldn’t help Cory get through the night alone.

The news story hadn’t said Brennan ever served time for Monica Gleason’s death. In fact, the newscast said Brennan was not charged with Monica Gleason’s death. Apparently, the crash occurred on country roads, was not discovered for several hours, and, by the time investigators requested tests of Brennan’s alcohol levels, results inconclusive. But the news reporter allowed two of Brennan’s fellow reunion goers—although certainly not his friends—to appear on screen. The men hinted the district attorney’s reluctance to charge Brennan at the time might have had something to do with the significant campaign contributions Brennan’s wealthy father had made throughout the years, and they did their best to refuel the rumors Brennan may have been drinking that night. The whole report implied the court of popular opinion had convicted him long ago. Perhaps this story was what had fueled all the jokes in Wachobe for all these years.

But somehow I doubted it. Brennan wasn’t from Wachobe; he grew up in Albany, the state’s capital, five hours southeast. Until today, I hadn’t even known his father had money—or anything about his father at all. Granted, I didn’t follow the news much and the local grapevine even less, but I would have heard this story about the car accident before now if it had made it to Wachobe. No, Brennan had arrived in our town ten years ago to start his contracting business untainted. The rumors that traveled the vine these days had to be linked to some other event. Perhaps now was the time to find out what it was. I could only hope it didn’t paint Brennan in an even worse light.

After dinner, Ray had to drop us at the motel and head home for work, so I never got another word alone with him. He did tell Danny to stick close to me at the track the next day, a complete turnaround from earlier today. I wondered if that was for my protection or Danny’s—or just Ray’s theory of safety in numbers. Surely he didn’t think we were at risk of being run down ourselves?

_____

The next morning, Cory met Danny and me in the parking lot promptly at eight. His eyes appeared sunken into his head with dark circles highlighting his lack of sleep. He wore the same shirt and pants as last night, now creased and wrinkled after he apparently slept in them. I didn’t remark on it, but for Cory, a failure to attend to his appearance was a major indication of just how understandably rattled he was. I hadn’t slept all that well myself—visions of my loved ones being pushed in front of cars and crushed to death kept waking me. Danny, however, slept like a rock and needed to be prodded to awaken and get dressed.

“Let’s grab some breakfast.” I pointed to the motel office, where we’d been assured a continental breakfast would be available each morning.

Danny took off at a fast