Envy

“Yes, I would like that,” she said. “When?”

He smiled broadly. “How about tomorrow night? Want to see what’s playing in Poulsbo?”

Hayley didn’t answer right away. The only movies out were dumb romantic comedies, but she didn’t want to turn Colton down.

Colton immediately caught her vibe. “Nah, never mind. There’s nothing but trash out. Let’s bag the movies and do something else.”

In that moment, Hayley Ryan really saw Colton James as someone more special, more in sync with her than just about anyone she could name.

“It’s a date,” she said, turning her attention to the car but watching Colton in the reflection of the shiny hubcap. Her thoughts were a jumble just then and she couldn’t make sense of her feelings. There was no doubt she was jubilant over the fact that he had asked her out, but as she touched the car and moved the chamois in small circles against the chrome, she felt tiny pricks of sadness in her fingertips.

What was it, she would always wonder, about that car that made me feel that way?

The night Katelyn died, Hayley thought about that feeling she’d had back when they were polishing the Toyota and planning that first date. The energy that came to her was similar to something she was feeling now.

She also thought of Colton, whom she texted the minute she heard the news about Katelyn. He was in Portland with his dad’s relatives and wouldn’t be home until the day after school started. His mother had to be coaxed out of the house for the trip.

HAYLEY: THINKING OF KATELYN. SAD, SAD, SAD.

COLTON: SRY. W@ HPND?

HAYLEY: NOT SURE. NO1 REALLY KNOWS. SUICIDE? ACCIDENT?

COLTON: SUX.

HAYLEY: MISS U

COLTON: U2

When Taylor caught Hayley texting Colton, she just rolled her eyes. Sometimes those two were just SO annoying.

chapter 7

MOIRA WINDSOR KNEW THAT GREATNESS was never going to come from writing for the “What’s Up” section of the North Kitsap Herald, but at twenty-three, she’d been saddled with student loans and no prospects for a better job, at least until the economy bounced back. Whenever that was supposed to happen, no one seemed to really know. Moira was also being strategic. She knew that a toehold in a real journalism position was a must in building the credibility that she was sure she could spin into a spot next to Matt Lauer on Today. That was if, and only if, that overly sincere Ann Curry didn’t work out and got booted off the air.

A slender redhead with a nice figure that she used to her advantage, Moira waited outside house number 19, composing her thoughts before knocking on the Ryans’ front door. Even though it was freezing outside, she unzipped her jacket a little to showcase what God and a Victoria’s Secret push-up bra had given her. She peered through the six panels of rippled glass that ran alongside the solid, painted door. She pulled back and planted a smile on her face as footsteps approached.

Kevin Ryan, wearing gray sweatpants and a ratty, stained Got Crime? T-shirt that Valerie had tried to discard by stuffing it into the bottom of a Goodwill bag more than once, swung open the door and smiled.

A little cleavage always works. Moira had learned that technique trying to get men to reveal things that they ordinarily might not. All told, Moira had about an eighty-seven percent success rate with it.

“Mr. Ryan? I’m with the North Kitsap Herald. I’m a huge fan. Can we talk?”

Kevin studied her, then looked at her eyes. He’d seen that purported “huge fan” look before a dozen times. She was young, excited. Like most reporters who sought an interview, this one probably was more interested in advancing her dream of writing books than in interviewing him about anything he’d been doing.

“I’m sorry,” he said, hesitating a moment. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Moira Windsor,” she said, with the kind of confidence that suggested he ought to know who she was. “I’m with ‘What’s Up.’”

Kevin never turned down a chance for publicity, but he had one cardinal rule on the subject: Never do any media unless you have a book to sell.

“Right. Moira, I’m sorry, but I didn’t get a heads-up from anyone at the Herald that you’d be visiting. I don’t have a book coming out.”

“I’m a huge fan of your work,” she repeated.

“You said that already,” Kevin said as politely as possible.

Moira fidgeted with her purse and pulled out a slim reporter’s notebook.

“Actually,” she said, opening the notebook, “I wanted to talk to you about Katelyn Berkley. I apologize for not having the whole background yet. My editor called me and told me the basics. I’m all about research, so bear with me. Go ahead, now tell me.”

Valerie had warned him that a reporter was snooping around, but Kevin didn’t like where the impromptu—no, ambush—interview was going.

“Why would you want to write about her? It was a personal matter. A family tragedy.”

Moira ignored the warning that she felt was mixed into his response. “Yes, a suicide or an accident. I get that.”

“Of course you do,” he said. He could feel his adrenaline pulse a little, and he willed himself to say calm. He might need her one day for publicity, but not that day, not about that subject. “And as far as I know, your paper doesn’t cover personal tragedies.”

Moira nodded. “This one is different.”

If Moira was going to press the point, Kevin was going to let her. “How so?” he asked, clearly testing her.

“I think you know why.”

He did, but he stayed firm in his refusal to say so. “No, I don’t.”

“Katelyn was in the Hood Canal Bridge crash.”

Kevin glanced away for a second, his awareness no longer on the annoying young woman standing in front of him but on his girls, who were just steps away from the door.

“I guess she was,” he said. “So what?”

“Well, so were your daughters … and now they are the only surviving children of the accident.”

Kevin’s jaw tightened. “We don’t talk about the crash.”

“The paper really would like to do something … you know, coming on the heels of Katelyn’s tragic death and the ten-year anniversary of the accident.”

A child’s death plus a ten-year anniversary equaled a newspaper reporter’s one-two punch for a spot on the front page.

“I’m sorry. Can’t, won’t, help you.”

“I can mention your last book.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. Please do yourself a favor and, more important, the people of this town a favor, by not pursuing this.”

“I can’t do that, and you of all people should understand. You’ve always been about the truth, haven’t you?”

Kevin Ryan nodded, his casual smile no longer in place. “Please go, Ms. Windsor. We’re all out of patience here.”

He closed the door harder than a polite man might have done. He couldn’t help it. The ten-year anniversary of the crash was looming and with each minute passing, it brought a deluge of hurt and more confusion.

No one knew what had caused the crash or why only three girls and one adult had survived.