He lifts my chin lightly with his fingers, studying my features. “You were blond then.”
“And chubby,” I confirm, “with blue eyes and a big nose.”
I can tell he’s comparing my current face to his memory of me as he scans my features. “I would never have recognized you.”
“My eyes are still blue under these contacts, and the nose I had changed to lessen the chances of being recognized. But it’s still me. I promise.”
“I believe you.” The noise of the storm subsides; time slows. He traces his finger over my nose, my cheeks. His voice is soft when he speaks again. “I’ve thought of you every single day since that terrible night. Wondered what happened to you. I wanted to look you up, but I didn’t know your name.”
“Phoenix,” I choke. “Phoenix Pendley.”
He wraps his arms around me, and I melt into his warm chest, so overcome I can hardly breathe. My shoulders shake as all the fear and exhaustion pours out of me. When I finally get ahold of myself, I look up at him. “I sent you an email a few months ago.”
He nods. “That email is the reason we’re here. It made me finally work up the courage to ask Cole the truth about the night your mom died, what it was I’d really seen.”
“What did he say?”
“The same BS he’d said years ago—that she’d overdosed and he’d taken her to the hospital, but not in time to save her life. That we’d had to lie to the cops about her being in our home to protect his and Stella’s careers. But this time we both knew I didn’t believe a word of it. Then he offered to produce this film for me and star in it, as my film school graduation present. I knew he thought he was bribing me, but I took his money regardless, because fuck him. I figured I’d have a better chance of getting the truth out of him if I spent some time with him anyway. But that hasn’t exactly worked out.”
So the email had done its job; at least a part of my plan had succeeded. “What do you remember about that night?” I ask.
He searches my face, concerned. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”
I nod. “I’ve come a long way to hear it.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, remembering. “When I went upstairs after I left you, I found Cole standing over your mom. She was unconscious, her arm tied off with a needle sticking out of it. The glass coffee table was broken, and there was blood on it. He said she’d taken drugs and he was trying to help her, then sent me to my room with a warning to keep my mouth shut. I was so afraid, I did what he said.”
This fit with what Stella had told me about Iris being unconscious when she arrived. “And later,” I prompt, “you lied to the police about having seen her.”
He nods. “He told me I had to lie or they’d take his money and send him to jail and he wouldn’t be able to take care of me and my mom anymore. So I lied. And every day since I’ve hated myself for it.”
I have no words. I know I should be glad he hates himself, but I’m not. I want to despise him for lying, for letting her die, for continuing to have a relationship with his father afterward…but I can’t. He was just a scared little boy. I feel the tenderness of his hand on my back; I hear the honesty in his voice, and I recognize with brilliant lucidity that improbably, he is the only person in the world I trust.
“It’s the reason I went to India,” he continues. “It’s the reason I try so hard in the rest of my life to be a good person. But I know I can’t ever make up for it, no matter what I do. I am so, so sorry.”
I imagine my mother taking her last breaths with Cole standing over her, swearing to take her to the hospital while knowing he never will. But how did she end up there? Why was a deadly syringe in her arm when ten minutes earlier she’d been happily cooking dinner in anticipation of a night in with Stella? I comb over the details, my mind catching on one in particular. “You said her arm was tied off with a tourniquet,” I say. He nods. “Do you remember what it was? A piece of rubber, a belt?”
“It was a belt,” he says. “I remember thinking how big it looked on her little arm.”
“So, a man’s belt?” I ask.
He nods. “Probably.”
“Your father’s belt,” I clarify.
“Most likely.”
As much as I want it to, the simple fact of Cole’s belt being around her arm doesn’t prove anything. She was in Cole’s room; she could easily have grabbed one of his belts; yet I know as clear as day that’s not what happened. “He killed her,” I say. “I don’t know why or how, and I can’t prove it; but I know it was him. I thought it was Stella at first, but I was wrong. She and Stella were in love.”
A look of understanding washes over his face. “That makes so much sense. I knew Stella and your mother were close,” he admits, “but I didn’t understand what that meant at the time. My mom wasn’t a fan of Stella and would send me over to Cole’s for her to look after me when he wasn’t home, as a sort of punishment for marrying him. But Stella didn’t mind, and neither did I. We had fun together. She treated me like I was a grown-up—probably because she didn’t have any experience with children—but I
