Page 72 of Call Back

There was a loud rap at the door, and I let out a half-scream as Brady called out, “Maggie? Are you okay?”

I gathered up all the photos and papers, desperately trying to stuff them into the envelope. What was I going to do?

I did the least productive thing I could come up with. I started to cry.

Dammit.

I didn’t have time for this. I needed to figure out a plan.

But there wasn’t any time for that. The door burst open and Brady stood in the opening, worry filling his eyes. Then his gaze fell to the envelope in my hands and the papers still on the floor, and he squatted in front of me.

“Maggie.”

I looked up into his face, unsure of how to handle this.

He took the envelope from me and then rose, pulling me to my feet. He wrapped his arms around me, tugging me flush against his chest, and I sobbed against his shirt.

We stood in the bathroom for several minutes, and when I started to settle down, he led me out to his living room. Once we were seated on the sofa, side by side, he took me in his arms.

I felt equally terrified and protected. I told myself that it was a good thing that Brady knew. The weight of the truth had begun to crush me. Now I could share it with him, and he could help protect Momma and Belinda.

“Maggie,” he finally said, breaking the silence. “When did you really get that scar?”

“Ten years ago,” I said. “The night of my high school graduation.” Then I told him everything. How I’d caught my best friend’s boyfriend cheating on her in the woods behind my house. The hooded man who had dragged me down to the basement of the house where I’d found refuge. How I slipped in and out of consciousness after he’d slammed my head into the metal pole. The woman’s screams—Melanie’s screams—had almost deafened me. How he’d carved that symbol on my leg as a warning to keep my mouth shut. Then I’d come to outside in the rain, lying on the ground in the woods, remembering only my fear and the certainty that I needed to leave and stay away. Then how it had started coming back in bits and pieces as soon as I returned to Franklin.

“I was sure I’d imagined it,” I said in a shaking voice. “I hoped I’d imagined it, so I went out into the woods to look for the house. I don’t know why . . . to prove it didn’t happen? To prove it did? But I found it, still abandoned, and that’s when everything came flooding back. I knew I had to tell someone, so I went to the police station, ready to tell my story, but then I had second thoughts. I was already under suspicion for Max Goodwin’s murder. I realized what a stupid idea it was to come forward now, especially since I didn’t have any solid information. Besides, it happened ten years ago.”

“That was the night you were at the police station. The clerk at the desk said you had information you wanted to share.”

“I chickened out, and then I saw you, and I was so shocked you were a cop, well, there was no way I was going to tell you anything.”

“I’m glad you told me now,” Brady said quietly.

I looked up at him. “Emily had the mark, didn’t she?”

His fingers lightly stroked my arm. “Yes. She did.”

Fresh tears welled in my eyes. “It’s my fault she’s dead. I knew it as soon as you told me.”

“No, Maggie. It’s not. It’s the fault of the person who killed her.”

“If I’d told you . . . but I was scared he’d hurt Momma or Belinda.”

“Why would you think that?”

“He’s been texting me.”

“What?” He jerked upright. “Jesus. The night Walter Frey was murdered . . .” His eyes widened. “The text you were going to show me was from him.”

I nodded.

“Magnolia. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because he sent me a text warning me to keep my mouth shut. There was a photo of Belinda attached to it.” Tears clogged my throat. “He hates that I’m here with you. He killed Emily to remind me not to tell you. Her death is my fault.”

“No. It’s definitely not.”

He was kind to try to reassure me, but I had information he didn’t. “There might have been another reason he picked her,” I said. “After I left, she asked a lot of questions about why I took off. My return to town seemed to renew her interest. I never told her anything, but maybe the murderer knew.”

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