Page 31 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“Most of the time she just let him blow off steam, but I think she was sick of being blamed for everything, and she started yelling back. ‘Maybe if you’d kept your dick in your pants, you could have saved a quarter of a million dollars on child support, and I could afford to get a decent haircut.’ He came right back at her and said, ‘You leave Savannah out of it.’

“I was in my bedroom, so they didn’t think I could hear, but they were so loud. I just froze hoping to hear more, but they dropped their voices. It didn’t matter. Any idiot could put two and two together. The next day they were out of the house, so I went to his office. He had three file cabinets, and he was obsessive about keeping records. I had to go back seven years, but I found it—canceled checks made out to Alicia Barbieri—child support for her daughter Savannah. They went back every year for as far as he kept records.”

“But you said her name was Savannah Jeffries,” my father said.

“That’s her married name. I found Alicia Barbieri in the phone book; called and told her I was a friend of Savannah’s from high school. She gave me Savannah’s new name and phone number. I didn’t call right away, but once my mother decided to move to Colorado, I didn’t know where to turn, so I went to her house. As soon as she opened the door, she knew who I was. She told me that my dad got her mom pregnant when they were seniors in high school, and she never had a relationship with my father, but he sent a check every month till she was twenty-one, so she knew all about me and Charlie and my mom. She’s so nice, and you wouldn’t believe how much she looks like me.”

“And she agreed to take you in?” my father said.

“She didn’t even hesitate. I told her I was still hoping to convince my mother to stay in Heartstone, but Savannah said that even if we did, she still wanted me in her life. We’re sisters.”

Two days later Savannah arrived, and the police escorted the two of us to the Sinclair house, which was still sealed off in yellow crime scene tape. Misty, who could barely look at the outside, didn’t have the stomach to go with us.

An hour later, with all her worldly possessions loaded into the back of Savannah’s minivan, Misty and I walked to her car.

“Maggie,” she said solemnly.

I braced myself for a teary goodbye, but that wasn’t Misty’s style.

“I spoke to a lawyer,” she said.

“Who?” I said. “About what?”

“Toby Cullen’s mother. I told her how Minna Schultz put my father out of business. It’s because of her that my family is dead. I want her to go to jail.”

I was still five years away from starting law school, but I had no doubt what Mrs. Cullen would say.

“Was she helpful?” I ventured.

Misty responded with a sneer. “No. First, she gave me some bullshit about freedom of speech, and then she said if my father sued Minna for defamation of character, he might have had a case, but he was the one who pulled the trigger. He’s the murderer. Not her.”

“Minna Schultz is a terrible person,” I said. “But sometimes bad people get away with doing horrible things.”

“Not this time,” Misty said. “I could deal with her killing my father. Maybe even my mother. But my brother... that kid—he was...”

She stopped, her face etched with rage and grief. I put my hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. Vitriol thrives without compassion.

“Charlie was ten times smarter than me. He had a real life ahead of him. Better than mine. Much better than my father’s. Minna Schultz stole that life, Maggie.” She dropped her voice to a menacing whisper. “And if the justice system won’t settle the score, then I will.”

“Misty... please,” I said. “Anytime you want to vent, call me. But do me a favor. Don’t repeat what you just said to me to anyone else.”

“Or...what... Maggie?” she said, spitting out the words.

“I’m not sure, but if you start threatening Minna, she can sue you for?—”

“Bullshit!” she shot back. “Minna Fucking Schultz can’t do anything to me that’s worse than what she’s already done. You were there, Maggie. You were there that night my life was destroyed forever. Don’t tell me not to talk about it. Don’t tell me to sweep it under the rug. I will tell anybody and everybody who will listen—one day, I’m going to make that bitch pay.”

Twenty-six years later, those words would come back to haunt her.

EIGHTEEN

To be honest, I was relieved when Misty moved out. We hadn’t been close before that night at the Pits, and with September right around the corner I needed to get my head wrapped around school. I was the senior class president—I had colleges to visit, essays to write, and of course, I was still worried about my father.

Mom had warned us what to expect. “Oh, he’ll put up a good front,” she said. “Finn McCormick, macho, macho man. But don’t let him fool you into thinking he’s okay. He’ll be as empty on the inside as I would be if he had died.”

She was right. On the surface he seemed to be doing well, but Lizzie and I lived with him. We could tell he wasn’t sleeping well or eating right. We could see that the Harley sat idle in the garage. We knew he spent hours alone in his bedroom turning the pages of the photo album Mom had left behind.

Grandpa Mike knew it too, and Lizzie got him to open up about it one Sunday after dinner when the three of us were cleaning up. “Sure, your father puts on the happy face and holds out the glad hand at the bar, but he’s as transparent as a ten-dollar toupee. He can’t fool me. I went through the same thing when your grandmother, God rest her soul, passed. But he ain’t about to let anybody see the pain he’s going through. He is one stubborn Irishman.”

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