Page 109 of Love Me Brazen

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“Does Meg know you were raised in a cult?”

“I wasn’t—” I bite my tongue. Engaging with her about this leads straight to hell and I am not taking this bait—not with her, not when I know exactly how she plans to use it.

I finish with the rope and squat down to check it off my list.

“Does your daughter?”

I jump to my feet but stop myself from moving any closer. Annaleise takes a step back, her eyes brightening with a look of triumph.

We stare each other down.

“Time for you to go,” I say.

“Someone needs to put a stop to Sons of Eden. I think Trina tried to. Did she ask for your help? Is that it?”

I go back to ignoring her, even though what I want is to warn her. She even said it herself.Someone doesn’t want me to discover the truth about what happened to Trina.

I think she’s right. Someone was supposed to meet Trina that night of the fire. It had to be a ploy to get her to that house.

“A story like yours could inspire others to come forward. It could lead to real change.”

“At what cost?” I snap. “You’re a journalist. You’ve seen exactly how these cases play out in real life.” Victims enduring severe psychological trauma prepping for the trial, only to have slick defense attorneys demoralize and attack them on the stand. If that wasn’t bad enough, once their sordid and tortured past gets splashed across the media, they get persecuted all over again. By their community and friends, even their family. And for what? The bad guys almost always go free.

It's exactly what I tried to tell Trina the first time.Do the hard work to heal yourself instead and put the rest behind you,I told her. But she refused to listen.

Annaleise’s surprise at my answer fades so quickly from her eyes I wonder if I imagined it. “So…you’re a coward?”

I reel in my frustration. She’s just trying to get a rise out of me. Get me to divulge some juicy soundbite. She has no idea what it’s really like to make a choice like this. To choose silence. To live my life the best way I know how and not let the past drag me down, or worse—infect the people I love.

“Give me an exclusive and we can control the narrative,” she adds with a zealous gleam in her eyes. She looks a little deranged, if I’m being honest. Like she really believes her own bullshit.

I grab the camping bin and set it next to the tarp, keeping my back to Annaleise. She can yammer on about this until she’s blue in the face, but I’m never going to give her what she wants.

Minutes later, she gets in her car and reverses out of my driveway. I don’t watch her go.

I let Greta lead the final pitch of Liberty Spires. It’s only a 5.7, but there’s wicked exposure. We check our anchors, systems, and the pro she’s added to her harness, then take one last selfie. After an exchange of commands and a helmet bump, she’s off.

The pitch follows a dihedral crack in the sometimes not perfect granite, but Greta smokes it, and soon I’m following, clipping her well-placed pro to the sling across my chest, the mid-morning sun hot on my shoulders. I’ve managed to push my altercation with Annaleise from my mind, but now that the climb is almost over, anxiety is creeping back in. What kinds of notifications am I going to see when my phone gets service again?

Though I have plenty to be ashamed of when it comes to my past, escaping Sons of Eden isn’t one of them. But I might feel differently if Annaleise puts it in one of her stories. As if people need more stupid shit to gossip about in this town. Though really, the only opinion I’d care about is Meg’s.

I fucked up that goodbye, and it’s eating at me.

When I get to the top, Greta and I haul our packs up, take off our shoes, and flop down on the cool granite to enjoy the view. Below us is the verdant Finn River Valley and the sapphire jewel that is Bear Lake. We pick out Ruby Gulch, the confluence of the Clearwater and Finn rivers, the empty ski lifts on Bear Mountain glinting in the sunshine.

I set up my mini tripod and the timer on my SLR then get off a couple of shots before the brisk wind buffeting the mountaintop sends us digging for our puffy coats. I use my phone to snap a selfie of us, then send it to Meg. Even though she won’t getit until we have service again, it helps soften the ache I’m feeling for her right now.

“Best birthday ever,” Greta says once we’re bundled up and sitting side by side.

“Hold that thought.” I bring out a box from the bottom of my pack. Inside are two root beers, a carefully protected collection of birthday cake donut holes from our favorite donut shop, and a small box wrapped in brown paper tied with a flattened yellow ribbon.

“Dad, the climb was my present, remember?”

I nudge her shoulder. “Sixteen is a biggie. I thought you deserved at least one thing to open.”

She cracks open her root beer and plucks a donut hole from the Tupperware tub. “Nothing beats a summit celebration with donut holes.”

I laugh. “This might.”