Page 34 of Before We Came

Description of Enclosed Evidence: Journal, 2000

Victim’s Name: Bridget Lynn Hayes

Suspect’s Full Name: Julianne Katheryn Fournier

November 23, 2000

She’s giving me a migraine with all this damn crying. She says she wants to go home but I’m not going back to Ontario. There is no going back. Vancouver is where we are starting our new life. Besides, when I went to open a new bank account, one of the bankers couldn’t keep his eyes off me. Yes, this is going to be a fresh start for us.

FOURTEEN

Three weeks later...

My plane has just landed at the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport. The whine of the turbines slowing is comforting instead of frightening this time. Two huge checked bags with my clothes are—hopefully—making their way over to baggage claim. I’ve shipped the remaining items to myself at my new residence, the Hayeses’ house. It didn’t take me long to decide what to do with Julianne’s things. Everything was either donated or sold. I couldn’t apply for a B-2 visa because I needed to prove I didn’t plan to abandon my Canadian residence, which is basically the whole plan. I’ve got three months in the States before my passport visit expires. It’s a race to see whether I’m resurrected by social security or given the boot first. I’m living two lives simultaneously.

The only things coming with me to Minnesota are my laptop, the collection of recipes I’ve developed over the years, my chef knives, mytoys, toiletries, a few bits of memorabilia, and of course, my clothes.

There’s no way I can handle being around Lonan Burke without being able to jill off. The tension in the room doubles when he’s around. I was too embarrassed to bring my sex paraphernalia through airport security with me, so hopefully they aren’t lost in shipping. I’ve labeled the box as “TOOLS.” Technically, it’s not a lie.

Micky and I said our goodbyes this morning when she drove me to the airport. She promises to visit during her spring break, and I’m already counting down the days. I’m looking forward to seeing my family again. We FaceTimed several times while I was gone. I need to get to the house and unload my things, because I’m told we are heading to the Lakes game tonight to watch Lonan play.

I’m looking forward to seeing him too.

* * *

Every player on the ice is getting chippy, every check seems to hit harder than the one before it, and more than once there’s been a few double-takes I expected to lead to a fight. Tensions are high in the third period with only five minutes left. The game is tied 2–2, but a lot of hockey can happen in five minutes. We are sitting in Lonan’s seats, and I’m wearing the jersey he gave me for Christmas. It still has the faint smell of him on it.

His talent is unbelievable. He scored the last goal when he joined in the offensive rush, and he’s been turning over the puck and applying pressure to Buffalo’s forwards all night. I’m still getting to know Lonan, but I love seeing this competitive side of him, he’s aggressive, quick, and so reactive.

He subs out, and I watch him on the bench to see how he’s doing. Sweat is dripping off his face. His cheeks are flush, and he leans over, resting his elbows on his knees. He rinses his mouth with water and spits it out. Kinda gross. But kinda hot. He’s focused. After a minute, he stands, ready to take another shift. He jumps the boards and is already back in position before the other defenseman’s ass hits the bench.

Before long, he’s surrounded by the opposing team, he sends a rim pass up the boards to Conway, their right winger, and there’s a breakaway. He passes it to their center, it bounces back and forth as they rush the Buffalo goalie, and with two minutes left in the game, Conway sends it in.

The entire arena erupts into madness before the goal horn blows. If they can hold it down until the end, we won’t go into overtime. Puck battles fill up the remaining minutes, but no goals are made. When the buzzer sounds at the end, we throw our hands in the air and high-five the other season ticket holders around us.

Lori cups her mouth and yells over the celebration happening around us, “He’s got to hit the bike and finish up some stuff, but he’ll meet us at the bar in forty-five!”

“The bike?”

“Stationary bike.”

I nod like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, but I’m new to behind-the-scenes hockey. Previously, I’ve only watched hockey when Vancouver was playing, cheering for a rival feels like I’m betraying the Canucks, but how can I not when he’s on the ice?

I haven’t seen Lonan in almost a month, so when we get to the bar, I take a minute to run to the restroom and clean up. I add another swipe of mascara and some lip gloss. A few women enter behind me, dressed to kill, wearing tight skirts and stilettos. They chat about the hockey players, and it sounds like they know the routine. One woman mentions number fourteen, and I book it out of there. Beautiful women come with the territory, I’m not an idiot, but there’s no reason to torture myself by listening to them talk about Lonan for any longer than I have to. Ignorance is bliss.

I settle into the booth with my parents, and they have a beer waiting for me. A big gulp of bubbly ale calms my nerves. Why am I so nervous? This is Lonan, Lonan from when we were kids. Nothing more, nothing less. He’s just a friend. Act normal. Tonight, I’m here to have fun, enjoy a drink or two, congratulate Lonan on his win, and go home.Alone.

A loud commotion comes from the entry doors, and about half the team walks in. When our eyes meet, he gives me one of his incredible smiles, and it’s contagious. A couple of fans step up to get autographs. Then one of the girls from the restroom intercepts him, and my heart sinks a little. She reaches up and places her arms around his neck as if she knows him well. His shoulders tense. He politely removes her hands from his body and continues making his way over to me.

Standing outside the booth to greet him, he wraps me in a giant hug, pressing his body against mine. His woodsy cologne envelopes my senses, and I close my eyes, breathing him in. He smells so good. My body reacts to him without thinking, all of my previous mantras have been tossed out the window. Why does he have to be so damn attractive?

He leans his head down to my ear and whispers, “How does it feel to be home?”

Chills rise up my neck, and I step back to distance myself, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear—justfriends.

“It’s good! Scary, but good,” pops out of my mouth. I don’t want him to know how petrified I am of the unknown.

His eyes bore into mine, it’s like he can see right through my mask and read my thoughts. Everything tells me to look away but then he’ll know I lied.Break the tension.

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