Won't Let Go Read online

  I asked, Who was the guy? Who’d he piss off so much? Praying that with a name, answers would come.

  Michael Gunn.

  I repeated the name to myself, over and over. It was the first real lead I’d gotten and now it was seared into my mind. I close my eyes and envision the letters perfectly.

  But I still had doubts if this really was the true culprit as I said, I still don’t understand. Even if this Michael guy was livid, is it really reason enough to kill someone?

  Now, that I don’t know. I’m just telling you how it was. I’m sorry. I can see you’re upset, but that’s not the worst of it. Not by a long shot. And for the first time Elliot scooted his stool closer, his abdomen pressing tightly against the ledge of the table. He reached his hands towards the glass and pressed his fingertips onto the surface. Maybe it was a kind gesture, to take my mind off what was coming, or maybe it was what he needed at that moment too, because when I pressed my own fingers against the glass his shoulders slumped and so did mine.

  I hug myself tighter, continuing deep breaths.

  This is the moment that changed everything, and in the scheme of things it’s not that bad.

  Not really.

  It happens all the time.

  However, I had built up Embry in my mind so much, fallen in love so hard with the idea he was truly the perfect guy that I thought nothing could change that. But Elliot’s next words took it all away in an instant.

  I found out later, after the accident, that Embry had gotten someone pregnant. She told him she was thinking of having it, but he said he’d never be a father to the child. That he wanted nothing to do with it or her.

  I couldn’t take it anymore. I stood up and shoved my way towards the door. Elliot called out after me, Danielle Blake!

  I lean to the side and wretch, puke spills out of my mouth, hitting the gravel with a splatter. How could he do that to someone? He really did treat women like trash, using them up and throwing them away.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As I stand at the counter of the donut shop, eyes scanning the board, I wait for Allison. She’s late. And here I thought she’d be one of those punctual freaks.

  “Can I get you something?”

  I’m desperately wishing I could actually get a decent coffee. That’s what I’d like the barista impersonator behind the counter to get me. However, I know it’s useless, a lost cause. And I sigh, because I know it’s not her fault, and that taking my frustrations out on her isn’t fair.

  I clear my throat and say, “Coffee, black.”

  The barista shrugs. “Suit yourself,” and passes me my coffee. It’s in a cream colored mug, tiny hairline cracks spider across the ceramic.

  I toss a crumpled bill on the counter, saying, “Keep the change.”

  The barista smiles and graciously takes the tip.

  Strolling up to the same table as last time, I sling my bag over the back of the chair and sit down. I have to push my sneakered foot against the leg of the table to steady it before I put down my coffee and get comfortable. I glance out the window, looking out over the bare street. A few pieces of trash flitter by in the spring breeze.

  I take a sip of coffee. It’s bitter from old beans and the fact it’s probably been sitting all day, but I let the warm liquid slide down my throat, giving me a jolt of energy. Even if it’s crappy, it’s still full of caffeine.

  Only a few minutes pass before the door chimes, announcing the presence of another customer. Allison breezes in and her eyes immediately fall upon me. With a quick shrug of her shoulders, she mouths, “sorry,” as she bustles towards the counter with her cement filled bag.

  I can’t help but look down at my old, worn in and torn jeans, simple concert tee and my sneakers. It’s nothing compared to how put together Allison looks. Almost as if she’s trying too hard. She’s wearing another pair of tight skinny jeans, pink pumps, and a flowy fuchsia peasant top. It all suits her perfectly, but again I wonder why long sleeves in this heat. And as she turns from the counter, I see she’s pulled the whole look together with a matching necklace and earrings. Sure, I’ve seen this back in California, but maybe I was expecting overalls and rubber boots here. I guess this isn’t that kind of town, after all. Even here in the middle of nowhere, people know what a Macy’s is. Not that I’ve spent a lot of time in one.

  “Sorry, I got caught up,” she says breathlessly. Like me, she slings her purse on the back of the chair, sets down her coffee and apple fritter.

  “No problem,” I say, and then bring my mug of coffee to my lips, taking a slurp before setting it back down.

  Allison wastes no time digging into her fried in lard, goes straight to the hips ball of dough and artificial fruit. Fritter. I mean, apple fritter. Wasn’t I going to try and be nicer?

  “So what’s up? You sounded kinda serious on the phone.” She rips off another chunk of fritter and shoves it into her mouth.

  “I just want to ask a few questions—about what you told me the other day.”

  She looks up from the table. Her eyes roll, making this huge inconvenienced gesture. “You’re not still going on about your house, are you? I mean I told you everything I know.”

  Reaching over my chair, I plunge my hand into my bag and yank out Elliot’s yearbook. I place it on the table. I swear Allison’s eyes grow just a bit wider when she sees it. Or maybe she swallowed her coffee wrong.

  “You were right,” I say.

  Her face relaxes. “Right—about what?”

  “About the brothers. That story you told me? It was true. Elliot Winston tried to kill his own brother. Embry.”

  Her hand rises to cover her mouth. “Oh, that’s terrible, just terrible,” she mumbles.

  “I know, it just—it makes the house that much more creepy.”

  Allison’s hand drops from her face, she goes back to ripping apart her donut. “But—I don’t understand why you sounded so upset on the phone. What does that have to do with me?”

  I let my fingers drum against the cover of the yearbook laid out in front of me. I take a deep breath and blow it out. It lifts stray strands of hair off my face and to the side. “Well, I found out a bit more about the story and wanted to see if you could help me.”

  Dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin from the dispenser, Allison then says, “Sure. Of course. But I doubt I’ll be of any help. I was in middle school after all.” She rolls her eyes again as she talks then looks to the right and focuses on something I can’t see.

  Doesn’t that mean you are lying, looking right, or is it left? Either way, I’m sure she’s a liar.

  Pretty sure.

  “I was wondering if the names Michael Gunn or Danielle Blake mean anything to you.”

  This time, I can’t miss the widening of her eyes. They grow to the size of saucers. She even chokes on her coffee as she pulls the mug away from her rosy lips. When she clears her throat and speaks, it’s not what I’m expecting.

  “No. No I can’t say that I recognize those names. I don’t understand what that has to do with the brothers.”

  I’m almost certain she’s lying, but I just don’t know her well enough to know for sure. Nor can I think of any reason for her to hide anything from me. Then again, deep down in the heart of every person is always a pack of lies. They may be white ones, the kind that are almost innocent in nature, meant not to hurt people. Or they may be the kind that if you discover the truth, they would shake the ground and tear lives apart. Which kind of lie is Allison keeping?

  “Are you sure? I can show you pictures—” I say, quickly flipping open the book to the first dog-eared page. I spin it around, pushing it right under her nose. My long index finger taps at Danielle Blake’s picture. “Do you recognize her?”

  The picture of Danielle is classically posed. Arms folded on top of a desk. Her long hair is curled and pulled up slightly off her face, tendrils frame the line of her jaw, the slight puff of her round cheeks. Her skin is nearly flawless. Even in black and white, she
’s beautiful.

  Allison gives me a pair of shifty eyes, quickly darting back and forth as she shakes her head. “No, I’ve never seen her before,” she says.

  But did she even really look at the picture?

  Even to me, the picture looks vaguely familiar, only I can’t place it. I’ve been in the town such a short time, there’s no telling—maybe I’ve seen her at a distance. But I can’t be certain.

  I flip to another page and tap another picture, this time a little more forcefully. “What about him?”

  Michael Gunn isn’t exactly what you’d call hot. There’s something missing from his features that makes him more on the...cute side. His dark hair is cut short, spiky. His left eye looks almost lazy as he stares down the camera lens. Unlike the Winston boys, his face is pudgy—double chin pudgy. But maybe black and white doesn’t do him justice. I, for one, will be the first to admit, it isn’t always about the looks. I know to girls it’s almost an insult to get a compliment about personality—especially when it doesn’t follow a line about looks—but I like that in a guy. I need to know there is more to the package than just a pretty face.

  But Allison doesn’t seem to notice anything. She doesn’t even give the picture a second glance, or any glance for that matter. Instead she says, “I told you, I don’t recognize them.” Then she takes a peek at her watch and adds, “I have to be at work in a few minutes. I should get going.”

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was in a hurry to leave because she doesn’t even give me a chance to respond. She pushes back her chair, rises to her feet and pulls her bag onto her shoulder. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.” She frowns, half-heartedly. “I’ll see you around.”

  I watch her hip-swaying strut as she makes for the door and pushes it open. As she passes by the window, she doesn’t give me a wave, or even a look. Something about her is totally rubbing me the wrong way, and I’m sure, without a doubt, she knows something I don’t.

  Taking one last swig of coffee, I grab my messenger bag and head for the door, too. I heave a heavy sigh. Yet another mystery I’m not sure I can handle, but I don’t let it bog me down.

  Now, I’ve seen this done in the movies a million times, but tailing someone isn’t as easy as it looks. Especially since this town’s idea of traffic is two cars on the road, and that’s it.

  I just couldn’t shake the feeling something about Allison wasn’t right. So I took a chance, and now I’m in my baby following her down Mountain Ash Ave. She drove right by her work. So clearly her excuse and quick exit were nothing but bullshit.

  As she turns off of Mountain Ash and onto the highway heading out of town, I’m at a bit of a loss and don’t know if I should keep following her. What the hell, I think and turn onto the highway, too. At least this way, I can follow her a bit easier. There are actually cars—more than one—on this road. I comfortably tail two vehicles back.

  It’s not long until Allison makes a quick left turn. So quick that by the time I see her sporty car spitting up gravel and dust on a dirt road, I’ve already missed the chance to follow. I smack the steering wheel with my fist and grow annoyed with myself. Paying attention should have been my top priority. I mean, I was following her for a reason. Now I have to hope for a quick chance to turn around. It comes not too far down the road, one of those road-side turn outs. It’s lined with semi-trucks and garbage cans. I pull in, quickly turn on my signal, and wait for the steady double line of traffic to reveal a space. It happens a few minutes later. I peel out, spitting up my own plume of dust and shoot rocks from my tires. But by the time I get back to where Allison turned off, it’s too late.

  She’s long gone.

  Instead of turning down the road, I decide to head back to town, but not before making note of the road sign—Evergreen Lane. This way I can stop off at the library and check out Google maps. I wouldn’t want to get lost on some side road, or risk encountering Allison, no matter how desperate I am to figure out why she lied to me. When I have more information, then I’ll confront her. I’m not one for crying wolf, nor do I want to accuse her of something I’m not one hundred percent sure of. That would be the quickest way to lose a potential friend. And I’m sort of low in that department.

  Once I’m settled into one of the four computer stations at the library, I move the mouse until the screen-saver disappears. The desktop is simple and not cluttered like my laptop. I quickly double click the web browser and watch as it loads, at a snail’s pace I might add. Google appears and I type in the name of the road and Willard Grove.

  A map pops up onto the screen, instantly connecting me to the town and its small web of roads. It takes a little scrolling but within seconds I have enlarged the map and found Evergreen Lane. What I don’t understand is what exactly Allison found so important out there that she needed to lie to me just to get away. The road appears to be a dead end, one way in and one way out. This doesn’t help me at all.

  “I was wondering when you’d come back.” I jump at the sound of Dawsyn’s voice. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says as I push my chair away from the desk.

  “You didn’t scare me,” I reply, only the pounding of my heart and the hotness that swells over my face tells me otherwise.

  “So what brings you to the library this time, more research?”

  I nod. “Something like that.”

  Dawsyn points to the computer screen that sits idle on the map of the town. “If you need directions, I’d be happy to show you around, personally.”

  I roll my eyes. “I don’t.”

  Dawsyn raises a slender finger to his chin and taps it gently. “So, how about that coffee? And I’ve got something you might be interested in.”

  I can’t help the fact my eyebrows quirk with interest, but the thought of another cup of coffee, and Dawsyn’s company quickly pushes them back down—I’m distracted enough by one hot guy, I can’t add another. “I can’t. Sorry.”

  “You’re not even a little bit interested?”

  Of course I am, I think. What could he possibly have that would help me? But at this point, what do I have to lose? I’ve got a million questions, hardly any answers—I’m staring at the map of the town and Embry is lying in a hospital bed comatose. I’ve got all the time in the world. Not.

  “Okay, I’ll bite, but no coffee.” I point my finger at an empty chair. “If you’ve got something to tell me, you can do it here.”

  Dawsyn pulls some folded paper from his pocket and sits beside me. His wallet chain clanks against the plastic of the chair as he holds out his hand. I reach forward and grasp the papers just as Dawsyn says, “I had to put the book you left on the copy machine away.”

  I frown. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s sort of my job, anyway. But before I did, I took a look at what you found.”

  A funny feeling creeps over the back of my neck at his admission. It’s silly, but I feel like a small amount of my privacy as being invaded. I shake off the feeling. That book, those news-pages are public record. He has just as much of a right to look at them as I do. If I’d wanted to keep it a secret, I should have put the book back myself.

  “I’m not sure if this is of any help, but you seemed pretty determined.” He motions towards the folded papers in my hand.

  I take a deep breath and push some hair out of my face before I unfold the papers. I lay them on my knee and smooth out the creases. My eyes are just about to zone in on what I’m seeing, but Dawsyn’s smooth voice interrupts me, “There were a few more articles after the pages you copied. You left in such a hurry...Well, I thought maybe you missed them. I couldn’t decide what was important to you, the fact that your house was owned by those two kids or if it had something to do with comas.”

  I nod and look down at the papers in my hand. In heavy black and white is a picture just outside the donut shop. There are several people milling around, shards of glass litter the pavement. The article is just another blurb about the accident. Not
hing I haven’t already learned—law enforcement agents are still trying to figure out what happened, though the reporter already points the finger at Elliot. They don’t even seem to be considering the possibility it wasn’t him.

  The next few pages outline several cases of long-term coma patients. Most never recovered and die from their injuries, or had the “plug” pulled on them. But one grabs my attention further, because the patient did recover. Though the damages done to her brain were extensive, she was able to recover almost fully—the only down side? She’d lost all her memories. But this sparks an unimaginable amount of hope to flare up through my insides.

  “So, it’s the coma that’s got your attention?” Dawsyn interrupts.

  I don’t respond. Instead I gently fold up the papers and stick them in my pocket.

  “You really are the silent type, aren’t you? What does a guy have to do to wiggle their way in?” Dawsyn adds.

  Maybe be a ghost, for starters.

  I don’t know why, but Dawsyn is wearing me thin. Part of me wants to divulge my problems, beg for help, but I cannot, under any circumstances, bring another person into this mess. He’s given me the hope I need to push forward, he’s given me a tiny answer—that it is possible for someone to wake up from a coma despite what the nurse said. But that’s all I can accept from him. Any more interaction with Dawsyn could only further complicate the situation. The way he looks at me so attentively, so eagerly...I’d be foolish to lead him on any further. I’d be insane to accept anything more than these papers from him.

  “I have to go but—” I choose my words wisely, “—but thank you.”

  Dawsyn stands as I do. He leans in, and for one awkward second I think he’s going to hug me, or worse, kiss me. Instead, he points at the computer screen. “There’s not much out there, just the mill.”