Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 76717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Accident? “What accident?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.
“Steve was in a car crash about five years ago,” Tom says. “It left him with some significant brain injuries, affected his memory. He could tell you every play he made in high school football but couldn’t remember what he had for breakfast.”
I silently curse under my breath. This is another dead end, and I’m running out of leads.
“Do you know anyone else who might have kept in touch with Ronny?” I ask, hoping for a lifeline.
“I was still in middle school when Steve graduated from high school,” Tom says. “Back then, I was the annoying little brother. He didn’t talk to me, and his friends totally ignored me. And of course, for the last five years…”
I’m feeling like shit for making this guy dredge up old memories when his brother literally just died. “I get it,” I say. “I appreciate this, and I’m really sorry about your loss.”
“Well…he really hasn’t been the brother I knew for five years. We all knew this was coming. I guess that’s why I’m okay talking to you.”
“Is there anything I can do? I mean, my wife went to school with your brother.”
“Wait… You said Lindsay Davis, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I remember her,” Tom says. “She was one of the few people who was kind to me when I was hanging around Steve.”
“She was like that.” My throat tightens at his mention of Lindsay’s kindness. It was one of the reasons I fell in love with her.
“Yeah, she was a sweetheart,” Tom agrees. “Wait a minute, there’s something you should know.”
“What?” I ask, my heart beating faster.
“Steve wrote things down sometimes, after his accident. Said it helped him remember. Maybe he wrote something about Ronny.”
“Do you think you could look?” I ask, hope surging in me.
“Yeah, I can look,” Tom says. “He kept a bunch of notebooks. If I find anything, where should I send it?”
I give him my email address. “Thanks, man. And again, I’m sorry.” I end the call.
Probably a dead end, but what the hell?
I feel bad for the guy. His brother just died, and some stranger calls to interrogate him about his brother’s high school friend.
If they were even friends.
Lindsay never talked much about Ronny. Just said he was a psycho and it didn’t end well.
Fuck.
This could all be for nothing. So some guy comments on Lindsay’s memorial a year ago. It was two years too late. Probably doesn’t mean a thing.
We learn in medical school to look at the obvious. When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.
Am I chasing a zebra?
Maybe it’s nothing.
Except it’s not nothing.
I know in the very marrow of my bones that my wife did not write that note.
She could have asked someone to write it for her, but…
No.
Anyone she asked would have come straight to me to warn me.
And she was perfectly capable of writing it herself. Even in the throes of the deepest mother’s grief, she still was able to function. She wasn’t going to work, but she was getting out of bed, making coffee, doing basic household tasks.
So it wasn’t her. But who, then? Who would have the audacity to sit at my wife’s bedside, take her hand, and help her pen a suicide note that wasn’t hers?
The buzz of my phone interrupts my thoughts. An email. I pick it up and see it’s from Tom. Attached is a scanned page from one of Steve’s notebooks. My heart pounds as I open the attachment and look at the handwritten lines.
Random musings about old football games, thoughts on the news, memories of work-related stuff. And then something that makes me freeze.
Ronny Burgundy keeps coming into my thoughts lately. Don’t know why. Haven’t seen or heard from him since high school. After graduation, he just vanished.
Nice that Tom got right on this, seeing that his brother just passed, but how is this supposed to help me? I already know Ronny disappeared after high school. Ralph Parker told me that.
Then another email pops up.
A note from Tom.
Found this with Steve’s notebooks. Looks like it’s from Ronny himself.
I begin reading the note from the jpeg he sent.
Dear Steve,
* * *
I don’t even know how to start this. I guess by saying that I’m sorry. Sorry for all the shit I caused back in high school, sorry for disappearing on all of you without a word, and sorry for reaching out now after all these years.
* * *
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. Reflection, I guess you’d call it. And it brought me back to you. To us. To what we shared and what we lost. I realized that if there was one person who might understand, it might be you.
* * *
I’m not in the best shape these days, Steve-o. I made choices that led me down some dark paths—paths that felt endless and suffocating. I ran, thinking I could outrun my mistakes, my guilt. But you can’t outrun yourself, can you?