When I Found You by Brenda Novak

Twenty

Frightened by what she was both hearing and seeing, Natasha grabbed Anya by the shoulders. “Who’s dead?”

“There was so much blood pooling around his body.” She shuddered. “I’ve never seen so much blood. Oh, God!” she wailed. “He must be dead.”

How Anya had managed to drive for so long—and find the new house—while in such a state was a complete mystery. “Mom, look at me,” Natasha told her. “Who must be dead? What are you talking about?”

Tears welled up in Anya’s eyes when she finally caught and held Natasha’s gaze, and for a moment, she grew lucid. “J.T.”

“How? What happened to him?”

“I don’t know.” She lifted her hands to wipe her tears, saw the blood on them and nearly swooned. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.”

Anxiety caused Natasha to raise her voice. “Do what?”

Anya reacted as though it should be obvious by now. “Shoot him!”

Natasha felt her mouth fall open. “J.T.’s been shot?” The way Anya had been talking, Natasha had assumed he’d been in an accident or gotten in a fight. He had such a temper. Mack and the other Amos brothers acted as though he hadn’t been that way before prison, but she hadn’t met J.T. until after he got out, and the man she knew definitely had anger management issues.

Her mother’s eyes glazed over as she crumbled onto the couch and began to rock back and forth.

Natasha stood over her. “Mom? I’m talking to you. How did J.T. get shot?” And did Mack know about his father? What about Dylan and the others?

No answer.

Kneeling, Natasha got right in her face. “Look at me! Tell me what happened.”

She finally came to herself again. “I don’t know. I—I can’t remember.”

“Then tell me what you do remember.”

She began to wring her hands. “There’s not much to tell. I came home and...and found him lying on the floor.”

“You came home from where?”

Her mother didn’t seem to have a response. The question itself alarmed her, which came off as odd as everything else about this.

“Where were you before you came home, Mom?” Natasha repeated.

“I went to get something.”

“What? Groceries? Gas? Drugs?”

“Groceries.”

She spoke as if she’d chosen from the list Natasha had provided, which gave Natasha the impression it wasn’t true, but she was too eager to get the rest of the story to focus on that small detail. She just needed an anchor to get things started, would go back to that. “And then what?”

“I walked in and...and there he was in the entryway. I tried to lift him, to talk to him, to see what happened. But he was so heavy. Too heavy.”

“If there was a lot of blood, how do you know he was shot? How do you know it wasn’t something else that was causing all that blood?”

Anya shook her head. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. He could’ve been in a fight, could’ve been stabbed—”

“The gun was right there. I saw it.”

Natasha sat on the couch next to her while struggling to process what she’d learned. “Please tell me you called for help right away.”

“I did.” She stared at some point across the room. “I called 9-1-1.”

“And what did the paramedics say when they arrived?”

Fresh tears began to streak down her cheeks. “I didn’t wait for them. I panicked and...ran. I was afraid they wouldn’t believe me. That they’d think I did it.”

A chill went through Natasha. “Why would they ever think that?”

“Because I was the only one there!”

“But running will only make you look more guilty!”

“I didn’t shoot him,” she said again. “You have to believe me, Tash. I would never do anything like that.”

Natasha wanted to believe her. But could she even trust that Anya accurately remembered what had happened?

Part of Natasha—the part that sympathized with J.T. and Mack and his brothers—was outraged by the fact that Anya had left J.T. like that. But on the off chance that her mother was telling the truth, she deserved to have someone listen to her, didn’t she? At the very least, her own daughter should do that. “When was this?”

“Earlier.”

“When?”

Her mother got up and began to pace. “Do you have a cigarette?”

“Of course I don’t. I’m a doctor.”

“I’m shaking. I can’t concentrate. I—I have to have a cigarette.”

Natasha needed Anya to remain sharp and focused, and for that she was willing to forgo the whole “smoking isn’t good for you” argument and simply accommodate her. “Do you have a pack in your purse?”

“I don’t know where my purse is.”

Natasha glanced around. “I don’t see it. You must’ve left it in the car. We’ll go look. But first, answer my question. When did you find J.T.?”

“I don’t know!” she said, growing even more agitated. “About three o’clock, I guess. J.T. wanted me to...to go with him to watch Kellan at football practice. He was mad that I was going to make him late.”

How did she know he was mad if he was already shot and bleeding on the floor when she got there?

Natasha hoped Anya had a good answer for that, that she’d spoken to him on the phone or something they could prove, if necessary. “Did you have an argument?”

Anya hesitated before she said, “No. I told you. I found him on the floor when I got there.”

Leaning forward, Natasha squeezed her forehead. Was J.T. dead? Had Mack been given the news that his father had been shot?

He had to know by now. She felt terrible for him. She knew he struggled to respect J.T., but he’d already lost his mother.

Why hadn’t he called her? Why hadn’t any of the Amos brothers called her?

The memory of the past few hours, drinking and dancing to loud music, flashed through her mind. Maybe they’d tried while she was at the club.

She felt damp, clammy even though it was plenty cool in the house as she reclaimed her small clutch, which she’d put on the counter when she walked in, and dug out her phone. Sure enough, she’d missed several calls. One from Dylan, one from Aaron, two from Rod, and there were multiple missed calls from Grady.

But none from Mack.

Feeling strange and a little shaky herself, she began to listen to the various voice mails.

Dylan: Hey, Tash. Listen, I need to talk to you, okay? Call me when you can.

Rod: Have you heard from your mother? If so, can you please let me know where she is?

Grady: Are you kidding me, Tash? We’ve been good to your mother. You know we have. And this is how she repays us? If you hear from her, you’d better give us a call and tell us where we can find her.

Grady again: Where are you? Why aren’t you picking up? Avoiding me is only making me madder. I hope you know that. If she did this, she’s going to prison. You can’t protect her. Mack can’t protect her. No one can protect her.

That Grady would suddenly treat her like an enemy stung. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She wasn’t even sure her mother had. The only thing she knew for sure was that Anya had once again put her in a terrible situation.

She’d also missed a number of texts from the Amos brothers. Dylan: CM...Grady: Why aren’t you answering?... Aaron: Tell me she didn’t do it.

It was so late Natasha felt she might, without looking too bad, be able to put off returning their many calls and messages until morning. But time was ticking away and soon she’d have no excuse. If she didn’t respond fairly soon, the battle lines would be drawn, and she’d find herself standing on her mother’s side—against the men who’d protected her from Anya and Anya’s lifestyle at a very critical point.

“Did anyone see you at the grocery store?” she asked. “Do you have a receipt? Anything to prove the time you were there?”

Anya seemed too flustered to be able to remember. “What about that cigarette?”

“In a minute. Do you have a receipt? Maybe in your purse?”

She stared at her bloodstained fingernails as though they didn’t actually belong to her. “I don’t know.”

“Have you heard from Dylan or any of his brothers?”

“I don’t have my phone. I—I must’ve left it behind.”

“Left it where?”

“At J.T.’s.”

“When you found him?”

“Yes.”

The implications of that were not lost on Natasha. Dropping her head in her hands, she massaged her temples as she tried to think. If her mother really had shot J.T., Anya would have to pay the price. There was nothing Natasha could do to save her from the consequences. It wouldn’t be right to even try, especially after all the Amoses had done for both of them.

But what if her mother was telling the truth? What if someone else shot J.T.? If she turned her mother over too soon, they might not look any further. Anya was the type of individual who made an easy scapegoat. There were plenty of people who’d gone to prison for something they didn’t do, so it was certainly possible.

Although Natasha had been let down, disappointed, even disgusted by her mother’s actions, being a drug addict who couldn’t keep her life together didn’t make Anya a murderer.

“We need to go to the car to get your purse.” If she could find a receipt from the grocery store, maybe she’d have something to indicate her mother wasn’t with J.T. at the time he was shot.

“Yes,” her mother said in relief. “I need that cigarette.”

She hurried for the door, but Natasha stopped her. “I’ll get it. Just tell me where the car is and give me the keys. You can shower while I go.”

Fortunately, Anya had the presence of mind to remember where she’d left her vehicle. At least, Natasha hoped it would be where she’d been told. She got her mother some sweats to change into for when she got out of the shower, walked down to the light and turned left for another eighth of a mile or so before finding the fruit stand with a small parking area her mother had described.

She couldn’t help looking furtively over her shoulder again and again as she approached the car. It was so dark out, and there were no streetlights. She did have her phone, however, so she used the flashlight function to look around her and then inside the car.

It wasn’t locked, even though her mother’s purse was sitting on the passenger seat in plain sight. But had someone stolen it, they wouldn’t have gotten away with much. Anya didn’t have enough credit to get any credit cards; she relied exclusively on cash. And unless it was right after she got her disability check, she never seemed to have more than twenty bucks on her at a time.

The cabin light went on when Natasha opened the door, and she could plainly see dark brownish smears on the steering wheel, where her mother’s hands had been, along with the gearshift. Bloodstains. They made her uneasy and desperate enough that she sat in the driver’s seat, pulled her mother’s purse into her lap and rummaged through it immediately, hoping against hope that she’d find a receipt from the grocery store or some other small shred of evidence to suggest her mother might be telling the truth.

Gum, cigarettes, makeup, pills—Natasha didn’t even look at the label on the bottle because she knew she wouldn’t approve and didn’t need anything else to be upset about—some change, a ratty old wallet with very little money inside and a multitude of old wrappers and crushed receipts. Her mother’s purse was full of those things and more, but there was nothing recent.

Yanking the purse strap over her shoulder, she got out so she could search the car.

She found nothing reassuring there, either. What she did find was a note from J.T. that had fallen between the seat and the console telling Anya that she had to move out right away because he’d met someone else—just the kind of thing that might upset someone badly enough to make them do something desperate.

“No way,” she whispered.

Mack’s eyes were so gritty he almost couldn’t move them as dawn approached. His back and legs were stiff, too. He’d been sitting in the same uncomfortable chair all night, hoping his father might come around. But sticking it out for six miserable hours had been a waste of effort. While the equipment hummed, rattled and beeped, J.T. hadn’t stirred. Chances were good he didn’t even know Mack was there.

With a groan, Mack stood and stretched. He had a feeling this was going to be a long day. Last night, the shooting and its aftermath had seemed surreal. It’d been difficult to grasp that his father’s life hung in the balance, that this wasn’t something that could be easily fixed. He’d wanted to believe J.T. would pull through and be able to say who shot him and why, but after being up all night, watching a ventilator push air into J.T.’s lungs, Mack was beginning to understand that may never happen.

If it didn’t—if J.T. died—then what?

Intending to go find a cup of coffee or get some food, he opened the door to step out into the hall and had to jump back to avoid colliding with the nurse who’d been checking on J.T. periodically through the night.

“How’s your father?” she asked, her voice subdued in deference to J.T. and the patients in the rooms nearby.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “You’re going to have to tell me.” The sickly pallor of J.T.’s skin, his advancing age and his hard living had never been more apparent. Mack knew that much. J.T. looked like a cadaver already.

She gave him an encouraging smile. “The doctor should be by soon. Meanwhile, I’ll check on him and let you know if I see anything new we should worry about.”

They didn’t need anything new; they had plenty of old things to worry about. But he understood that she was just trying to be nice. It wasn’t as if she could offer him any guarantees. “Appreciate it.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Is there a cafeteria in this hospital?”

“Down on one.”

“Thanks.” With a sigh, he pulled his phone from his pocket as he started for the elevator and was surprised to see that he’d missed a text from Natasha during the night. Apparently, he hadn’t remained as vigilant and alert as he’d thought.

I’m sorry about your father. I hope he’s going to be okay.

She knew. Who’d told her? One of his brothers?

Mack felt a flash of anger. Grady? He’d better not have been too hard on her.

Or had she heard from her mother?

To his knowledge, no one had found Anya yet. But it was possible that the police had picked her up—or whoever else might’ve shot J.T.—and he just hadn’t heard about it.

He waited to respond until he could get off the elevator. But then he discovered that the cafeteria wasn’t open quite yet and walked out into a courtyard to get some fresh air and stretch his legs. His initial response to what’d happened—trying to keep it from Natasha until he could get it figured out himself—seemed ridiculous now. Of course he wouldn’t be able to keep this type of thing quiet for long. But he’d been hoping he could minimize this new drama, serve it up in a more palatable form. At a minimum, he’d planned to reassure her of J.T.’s well-being so that the consequences her mother faced wouldn’t be nearly as bad.

But J.T. was lying in a hospital bed, fighting for his life, and Mack didn’t know how to make that seem any better than it was.

So do I, but we don’t know what’s going on yet.

He waited fifteen minutes to see if she might respond but got nothing. It was early yet, though. He hoped she was sleeping and not just avoiding him.

He was about to go back in when Dylan called.

“How’s Dad?” his brother asked.

“Hard to say,” Mack replied. “Far as I can tell, there’s been no change.”

“Should I come over?”

“If you can. I’m dying to take a shower. What time do you need me at the shop?”

“You’ve got an hour or so. Grady’s there, but he didn’t get much sleep.”

“He’s furious that Anya has disappeared.”

“So am I. That she would do this is just...unreal. Have you heard from Natasha?”

“No,” he said because what she’d sent wasn’t what Dylan was looking for anyway.

“Do you think she’ll call us?”

“Have you tried to call her?”

“Several times. All of us have. But no one has gotten through to her yet.”

“She’ll respond.”

“I hope so, because we can’t cut her much slack on this one. If Anya shot Dad, and Natasha knows where she’s at, she needs to turn her in.”

“What if Anya didn’t shoot Dad and is afraid that no one will believe her?”

“Come on, Mack.”

The skepticism in that statement alarmed him. “What?”

“You know it was her as well as I do.”

“No, I don’t. And I don’t think we should rush to judgment.”

“You’d be rushing to judgment, too, if it wasn’t for Natasha.”

“Maybe, but still.”

“That reminds me—how’d the paternity test turn out?”

The disappointment Mack had felt when he received the results washed over him again. That he was rumpled and tired and worried about this new problem didn’t help. “He’s not mine.”

There was a brief pause. Then Dylan, his voice filled with honesty, said, “I can’t say I’m sorry to hear that. See you soon.”

After they disconnected, Mack stared down at the picture he’d selected for the wallpaper on his phone. Dylan might be glad Lucas wasn’t his child. If things got sticky, it would make it easier for the Amoses not to have that wrinkle to deal with, and it had been Dylan’s job to look out for the family for so long that anticipating and evaluating possible pitfalls came second nature to him now.

But Mack wasn’t happy Lucas wasn’t his son. He’d begun to want that above all else.