Chapter 2 - What We Told Each Other
Cole followed me outside but stopped when I turned around.
"Please," he said. "At least let me drive you home."
"I brought my own car."
He glanced at it, parked beneath a cypress tree. "You're upset."
"Yes. I am. That's not a reason for you to take my keys."
He moved aside. On the way down the restaurant steps I heard him call my name once, then stop. That restraint, arriving so late, felt like an insult.
My phone rang before I reached the highway. Evelyn Morgan's name appeared on the screen.
"How did it go?" she asked.
I'd told her about the old fleet assignment sheet and the restaurant invitation. Evelyn, who managed an adaptive sports center now, had insisted I could refuse the dinner and send everything to a lawyer. I had gone because some stubborn part of me believed Cole might confess without learning what I knew.
"He admitted driving," I said. "He lied to the police the next morning."
Evelyn didn't speak for a moment. "Come here."
Her house was twenty minutes inland, a single-story bungalow with a ramp she had installed herself. She answered the door in sweatpants, walking carefully with a cane on days when the old injury stiffened. I'd learned to stop offering her an arm automatically; she told me when she wanted help.
We sat at her kitchen table with the accident folder between us. There were hospital discharge summaries, an insurance determination, and two photographs from a local newspaper's coverage of the road closure.
"I hate that I was excited when you first introduced me to him," Evelyn said. "He seemed kind."
"He has been kind to us. That's what makes me feel foolish."
"It doesn't make you foolish. He lied about something that mattered, and you believed the person he showed you."
She lifted the picture of the pickup. "This is new evidence about his identity, not proof of every part of the collision. You should speak to someone who knows what can still be done."
The insurance company had closed our original claim after concluding that an unidentified driver was primarily responsible. We received limited compensation under our own policies, far below the cost of Evelyn's care and my rehabilitation. At the time we'd been grateful for anything. Neither of us had the energy or resources to keep searching after the investigator said no vehicle could be reliably identified.
I had changed my surname a few years later when my stepfather adopted me as an adult. My birth name, Grace Holloway, appeared throughout the case. Cole had met me as Grace Sutton when we worked on a public garden project. My hair was shorter, my face older, and I hid the scar. He'd seemed genuinely unaware of the connection. After tonight I could believe that without excusing anything else.
"Did he say why he crossed the lane?" Evelyn asked.
"Not yet. He says his cousin Grant was with him."
Evelyn drew in a breath. "Grant Bennett?"
"You know him?"
"The man who chaired the resort fundraiser last spring? He asked whether I remembered the other car's color. I thought he was making conversation."
A chill moved through me. Grant had been seated across from us at that fundraiser, listening while Evelyn joked about her unreliable hip. Had he been measuring what she knew?
Evelyn reached for her laptop and found the event photograph. Grant stood smiling with his hand on Cole's shoulder. I remembered that he had avoided looking at me when I mentioned a steep coastal road.
"Maybe he was just uncomfortable," Evelyn said. "We don't know."
"No more guessing," I agreed. "Tomorrow I call an attorney."
I slept in Evelyn's spare room and dreamed of the car lifting as though the road had vanished. In the morning there were eight unread messages from Cole. Only one was worth keeping: I need to correct the record. I have documents. Please don't meet Grant alone.
The last sentence made me sit upright.
He could have warned me about Grant the previous night. Instead he waited until after I'd driven away.
I sent the message to Evelyn, then called a law office that specialized in insurance disputes and complex injury cases. I left my name, the accident date, and no conclusions I could not yet prove.
At ten seventeen a voicemail arrived from an unknown number.
May you like
"Grace," a man said, "this is Grant Bennett. Cole tells me you had an emotional evening. We should settle a misunderstanding before it gets out of hand."
The word settle sounded nothing like an apology.
