The Row Read online

“This is only the beginning of your punishment, my dear.” Behind the anger, I hear notes of sympathy in Mama’s voice and I know she isn’t as mad at me as she probably should be.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, and my voice sounds like a frog with one foot in the grave. Even more pleasant, my mouth tastes like I ate that frog in my sleep.

  Mama steps over to the bed and rests one arm gently around my shoulder. “We’re going to have a talk about last night, but first let’s see if we can help with the pain you’re in. I’ll grab you some ibuprofen and coffee. Then you take a shower while I make you something to eat. Okay?”

  “Okay, Mama.” I lean my head on her arm, but then lift it again when even that increases my pain. “Sorry again, and thank you.”

  * * *

  The coffee is bitter. I’m not a big coffee fan, but it helps me open my eyes a bit and feel more ready to face a shower. By the time I’m out of the scalding hot water, the ibuprofen has kicked in and I’m in less physical pain. I’ve also had the time to fully remember everything that happened with Jordan at the park last night, and so emotionally I’m flip-flopping between embarrassed that he saw me that way and horrified that I had called him of all people when I was in that state.

  I am never drinking again. Ever.

  I told him things I never should have, cried my eyes out on his shoulder, and then puked in front of him. It seems a reasonable conclusion that I’ll never see him again, and I honestly can’t blame him. Then again, even after he’d seen all that, he’d taken my keys, helped me into my car, and driven me home. But he barely knows me. Why did he do all of that for a complete stranger?

  While I’m very grateful that I was able to talk to someone about Daddy and his confession, I’m definitely having morning-after remorse. What if he told someone? Then again, what would that change? Daddy is scheduled to die in twenty-six days, whether he confessed to the crime or not.

  Does it really matter who I told? I can’t seem to figure out the answer to that with my head still sending dull, aching waves down the base of my neck.

  I pull on a pair of jeans with more force than necessary, mad at myself more than anyone else. I pick up my phone and see a text message pop up. I groan when I see the name I apparently saved his number under.

  Hot Guy: How are you feeling this morning?

  I quickly change the contact name to “Jordan” and bite on my nail for a minute while I try to think of a fitting response. Finally, I send back:

  Like I was hit by a truck that then backed over me … and ran me over again.

  I think for a few seconds before adding:

  Thanks for everything. You were great last night, despite how not great I was.

  Sticking the phone in my pocket, I sigh. Then I remember to silence it so it won’t interrupt Mama and me having our “talk about last night.” Clean, dressed, and now feeling like a rather unpleasant vacuum has replaced my stomach, I walk into the kitchen to find my breakfast done—and almost burning on the stove. Mama is nowhere in sight.

  With a sigh, I turn off the burner and scoop the only slightly browned omelet onto a plate. I grab a fork and set out to find her. She’s in her room with one of Daddy’s boxes open beside her, a deeply sad expression on her face. Her hands are clenched at her sides and she has an old family picture from when I was a toddler on her lap.

  I cross to her, taking a bite of my food, but her eyes remain on the picture. “What are you doing, Mama?”

  She looks up at me, her eyes focusing and blinking a few times. “Oh, Riley … nothing, honey. I’m just trying to straighten a few things before I put them in the attic.”

  The entire box beside her is full of old photos she had suddenly taken down off the walls a few months ago. When I angrily asked her what she was doing, she said she thought it was unhealthy to live surrounded by reminders of something that was over. They would prevent us from moving forward. She said we were trapping ourselves in a life that we couldn’t ever have again because even if Daddy came home, everything would still be very different. I didn’t speak to her for five entire days—not that she even noticed since she was so busy with work.

  Setting my plate on the nightstand, I pick up my favorite photo: the three of us laughing in a park. Daddy has his arms around us both, and Mama is resting her head against his shoulder and looking at him with adoration in her eyes. It had been taken almost one year before Daddy was arrested.

  My heart thuds painfully against the wall of my chest. I hadn’t realized how much I missed the pictures. But after my visit with Daddy yesterday, they only cause confusion. Did he smile and laugh with us, then become someone else afterward?

  If his confession to me was true, then he’d already started killing by the time that photo was taken. I stare at the photo, wondering how I could ever be convinced that this smiling, laughing man had taken a life.

  Crimes like that shouldn’t be easy to wash off. No one should be able to murder someone and then come home to his family and pretend like nothing happened. He should have that blood staining his hands forever. If he stole even one life, his world should never be the same again … let alone three lives.

  Of course, Daddy’s life did change, whether he deserved it or not. He’s been in Polunsky for most of his adult life. He’s going to die in twenty-six days, and I still don’t know if he did the things he’ll be dying for.

  “Riley?” Mama grips my shoulder and I snap out of it and turn toward her. She takes the picture I’m still holding and puts the remaining photos back in the box with a shake of her head. “I’m sorry, sweetie.”

  “For what?”

  She points to my slightly burned omelet, forgotten on her nightstand. “Your breakfast.”

  “Oh.” I pick it up and shovel a bite into my mouth with a forced grin. “It’s delicious.”

  Mama laughs and puts the lid back on the box, moving it over against the wall. When she turns back to me, she clasps her hands before her and puts on her best Stern Mothering look. “Now, about last night…”

  I sigh and plop down on her bed, waiting for the lecture that I not only know is coming, but that I absolutely deserve.

  Mama tilts her head toward me. “Why would you do that to yourself?”

  “I don’t know,” I mutter, studying the omelet on my plate. “Maybe we can just assume I’ve learned my lesson and will never do it again?” I give her a pleading look.

  “Doubtful.” Mama grimaces. “Have you learned your lesson?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answer quickly. And from the way she levels her stare at me, I realize, too quickly.

  “What on earth were you thinking? What made you decide to drink like that?” Mama asks, and then a new and more disturbing thought seems to occur to her. “Please tell me the truth, Riley: Was this the first time?”

  “Yes. I promise.” I tuck my left foot under my right knee so I’m facing her. Above all else, I hope she doesn’t press me further on the one question I haven’t decided on how to answer yet: Why?

  “Do you have new friends that are a bad influence on you? Did anyone pressure you into this?” Mama watches me closer with each new question.

  It takes enormous self-control not to laugh. My worry about her asking why is obviously unfounded. She doesn’t really know me if she thinks I have any friends or know anyone that I care enough about to allow peer pressure to affect me at all.

  Peer pressure lost any power over me when I decided I didn’t care what anyone outside our family thought. The kids at school all believe I’m the daughter of a killer and treat me with a mixture of fear and disdain. I think most of them are dumb as rocks and I try to believe they don’t matter, pretend they don’t exist. Our feelings are somewhat mutual, and I’ve learned to be okay with that.

  “No, Mama, I think I was just feeling a little rebellious after the appeal and all.” It’s not a complete lie. What happened at the appeal had only been the beginning, but she doesn’t need to know that—not yet.

  Mama sighs and
then reaches out for my hand. “I know you’re tough as a boot, girl. But whether you admit it or not, everything with your father has been hard on you, Ri. Harder than it should be for any seventeen-year-old. You promise not to do anything like that again, and I promise it will get better, okay?” Mama leans over until I meet her eyes. “I will make sure it does.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I squeeze her hand and smile until she nods and turns to search for something in her closet; then the smile melts from my face like a piece of ice on the Texas asphalt. It isn’t that I’m not happy she wants to make things better. I want her to take care of herself, if nothing else, for her sake as much as mine. It’s likely that in twenty-six days, she’ll be the only parent I have left. As much as I often try not to, I need her.

  I just know that whenever I tell her what Daddy confessed to me, it could destroy her even more than it destroyed me.

  10

  I SPEND THE WEEKEND rereading old letters from Daddy and sleeping off my hangover. In my mind, I keep replaying my conversation with Daddy at Polunsky. I think that maybe if I’d asked the right questions somehow I could have gotten to the truth.

  But I hadn’t. I’d freaked out, and now I have to wait a week before I can have another chance to get my answers. The next time I see him, though, I will find a way to make him explain and tell me the truth.

  I have to know.

  It’s become an obsession now and I feel like I can’t understand anything about my life without knowing what he is. A martyr or a monster? A hero or a demon?

  And whatever he is, does it change who I am?

  Every time I think about telling Mama about my last visit with Daddy, about asking her to help me find the truth, I chicken out and just end up texting with Jordan instead.

  I’m sitting in my room on Sunday rereading a letter from after Daddy’s conviction when my phone buzzes beside me.

  I see Jordan’s name and pick it up, feeling nervous. This is the first time he’s called me.

  “Hello?” I know the smile in my voice shines through even over the phone and I don’t care. I’m letting my guard down with him and even though I know it might be stupid, I can’t help it. Despite my instinctive need to push everyone away, something about him tells me I can trust him.

  “Hi. How are you?” I can tell he’s smiling, too.

  “I’m much better, thanks.” I don’t know why, but talking instead of texting makes me more nervous. I can’t fix my mistakes before pressing Send. “How about you? Been forced to endure any more neighborhood football games?”

  He laughs. “No. Thank God.”

  “I have to admit, I’m intrigued,” I say, flopping down on my bed and staring at the ceiling. “What makes a Texas boy who used to like football start hating it?”

  I’d been teasing, but the other end of the line feels more silent now and I know I’ve crossed into territory I shouldn’t have.

  Before I can apologize, though, or try to let him off the hook, he responds and his voice is soft. “I don’t hate football. I still like to watch it. I even miss playing sometimes. I miss my team, but my mom came to every game I’ve ever played—from flag to tackle to school football teams.”

  I close my eyes and my heart hurts for him. No wonder he doesn’t want to play.

  “I just don’t want to be out there and look up at the spot where she always sat and not see her. I’m not ready for that.” He clears his throat. “I’d be useless to the team anyway.”

  After a few moments of silence, I say the only thing that feels right. “Maybe we have more in common than I thought.”

  He chuckles softly, but I can hear the pain behind it. “I think you’re right.”

  I decide to change the subject. “I’ve been thinking and I might have an idea to remedy our situation.”

  “What situation is that?” The warmth is back in his voice and I feel for the first time all weekend like I’ve accomplished something.

  “The one where I mortally embarrassed myself in front of you and you have yet to do anything embarrassing in front of me.”

  “Mortally?” He sounds amused by the word.

  “Yes, mortally.” I tug on a piece of my hair. “It’s a chasm. We aren’t on equal ground.”

  His tone has a bit of an edge when he speaks again. “Just stick around. I’m sure to even us out at some point.”

  I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “No. I’m too impatient. We need to fix it now.”

  “Okay.” Jordan seems like he’s trying to sound reluctant. He’s not pulling it off. “What sort of embarrassment did you have in mind?”

  I’m surprised he caved this easy and I don’t have an answer yet. “I’m—working on it.”

  “Well, be sure to give me fair warning once you figure it out.” Then there’s a huge crash in the background like ten pots and pans being dropped on the floor. I jump and sit straight up at the sound.

  “Matthew! Stop getting into the cupboards!” Jordan calls. He curses softly. I hear the thud of footfalls and it sounds like Jordan is running across the house. Finally, he sighs. “I’m sorry. I think I need to go. Talk tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  We say goodbye and hang up. I’m left on my bed, staring at my phone and already missing the distraction. When it’s your family, your life, and everything you’ve ever known that you don’t want to deal with, it’s so much harder to run away. With a groan, I pick up Daddy’s letter and start reading again.

  * * *

  By Monday, Mama has gone back to work and I’m going crazy just sitting around and accomplishing nothing. I keep thinking that maybe a visit with Daddy isn’t the only way to find answers. Actually, now that I know I can’t trust Daddy not to lie, it’s probably better to find some other way to verify whatever he tells me. As difficult a task as it may be, I have to find some way to know for sure that he’s telling the truth.

  If only I could figure out how to do that.

  I move to my laptop with an open can of Coke and a few pieces of red licorice. Closing my eyes, I try to gather the little strength I have left. I’ve done a handful of online searches about Daddy’s case in the past. I usually can’t get through more than the first article before I feel sick and end up closing the browser. It isn’t easy, seeing people say such awful things about my father. Back then I did it because of morbid curiosity. Now it’s out of necessity.

  If he’s innocent, then we must still fight.

  If he’s guilty, then I’d rather know now. And with only twenty-four days left until his execution, I can’t afford to waste any more time without at least trying to find out for myself.

  My phone dings next to me and I pick it up. I’d honestly expected Jordan to run when he found out way too much about me in just one night. Instead, he’s done the opposite. It’s like my secret connected us in some way that I don’t understand. It makes me both nervous and hopeful. My biggest secrets are all out with him, so I’ve been able to talk about my whole family freely. He’s told me about his mom’s car accident and how hard it’s been on them. I’m not sure what it says about him that he hasn’t run from me.

  I just know that I really like having him only a text away.

  Jordan: You have any plans tonight?

  My smile widens as I respond:

  Since I decided to ditch my alcohol friend from Friday night … No.

  Jordan: Good choice. Want to hang out with me instead? I can’t promise to dull the pain from all the crap you’re going through in the same way, but I can try very hard not to make you sick by the end of the night.

  Me: Ha ha, don’t remind me. What do you want to do?

  Jordan: Let’s meet at the Galaxy Café again, but this time the one in the Valley Vista mall by your house. Does 7 work?

  Me: Yep! See you there!

  I put down my phone, wondering for a second whether Jordan thinks this is an actual date, before I decide it doesn’t matter.

  He’s funny, really cute, and he wants to spend time w
ith me. That’s all I need to know right now.

  Time to start my personal research. I take a breath and remind myself that I am doing this for me, for the truth. Popping a piece of licorice in my mouth, I open my laptop and type Daddy’s name into the search engine. The first article that pops up makes my stomach clench: “Perfect Gentleman to Vicious Murderer?”

  I take a deep breath and scan through that article first. It talks about his happy home life and successful law practice. Then it poses some theories about what could have turned Daddy into a murderer.

  Is it possible that this monster was always inside David Beckett? Could it have been lying dormant until something or someone woke it? At which point, it could’ve become too hard for this killer to go back to the gentleman’s façade again—or maybe he chose not to.

  I’ve never heard that one before, but it isn’t exactly groundbreaking.

  Could Mr. Beckett have an undiagnosed adult-onset mental illness? Could he be seeing and hearing things that aren’t real? If so, he’s an expert in the art of deception.

  I shake my head. These theories could be presented about anyone who’d been accused of murder. Nothing so far is specific to my father’s situation. No clues. This isn’t helping me.

  Perhaps the happy home life Mr. Beckett appears to have isn’t everything he would have us believe. Could this be the reason the victims in this case have similar features to the defendant’s wife, Amy Beckett? Could this supposed happy home be more like a nightmare? We already know he had at least one affair. Could he have been that unhappy? Did David Beckett kill these women to fulfill some deep-rooted desire to kill his wife?

  Taking a deep swig of my Coke, I sit back in my chair. The affair information was nonsense. I’d known this since the trial. The prosecution had accused Daddy of having an affair with one of the victims, but Daddy had denied it. And when I’d been old enough to understand a little about what it meant and ask, Mama and Mr. Masters backed up Daddy’s story. It was simply a lie meant to tarnish his reputation in the eyes of the jury, nothing more.