Twenty-Eight

I didn't pass out.

Bonnie helped me into the house and got me as far as the kitchen, where I sat. Rachel, thankfully, was in the backyard, and did not see me in distress. Bonnie had her phone out, her finger poised over the screen.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Calling an ambulance," she said matter-of-factly. "You're having a heart attack."

"No, no," I protested. "It's not a heart attack." I licked my lips. "I think it's a panic attack. I'm okay now."

She set the phone down, went to a cupboard, and brought out a small plastic container of aspirin. She shook one out into her hand and held it in front of me. "Chew this."

I did as I was told.

Bonnie picked her phone back up and, despite another protest from me, hit 911. Three seconds later she was telling a dispatcher our address and that she was worried her husband might be having a heart attack. "Yes," she said, "I just gave him one."

She ended the call.

"I'm not having a heart attack," I said again.

"I hope you're right, but we're not taking any chances."

I nodded, knowing it was pointless to argue now that the paramedics were on their way.

"You're going to tell me what's going on," Bonnie said, "but not now."

While we waited for the ambulance to arrive, Rachel came into the house and could tell immediately that something was wrong. I tried to persuade her it was nothing serious.

"I was feeling a little off for a minute," I told her, "and your mother called an ambulance just to be sure I'm okay."

Her face looked like it might break. "You can help," I said. "You can let us know when the ambulance gets here."

She nodded and ran. A couple of minutes later, she screamed, "They're here! They're here!"

She had the front door open before Bonnie could get there and lead them into the kitchen. It was a team of two, a man and a woman.

"I'm fine," I said before they'd even said hello.

They asked me a slew of questions, checked my blood pressure, conducted an electrocardiograph with some little gadget Rachel watched with a mixture of fear and fascination.

"What's with the bandages?" the female paramedic asked, noticing the ones on my neck and forehead.

"They're old."

"And what about this?" She was indicating the bruise on my temple and my puffy eyelid. "Did you fall when you had your episode?"

I'd forgotten I'd been hit. "No, I didn't fall." I needed a second to remember the lie I'd told Bonnie. "I got hit with a basketball. It's fine."

When they were finished with their speedy tests, they concluded it was unlikely I'd had a cardiac event. But they advised me to come to the hospital anyway.

"I'm okay," I insisted. "I've been under a lot of stress lately, that's all."

Rachel piped up, "Dad nearly got killed when the bomb went off."

Bonnie added more details. The paramedics nodded. They knew all about the LeDrew incident.

"We can't force you to come," the woman said. "Something's happened to you. Just how serious it is would take further tests."

I was adamant. And maybe stupid. But I sent them on their way.

Once the house was quiet again, and Rachel, still looking somewhat stricken, went to her room after being persuaded I was not going to drop dead, Bonnie went to the freezer for one of the soft ice packs we keep on hand.

"It may be late for this, but hold it on the side of your head." She handed me the pack, and a towel to hold it with so it didn't freeze my hand. I did as I was told while Bonnie made some tea, and then sat across the table from me.

"Let's hear it," she said.

And so I told her.

Pretty much all of it. Everything that had happened since Finster first approached me on the street Friday out front of our house. How I'd tried to find out more about him. Found his house. Him turning the tables on me, striking me. (At that point in my story, Bonnie's face flushed red with rage.) I explained the anguish I'd been going through about what was the best way to handle this. My fears of what an allegation like this could do not only to me, but to Bonnie and Rachel. How, given my history, it was just one more thing.

I'd asked Bonnie at the outset to let me get the story out before asking questions. I knew she'd have plenty.

I was afraid her first one would be whether the abuse allegation was true. So I decided to beat her to it.

"Are you going to ask if I did it?"

She shook her head without hesitation. "No," she said, and put her hand on mine and squeezed. "Somebody might have, but not you."

I'd included Anson Reynolds in my story, the newly revealed information that he had taken his own life.

"Thank you," I said weakly, taking a sip of the tea with my free hand. The right side of my head had gone numb from the ice pack.

"You should have told me right away."

"I've told you why I didn't."

"Not good enough."

I nodded. I took the ice pack away from my head and put it on the table. "How's it look?" I asked.

Bonnie examined me. "The swelling might have gone down a titch. Your eyelid looks less swollen." She pressed her lips together angrily. "That son of a bitch."

"Yeah."

Bonnie said, "Marta got it right. How what happened might affect you. This whole week you've been in shock. You're not thinking clearly. You're not making rational decisions. Look, this would throw anyone for a loop, but for someone who's just gone through what you have? It's over the top."

"Maybe it's not irrational to spare us from a scandal, even if it's bullshit."

"There's no proof. If he comes forward, we level the extortion accusation. And if he makes an anonymous allegation, no one's going to put any faith in that. Wouldn't be the first time some student tried to smear a teacher who'd given him a bad mark or suspended him, or just did it out of mischief."

"What about Lyall Temple?"

Again, she shook her head. "That boy himself said what you did was compassion, pure and simple. That you comforted him in a time of need. His father had died. You can ride this out. They might put you on a paid leave, but you'd get through it. We'd all get through it. I don't think you have any choice but to ride this out. If you pay him, you're saying you're guilty. And if you pay him once, he'll come back again and again."

I knew she was right, but it still felt like rolling the dice, doing it her way. I still had a backup plan in the back of my mind, one I didn't want to share.

"He wants the money tonight."

"If he shows up, we call the police," she said emphatically. "And we shouldn't wait for that to happen. We need to bring Marta into this. She needs to know. That's how we get ahead of this."

I was less sure about that. "You might believe I wouldn't molest some kid, but will she?"

"Yes," Bonnie said, but I thought it took her about half a second too long to answer. "She will. If she has any doubts, I'll make sure she comes around."

"The thing is," I said, and this was going to be difficult to admit, "I feel humiliated. I allowed myself to be bullied. I let this fucker intimidate me. It's as if I had only so much courage—or stupidity, depending on how you look at it—in reserve, and used it all up when I faced down Mark LeDrew, and I need time to build it back up."

In what was the only moment of levity that entire day, Bonnie grinned and said, "It's kind of like trying to have sex twice in half an hour."

"Thanks for not adding ‘at your age.' But yeah, like that. So can you let me think of this till morning, about whether to bring Marta to the rescue?"

Bonnie thought about it. "Okay. And anyway, I need to find out how she's doing. I hope she wasn't foolish enough to go back to work today."

"I'll bet she did."

"I'd promised to drop by and then things got away from me." She glanced at the wall clock. "I'm going to order you guys a pizza. And pick one up on the way to Marta's."

That made me nervous.

"Promise me. Not a word about this to her. Not yet, anyway."

Bonnie considered my request, and nodded. "I promise."

She picked up her phone, opened an app that would take her to the place we always patronized, and with a couple of taps placed a repeat of a previous order. As she finished, my own cell rang. I took it out of my pocket and looked at the number. I didn't recognize it.

I said, "This might be it."

The phone rang a second time. A third.

Bonnie looked at me, said nothing. She didn't have to. I knew what she wanted me to do. And she was hoping she'd given me the strength to do it.

Fourth ring. Fifth.

I picked up. "Hello?"

"Bring the money to—"

I said, "Fuck you. I'm not paying. Do what you've gotta do, asshole."

As I ended the call and put the phone down on the table, Bonnie gave me a smile. She might even have looked proud of me.

"I'm going to go upstairs, check on Rach, and then I'm out of here," Bonnie said, and slipped out of the kitchen.

I sat there, taking deep breaths to keep myself on an even keel. I muted my phone so that if that asshole called back, I wouldn't have to listen to the ring. But a minute later, I saw the screen light up with a text.

You'll be sorry.

I turned the phone facedown, tried to pretend I hadn't even seen the message. Moments later, Bonnie reappeared long enough to grab her purse and keys. "Pizza's on its way," she said, kissed my forehead gently, and was gone.

It arrived ten minutes later. I got out two plates and placed a couple of slices on each.

"Rach!"

She came running into the kitchen. If she had been worried earlier about her dad being looked over by a pair of paramedics, she was over it now. There was great healing power in the aroma of cheese and pepperoni.

"Can we eat in front of the TV?" she asked. I had no objection.

Rachel went onto one of the streaming services and picked How to Train Your Dragon, a movie she'd watched at least ten times already. My mind was not on the screen. I couldn't stop thinking about that last text I'd received.

My blackmailer was half-right. He'd said I was going to be sorry. I was already sorry. Sorry that I'd allowed him to manipulate me. Sorry that I hadn't stood up to him. Sorry that I had allowed myself to become a victim.

No more.

Bonnie had led me to something of a breakthrough. I wasn't going to take this shit any longer. I had to find a way to take control of my situation, on my own. Tonight. And if I failed, then I'd have to accede to Bonnie's wishes and bring Marta into this in the morning.

But in the meantime, I felt I needed someone else—someone other than Bonnie, and not Marta—to hash this over with.

I wanted to talk to Trent, tell him the rest of the story, reveal my blackmailer's identity. I wanted to know if he was aware Anson had taken his own life and whether he thought there was anything to be read into that. I needed to know he'd have my back if and when this all became public. And I had a hell of a favor to ask.

I slipped out of the family room and phoned Mrs. Tibaldi.

"Hi, Richard," she said, obviously seeing my caller ID.

"Mrs. Tibaldi, hey, sorry to bother you. I know it's after hours, but would you be able to take Rachel if I brought her over in a few minutes? Couple of hours or so. Just add it into what we pay you at the end of the month. Bonnie had to go out, and now there's something I have to do."

"Bring her over."

I thanked her and went back into the family room to break the news to Rachel.

"Everything is crazy around here," she said.

Once I'd dropped Rachel off, I texted Bonnie to let her know I'd gone out and that Rachel was at the sitter's, just in case she returned home before I did and wondered where we were.

I drove straight to Trent's house. Parked out front, walked up to the door, and rang the bell. It was nearly dark. The curtain fell back an inch, and I saw a sliver of Melanie's face.

"Hello, Richard," she said, opening the door and admitting me.

"Melanie. Sorry for dropping by like this."

"You looking for Trent?"

"I am."

"He's not here. Is there something I can help you with?"

I sighed. "Where is he?"

"Something at the school. What did you do to your head?"

"It's nothing. Listen, I'll catch up with him later."

"I'll tell him you came by."

I exited the house, heard her close the door behind me, and got back into my car. And sat. Didn't turn on the engine. Stewed.

Maybe it was just as well Trent hadn't been home. I wasn't able to ask him that favor. It would have been a big ask, and he probably would have said no. I wanted him to come with me to Billy Finster's. I had this crazy idea Trent could stay out of sight while I got my blackmailer to admit that there was nothing to his allegations. That if he had been abused, I wasn't his abuser. He'd as much as admitted that in our last encounter when he'd said maybe it was me, and maybe it wasn't. Trent would be my witness.

It would have been wrong to put Trent in that position. It would have been too risky for him, personally and professionally.

I heard an incoming text. Probably Bonnie acknowledging my earlier message. I got out my phone and had a look.

Not Bonnie.

Don't fuck with me. Gonna tell everybody. Just you wait. Pay up asshole.

I exited the texting app and stared briefly at the phone's screen, at all those other apps, including the ones I'd briefly considered deleting.

Voice Memos.

Maybe I didn't need Trent after all.