TWENTY-SIX
BROOKS
Nothing happened exactly as I thought it would. Probably because my plan came together under great duress in the short amount of time it took me to drive forty-seven miles to a remote location outside of Payne County.
I knew that even if I was able to get away from my father, others would inevitably follow. The stranger who kept showing up was likely one of many. And if I turned in the money myself, I’d constantly worry that I’d be labeled a snitch by people I’ve never met. Whoever truly owns that money would come looking for me to pay it back, with interest. As it is, I worry about my last name being the same as his. I’m connected to it no matter how hard I try to sever the ties. Jared Callahan had only one son. And fuck me, I’m him.
I’m sure my fears sound like wild conjecture to Lindsey, but I know better. I’ve seen horrible violence play out for a few thousand dollars. I can’t fathom the horrors someone would be willing to commit in the name of millions. It’s enough for a father to hold his son at gunpoint. Not that he’s much of a dad. Or that I consider myself his son. Blood, that’s all we share. DNA. Everything else I’ve scrapped together from life. Good andbad, it’s been built on the acquaintances and friends I’ve made along the way.
Nobody has made me a better human than Lindsey. And that’s why I have to walk away.
Drugs and money. I grew up in that life, without any of its riches. Even at the end, my dad had a mouth full of rotten teeth and drove a car with a rip in the front seat and bullet holes in the trunk. I’m still not sure whether those bullet holes were there because of him or whatever sad sack he got the car from. It doesn’t matter. It’s merely a symbol of a life not worth much in the beginning, middle or end.
“Okay, Mr. Callahan. I’m sorry to ask, but one more time, can you walk us through what happened?”
I take a big drink from my bottle of water and nod, straightening the story in my head to make sure the details align. The same story I’ve told three times in a row. Some things are exactly like they are on TV. Police interviews are one of them.
“My client is tired. Is this really necessary? His father died today.” The lawyer my agent hired for me is a shark. He’s going to walk away from this day fifty grand richer, so he better be. But if it ends this all, here and now, then it’s money well spent.
“It’s okay. I can go through it one more time.”
“Okay,” my lawyer says, folding his hands over his notebook but keeping his pen ready.
“My father first contacted me around the start of my season. Late spring, around the time I found out I had a daughter.”
“Go on,” the detective says, reading along as I talk. He’s taken notes on each version I’ve told. I haven’t veered once. I also haven’t slept in two days. And in that time, I’ve done nothing but brand this story in my mind. This is how it went, even if it’s notquitethe full truth.
“He sent a few emails at first, then text messages. I ignored them because I wasn’t sure if they were real or someonephishing. And even if they were from him, my father and I haven’t spoken since he went to prison.”
“And that was . . .” The detective looks through his notes, but I finish it for him.
“Ten years, seven months ago.”
“Right.” The detective nods.
“He showed up at the home I’m renting in Sweetwater on June first. We had a brief exchange, and I told him to leave and never come back.”
The detective pushes his glasses down his nose and meets my gaze over the gold rims. We’ve been through this part three times too.
“I did not know he was breaking parole when I saw him,” I say.
It’s no surprise that my father lied about getting out early for good behavior. He evidently never checked in with his parole officer, either, when he really was free. He fled, finding out where I was after tearing through the last shithole my mom lived in before she died. I guess when he didn’t find the money hidden in any of the usual places, he came looking for me.
I walk the detective through the series of events before that final visit, when my father showed up at my house with a gun. I explain how we met for breakfast and he demanded money, but I cut him off from my life. Then I relive the terrifying phone call Lindsey made, my walking in as he held my daughter and her hostage. I never say a word about the buried money, though, or that I knew where it was. This is where the lie begins, because I never want that money linked to me.
“He had a bag of something; I figured money and drugs because . . . well, my father is a drug dealer. I thought I saw some cash. He demanded I drive him somewhere, so I took the keys to my nanny’s van since I wrecked my car racing home. I drove at gunpoint where he told me to go. We got on Highway 183, andthen he started to get paranoid. He made me pull to the side of the road, so I did. He got out of the van, and I took off. He shot out the front tire as I sped away, and I nearly lost control of the van, but managed to turn it around and head the other way.”
“You were going back home,” the officer says, reiterating what I’ve told him twice before.
I nod.
“I wanted to get to my daughter, and to our nanny. I wanted to make sure they were safe.”
“And you called nine-one-one at that point.”
I nod again.
“Yes. I was in a panic, and I said everything I could remember about where he was when I left him. I lost the grip on my phone, though, so I kept driving, hoping I gave them enough information.”
