Chapter 44 – February 5, 1989

Six phone calls. Two written requests. One in-person conversation. I’m three weeks into the spring semester before the warden agrees to allow me to see Pete.

And before agreeing to the meeting, Pete reads Lassio’s real letter.

No one in my life, including my new therapist, supports my decision to visit Pete.

No one.

“It’s the right thing to do” is my response when interrogated about my thought process.

However, despite his strong objection to the meeting, Tom drives me to the prison. His driving gloves grip the frigid steering wheel, and the car’s heater works hard to fight against the sub-zero temperature outside. We ride in silence for the twenty-minute drive, a stark reminder of how close to me Pete remains.

Except for his piercing, blue eyes, I hardly recognize him. An uneven buzz cut has replaced his magnetic, golden bangs. The hoodie is an orange one-piece. The woven friendship bracelet has morphed into handcuffs. A guard pushes him in a squeaky wheelchair; Pete’s right foot is still in a cast.

It’s hard to believe he was ever capable of threatening me, let alone nearly killing me.

I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, and flashes of the night own a corner of my brain. Yet, when he sits across from me, a smile twitches–from both of us.

“Thanks for meeting with me,” I say, almost steadily.

“Actually,” he says, “I’m glad you’re here.”

I sigh and skip the remaining pleasantries. “What did you think about Lassio’s letter?”

He leans back. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, Ra'Shelle, and I believe you. I believe that you have the original letter, the real letter.”

“When did Lorez show you the forged letter?” I ask.

“That night.”

“You read it right before–” I stop myself.

“I’d finally settled things with the will, and we went for a drink,” he says. “I remember him showing me the letter at the bar, and I remember being really upset, but everything after that is hazy. I can’t explain it, Ra'Shelle. It’s like I wasn’t myself, like someone else controlled my body. Everything that night… my memory is shot in a fog until I awaken after surgery.”

“Maybe because of the ecstasy,” I say flatly.

He bites his lip, exhales, and nods. “Maybe.”

I narrow my eyes. “What, Pete?”

The handcuff chain drags against the metal table as he rubs his face. “I… I don’t use drugs, Ra’Shelle. During the school year, I hung around people like Florence; in the summer, I was with Simone. I promised myself I’d never turn into a junkie. I’ve never even smoked weed because I was so scared of becoming an addict.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You’re saying someone drugged you?”

He sighs. “I’m saying I don’t use ecstasy.”

“You think Lorez drugged you?” I hiss.

He clears his throat. “It doesn’t matter, Ra'Shelle.”

He looks around the room before resuming eye contact. “I was always going to end up here, ya know. When I moved to San Diego after graduation, I thought maybe I had dodged that bullet. Maybe I’d finally broken from his grasp, maybe I’d be happy and move on.”

I shake my head. “But then Mama died.”

He nods slowly. “Yeah, Florence died. He asked me to come home to help clean the house, I found the notepads, and I realized I would never be able to walk away from it. His malevolence was an oil spill in the beautiful blue ocean of my childhood. No matter how hard you try, you can never revive the ecosystem or purify the water. Mom’s death sealed my fate.”

I never considered that Pete might do something so terrible as to end up in prison, and the fact that he always knew that destiny was possible unsettles me. “You deserved better, Pete.”

He smiles and scoffs. “Look who’s talking.”

I swallow. “Do you know Joseph Deere?”

His smile instantly falls. “Ra'Shelle, why?” he asks, clearly irritated. “Why bring Deere into this?”

“So, you do know him.”

He exhales loudly. “We’re less than two years apart, and we spent winter break together when I stayed with Rich a few weeks before he died. Deere was completely miserable, but when did that ever stop me from befriending someone? Plus, there’s something about him… something that makes you feel seen and accepted without judgment or hesitation.”

“Did you know Dad was going to kidnap him?” I ask.

“No, but I wasn’t surprised. Maybe two weeks before it happened, Dad came home, ranting that Rich was a chump unable to leave things alone. He called Noah and screamed at him for a while, then he called Lorez and screamed at him even longer. When he slammed the phone down, I hadn’t finished my homework yet, and he–” Pete swallows. “It was a memorable night.”

He half-smiles, but there’s no joy. “Doing the right thing and signing his death warrant simultaneously? That was very on-brand for your father.”

“Have you seen Deere since then?” I ask.

“Yeah, I briefly saw him a couple of years ago during his winter break and again last summer. I think he was searching for peace, forgiveness. Compared to guilt, rage is an invalid.”

Pete shrugs. “Look, Ra'Shelle, I don’t like thinking about him. I know it’s not his fault, but you and I both know that Rich’s decision made our lives exponentially more difficult. Like it or not, Deere is tied to that.”

“Yeah,” I whisper, then sigh. “Do you believe me that February 29 was the first night?”

He nods. “The letter, the fake letter, said his cruelty started one year earlier, and Mom was really sick by then. I just thought… Yes, I believe you, Ra'Shelle.”

“Do you remember what the papers were that your father was showing Mama?” I ask.

He covers his eyes with his hand. “I thought Eva would explain enough that you would figure that out.”

“Wait. You know that Eva’s talking to me?”

“And sending you stuff. Yeah, she called me.”

“She called you? In prison?”

“You’re visiting me, Ra'Shelle. Maybe that’s not the biggest shock, yeah?”

I click my tongue. “Touché.”

He rubs his face and looks at me. “Rich was paying Florence’s rent, Ra'Shelle. Despite her dragging him through a demeaning divorce and cruel custody battle, he wanted to do what he could for you. He knew if he sent Florence the money, she’d just spend it on drugs, so he paid Dad directly. The papers he was showing her were your dad’s obituary and the contract he’d signed. He told her she’d have to start paying rent the next day.”

I hesitate. “Pete, that night, did she–”

Pete holds up his hand, and again the chains clank against the table. “I know your question, Ra'Shelle. I knew you’d ask it. Don’t. Don’t pull at that thread. It doesn’t matter who broached the topic first or whose idea it was. The blame lies with him. It was his choice and his actions. The role Florence may or may not have played is irrelevant.”

I look into his eyes, but he shakes his head. His voice is even firmer. “Don’t.”

“How much of the real letter was true?” I ask, deciding to take his advice.

“About half. Pick the half that makes you feel better.”

His eyes convey that he’s debating sharing more; my questions wait for his decision.

Finally, he places his fingers flat against the table. “Ra'Shelle, I know it wasn’t your fault. Some of the things I said when I found out about–” He lowers his head but doesn’t break eye contact. “I know I sounded like I was blaming you. I wasn’t. Honestly, it isn’t really about you.

“Mom was just so sick, Ra'Shelle. Those last few months, she was always exhausted, but the pain forced her awake. By the end, she was just a skeleton. And I was the one who was there, Ra'Shelle. I was always there. The weaker she became, the harder it was for Dad to watch. So I was the one who walked her to the bathroom, who gave her medication, who made her tiny meals.

“And the thought that he was spending his time with someone else… I constantly seethed, Ra'Shelle. I thought he was with Florence or that he’d made some twisted, parental bond with you while Mom was groaning, dying in my arms.”

His stare pierces me as he whispers, “Literally.”

That single, haunting word forces an understanding between us, and an image assaults my mind: A terrified, abandoned child sobbing against the bony shoulder of his lifeless mother while his slumlord father is missing, harassing impoverished tenants for overdue rent checks. I can hear his sobs and pleas and bargaining–with no one there to reassure him.

His exhale is heavy, tortured. “And then when that night happened, I knew that I was mistaken. I realized that his actions were even sicker, crueler. But then you were in the will, and that suspicion created by a ten-year-old afflicted with anticipatory grief just flooded back and consumed me. It was–I was–irrational and psychotic, and I’m sorry.”

Tension and mutual pain seize our oxygen, suffocating any possible response. Finally, he leans back and gestures to tell me it’s my turn again.

My mouth is full of words I’ll never say. “Can we talk about last month now?”

“Yeah, what do you want to ask, Ra'Shelle?”

“It’s not about questions, Pete.” My pulse has slowed through the conversation, but it’s returning to my ears. I take a deep, slow breath. “To me, you were a completely different person, but people keep reminding me that our adult relationship included two other physical altercations. They think that you at your worst is simply who you are. Some version of ‘psychopath’ appears in every conversation. They want me to see you as a villain, a violent offender with horrific intentions.

“And that’s who I saw in you that night, Pete. But it’s not who I saw before, and it’s not who I see now.”

He simpers. “Today, I’m the Pete who played pick up sticks.”

That reference guts me. Squeezes my heart. And I know adrenaline is the only thing stopping the tears from forming and falling.

My voice betrays me a little. “Yes.”

“I’m still that guy, Ra'Shelle,” he says, and his casual tone reminds me of the confident senior class president I once knew so well. “I hope I’ll always be that guy. But I’m also the guy who forced Gabriel to hang himself. If it helps you to see me as two separate people, feel free, but my essence is more twisted, tangled than that.”

“You said that you did those things for me,” I remind him. “In your drug-induced haze, you said you killed those people for me.”

“I vaguely remember that.”

“Is it true?”

“I did it for a lot of reasons, Ra'Shelle.”

He taps his fingertips against the table. He's debating his next words, but in the meantime, a strange energy hovers in the space between us. At this moment, we're as likely to abandon each other as we are to commiserate.

We both feel it: his next words will decide our path.

Finally, he says, “You say that you can see my younger self when you look at me, right?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I always see in you, Ra'Shelle. I know you’re a parent, and intern, and student now, but every time I look at you, I see the kid who couldn’t pick up the blue stick. The girl whose face was always covered in peanut butter after we ate our snack. The girl who needed my help with her first grade math homework.

“That’s the Ra'Shelle I remember, and when I think about the nightmare my father forced her to endure, my skin crawls. Living with that reality literally nauseates me. It makes me lose faith in humanity.

“And now I have a whole other thing to contribute to my guilt. If I had killed you, Ra'Shelle, I would have killed myself as soon as I was lucid.”

His eyes look distant, desolate. “I can’t believe how close we actually came to that reality. If you hadn’t shocked me, we’d both be dead.

“And I know my actions compounded your misery. I’m assuming the nightmares returned, and that’s on me too. All I wanted was to protect that kid, and not only did I fail, I’ve made it worse. I doubt I’ll ever forgive myself for that.”

“So, you’re saying I’m safe?” I ask. “My family is safe?”

“I really want to reassure you, Ra'Shelle, but clearly, considering, I can’t promise that, but I can promise you that if I’m given a choice, I would never hurt you… Anyway, it’s a moot point. I’m in here, and that’s how it should be. You don’t need to worry about any of this. Live your life, Ra'Shelle.”

“The guilt really has a tight grip on you, huh?”

“You can’t even imagine,” he says. “Guilt is a kingsnake.”

I smile at him. “No one wanted me to visit you, but I’m happy I did. I’m glad we did this, Pete.”

“Me too, Ra'Shelle. Did it give you closure?” he asks.

“I wasn’t looking for closure, Pete. Answers don’t have to provide closure. I just wanted to understand, and I think I do.”

“Want to try ‘never see you’ one more time?”

A smile twitches. “No, I suspect I’ll see you again.”

Pete raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“You thought you could tell me that you pointing a gun at me might be the fault of someone else, and I’d just let that go?” I ask.

“Don’t, Ra'Shelle,” he pleads. “C’mon. Think of your daughter. Don’t follow in your father’s footsteps.”

I stand, and the guard walks over to wheel Pete out of the room. “You are not your father’s son, Pete, but it is very possible that I am my father’s daughter.”