“It was only an accident,” she said.
He leaned against the desk. “This is just a formality. We’re mandated to investigate, so we investigate.”
“I’ve dedicated my life to helping people, not hurting them. I feel responsible for Calvin McKenna.” That was the truth, though it did nothing to change John’s assumption that Deborah was driving—and even here, with a man she knew and trusted, she couldn’t mention Grace’s name. Instead, frustrated, she said, “What in the world was he doing out there?”
“We haven’t been able to ask him that, yet,” John said. “But we will. In the meanwhile, you fill out that form. You have to file three copies.”
“Three?” she asked in dismay.
“One with us, one with your insurance company, one with the Registry of Motor Vehicles. It’s the law.”
“Does this go on my driving record?”
“RMV keeps your report on file.”
“I’ve never had an accident before. You saw the damage to the car. It isn’t much. I doubt I’ll even exceed my deductible.”
“You still have to file a copy with the insurance company. When personal injury is involved, you’re required to do it. If Cal McKenna isn’t insured, he may go after you for medical costs, and if he sues, your insurance company will have to pay.”
Deborah had thought her father an alarmist when he mentioned a possible lawsuit. John Colby’s mentioning it was something else. “Do you really think he’ll sue?” she asked. “What with the rain? His lack of reflective gear? What kind of case could he have?”
“That depends on what the reconstruction team finds,” the police chief said with a glance at the phone. “I’ll let you know when the report comes in.” His round face softened. “How’s your daughter handling things?”
“Not well,” Deborah said, able to be honest about this at least. “I had to pick her up from school a little while ago. She’s traumatized, and the talk there doesn’t help.”
“What are the other kids saying?”
“I don’t know. She won’t tell me much.”
“She’s at that age,” John said, head bowed. “It’s hard. They want responsibility until they have it. By the way,” he added, scratching his upper lip, then looking at her, “I should warn you. McKenna’s wife called me this morning. She could be a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“She’s pretty upset. She wants to make sure we’re not letting you off easy just because you’re so well regarded in town. She’s the reason you need to get your insurance company up to speed. She’s angry.”
“So am I,” Deborah burst out. “He shouldn’t have been running in the dark. Did she say what he was doing?”
“No. Apparently she wasn’t home when he left the house.
But don’t worry. We’ll do our investigation, and no one’ll ever say we favored one side or the other.” He tapped the desk and stood. “If I keep you much longer, I’ll get flack from my men. You’re seeing Officer Bowdoin’s new baby this afternoon. He’s pretty excited about the kid.”
Deborah managed a smile. “So am I. I love newborn visits.”
“You’re good to do it.”
“It’ll be the highlight of my day.” She rose with the accident report in hand. “When do you need this back?”
She had five days from the time of the crash to file a report, but from the minute she left the police station, she wanted to get it done. She made copies and spent several hours that night filling it out. She went through several drafts before she felt she had it right. Then she copied the final result, one for the police, one for the Registry, one for her insurance company. She put the latter two in envelopes, addressed and stamped them, and tucked them in her bag, but out of sight wasn’t out of mind. Waking early the next morning, the report was the first thing she thought of.
Dylan was the second. She had barely left her room, when she was drawn to his by the soft sound of his keyboard. He was playing “Blowin’ in the Wind” with such soulful simplicity that it brought a lump to her throat. It wasn’t the song that got to her but her son. His eyes were closed, glasses not yet on. He had been playing by ear since he was four, picking out tunes on the grand piano in the living room long before he’d had a formal lesson. Even now, when his teacher was trying to get him to read music, he was far more interested in the tunes his dad had liked.
Deborah didn’t have to be a psychologist to know that Dylan loved music precisely because he could do it without using his eyes. He had been severely farsighted by the time he was three, and by seven had developed corneal dystrophy. Eyeglasses corrected the hyperopia, but the dystrophy meant that the vision in his right eye would be gauzy until the time when he was old enough for a corneal transplant.
Going into his room, she gave him a good-morning hug. “Why so sad?”
He took his hands from the keyboard and carefully fitted his glasses to his nose.
“Missing Dad?” she asked.
He nodded.
“You’ll be seeing him the weekend after next.”
“It’s not the same,” he said quietly.
She knew that. One weekend a month didn’t make up for four weeks of no father. She and Greg had always known that they would have to work hard to juggle family time and their careers, but divorce hadn’t been in the mix.
Sadly, she took a Red Sox T-shirt from the drawer, but Dylan’s voice rose in dismay. “Where’s my Dylan one?”
“In the hamper. You wore it yesterday.”
“I can wear it today, too.”
“Honey, it has Lívia’s spaghetti sauce all over it.”
“But it’s my good-luck shirt.”
His father had given him the shirt for his last birthday, along with an iPod loaded with songs sung by his namesake, hence “Blowin’ in the Wind” moments before. Deborah understood that it was Greg’s attempt to involve his son in something he loved himself. But the shirt had to be washed.
“What does Dad think of Lívia’s spaghetti sauce?” she asked.
“He hates it.”
Totally. “Think he’d like it on your shirt?”
“No, but she’s washing it too much. It’s getting faded.”
Deborah improvised. “Faded is good. Dad would agree with me on this,” she added to clinch it, sounding more sure than she was. Though not much taller than Deborah, Greg had cut an impressive figure with his thick sandy hair and designer clothes. But all that was gone. She didn’t know the man he was today—didn’t know what kind of man could leave his wife and children on a day’s notice.
“Can I call him now?” Dylan asked.
“Nuh-uh. Too early. You can call this afternoon.” She tussled the thick silk of his hair. “Put on the Red Sox shirt for now, and we’ll wash the other so it’ll bring you luck tomorrow.”
His eyes were sad. “Is Dad ever coming to one of my games?”
“He said he would.”
“I know why he isn’t. He hates baseball. He never played it with me. I hate it, too. I can’t see the ball.”
Deborah’s heart ached. “Even with the new glasses?”
“Well, I guess. But anyway, I sit on the bench most of the time.”
“Coach