BooksBarbecue
Back Snow Creek
Chapters (57)
  1. Books by Gregg Olsen
  2. Dedication
  3. Prologue
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty-One
  25. Twenty-Two
  26. Twenty-Three
  27. Twenty-Four
  28. Twenty-Five
  29. Twenty-Six
  30. Twenty-Seven
  31. Twenty-Eight
  32. Twenty-Nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty-One
  35. Thirty-Two
  36. Thirty-Three
  37. Thirty-Four
  38. Thirty-Five
  39. Thirty-Six
  40. Thirty-Seven
  41. Thirty-Eight
  42. Thirty-Nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty-One
  45. Forty-Two
  46. Forty-Three
  47. Forty-Four
  48. Forty-Five
  49. Forty-Six
  50. Forty-Seven
  51. Forty-Eight
  52. Forty-Nine
  53. Fifty
  54. Hear More from Gregg
  55. Books by Gregg Olsen
  56. A Letter from Gregg
  57. Acknowledgements

There was remorse in her voice, but not too much. Just a hint of regret. In some ways that was all I ever wanted from her. I wanted her to tell me that she was sorry our lives had been so screwed up. That she shouldered some of the blame. Even if she didn’t, really. “Sometimes,” I lied. I felt that way all the time. My mother’s choices had dragged me into a life that left me without any history of my own. I tried not to resent her, because I loved her so much. Yet, there were times when I just hated her for what she’d done to me, and to Hayden. As I grew older, I sometimes allowed myself to see her side of things. The reasons why she did what she did. My mother’s story was flimsy, but since she told it with such evasive conviction, I never really questioned it.

Those memories attack my brain with the ferocity of a thousand ice picks. I shake my head as if to free myself from a firestorm of nerves and questions, but I know I need to remember what happened in that bank vault: the day everything changed.

* * *

I sit in the corner of the vault with the letter in my hand. I need to face it. My heart rate is going faster. I look down on the paper and a tear drops on it. It leaves a shiny pool. I’m almost afraid to read on. I’m worried that her words will break my heart, that the betrayal she’s hinting at will be too great.

We’ve been running our whole lives from your father. It makes me ill to put those words to paper, but that’s the truth.

My father? My father is dead. He was an army enlistee who died in Iraq. I have carried his picture in my wallet for as long as I’ve had one. I have another reminder. I press my fingertips against the dog tags that hang around my neck on a silver braided chain that I’d saved up to buy from the Macy’s jewelry counter in Minneapolis.

The first tag has his name, enlistment number, and blood type.

Walters, William J.

FG123456Z

A Neg

On the second one was the next of kin:

Ginger Walters 1337 Maple Lane Tacoma, WA

For a moment anger and confusion well up as my emotions battle for some kind of strange supremacy. I have no idea where this is going, so I read on. I take in the last words in big, oxygen-free gulps.