The Wish Collector
Page 68

Something expanded in Jonah’s chest. He wasn’t sure if it was pain or pride. Maybe a mix of both. Clara had said basically the same thing to him. You give those people too much importance and not enough to the ones who matter. He expelled a breath. He did, he knew he did. He just didn’t know how to let go of the shame.
Keep your eyes on me.
“What do you think about my face?” Ruben asked.
“He thinks it’s butt ugly like the rest of us,” Augustus said.
Ruben shot him a dirty look but then grinned. “Your mama didn’t seem to mind last night.”
“Man, do you even know how old I am? My mama’s been dead for fifteen years, you sick gravedigger.”
Despite himself, Jonah laughed.
Ruben’s grin faded, his expression becoming serious after a moment. “It’s not easy,” Ruben said, sitting up on the couch and gesturing to his own marred face. “Wearing your mistakes and regrets on the outside where others can judge them. But, man, the problem is not that others judge you harshly, it’s that you believe what they say.”
Jonah sighed. All of his well-laid plans were beginning to crumble. He could feel it like a quaking inside. First Clara had chipped away at his long-held beliefs, creating so many cracks he was barely holding himself together, and now these men—these friends when he hadn’t had friends in so long—were knocking over the few final sections of stability he’d managed to maintain.
So maybe his plans weren’t so well laid after all.
He eyed Ruben for a minute, his eyes running over the rough, poorly drawn art that must tell a story, though he didn’t know what. “You ever consider getting that removed?” he asked. “I’ve got the money if you need it, and I’ve sorta got this thing about granting wishes.” He attempted a smile, but it felt shaky.
Ruben chuckled. “Nah. These tattoos remind me who I was, and who I’ve fought to become. They might not be pretty, but I’m proud of them.” He paused. “Spend that wish granting on your woman. Or hell, better yet, spend one on yourself.”
The men stood, Augustus patting him on his shoulder as he passed by, leaning in to say, “You have more friends than you realize, man. Think about that.”
Jonah nodded, too overwhelmed to speak, too many thoughts and questions raging through him to begin to put in order.
Ruben gave him a fist bump and Eddy stopped on his way out. “If anyone understands the desire to end your own life, it’s me. We met at the edge of a bridge, remember? You helped me believe that life is worth living again.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, Eddy. I’m not planning to end my life.”
“Aren’t you?” He looked right into Jonah’s eyes. “Locking yourself back here, isn’t that exactly what you’re doing?” Eddy gave him one final meaningful look and then followed Augustus.
The men filed out, leaving him alone again. Jonah sank down on the couch. God, Eddy was right. He had come to Windisle to end his life. Not in the same way Angelina had, but for the same reasons—a complete lack of hope.
Angelina hadn’t had the same opportunities he had to make a different choice. The reasons for her hopelessness had been deep and powerful and all-consuming. Unchangeable. Held in place by so many others.
What would they say to you? Clara had asked. And he suddenly knew, sitting right there in the quiet of Windisle where Angelina herself had once stood. He knew. She’d tell him to find a way to keep on living.
A sound in the hall right outside of the room caused Jonah to look up where Cecil was standing observing him silently, the expression on his face disapproving, the same way it’d been for the past couple of weeks.
“I suppose you’ve got your own piece of advice for me too, old man?”
“Yeah. Get your daggum shit together.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Savannah Hammond read the last line of the article she’d just completed, saving the file and quickly composing an email to her boss before forwarding it on.
She sighed. A playoff between little league teams. God, the topic was so boring she’d almost fallen asleep trying to write the piece. So instead of focusing on the teams, cute though they were, she’d written the article to highlight the unbelievable behavior she’d witnessed from the parents.
Competitive didn’t begin to cover it. Their antics were downright disgusting. Over a kids sport team? They were supposed to be adults and they acted like angry psychotics. Their kids were going to be on anxiety meds by the time they were twelve.
No doubt the article would get returned to her with a note to rewrite, but what the hell? It was worth a try. And at least writing it hadn’t put her to sleep.
It was frustrating. She’d been working for the online newspaper for almost nine years now, and she was still writing junk articles that changed no one’s life for the better.
Close to a decade, and she was little more than a cub reporter. Sometimes she felt like quitting. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for the business. Only . . . she was. She felt it like a fire burning in her belly. If only she were given the right opportunity.
She thumbed the printout sitting on top of a pile of papers on her desk, the grainy garage photo catching her eye. The masked do-gooder. Speaking of changing lives for the better.
She’d tried to convince her boss to put her on the story of the unknown man who’d been making waves in New Orleans of late, but he’d said no. And Savannah knew the reason why. He considered her soft. He gave the exclusives to the cut-throat reporters, the ones who were willing to get up in the face of a murdered kid’s mom, or shove a microphone at a shell-shocked husband who’d lost his wife in a house fire an hour before.
She was willing to go after a story with everything she had, but she refused to use other people’s grief for headlines. It went against every moral fiber inside of her.
Her phone rang. “Savannah, line one,” the receptionist said when she picked it up.
“Thanks, Shannon.” She clicked over to line one. “Savannah Hammond.”
“Ms. Hammond?”
Hadn’t she just said that? “Yes? How can I help you?”
“Do you have a minute to meet with me?”
“Who is this?”
“Jonah Chamberlain.” Savannah paused, the pen she’d been tapping against her desk stopping abruptly. Jonah Chamberlain. God, it’d been years since she’d heard his name.
In a flash it came back to her. The Murray Ridgley trial. She remembered it well. She’d been a new reporter when it’d all unfolded. She’d been assigned to park herself outside of the hospital and wait for the young, handsome lawyer to emerge. She’d been all but advised to get in his injured face and get the most grisly photo she could. Every news outlet in town had apparently given the same directive to their crew, because it had been a mob out there, day after day.
Truth be told, her heart had ached for him. He’d tried to tackle that maniac and taken a bomb to the face for his trouble. But no one was talking about that. They were focused on the fact that he’d defended Murray Ridgley and gotten him off so he could cause mayhem on the front of the courthouse steps. As if he’d intended for that to happen.
But ratings were always higher if there was a villain or a sideshow, so they’d assigned the role of villain to Jonah Chamberlain.
Savannah hadn’t waited for Jonah Chamberlain to be wheeled outside. Instead, she’d sent him a sympathy card and written a letter about how sorry she was about what happened to him. He’d never read it, or so she’d thought, but she’d sent it all the same. A promise to herself, of sorts, that as tempting as it might be, she would never sell her soul to the devil for a story.
“Yes, I . . . I know who you are.”
There was a beat of silence. “I’m in a car behind the building.” He explained his exact location and she told him she’d be right down, replacing the phone receiver and standing immediately. Jonah Chamberlain. What could he want? And what would he look like after what had happened to him? No one had ever managed to get that highly sought-after photograph.
She spotted the car right away, an old Cadillac she thought only elderly people drove. It was parked in a side alley, behind a garbage dumpster and under the dim overhang of the building next door.