by Kate Avelynn
“Wait!” I gasp.
He sees it at the same time I do—a beige, unmarked police car, the same model and color all the undercover cops in Granite Falls drive—sitting in front of my house.
“Should I keep going?” he asks. “We could go back to my place.”
It’s too late for that. The cop saw us the second we skidded around the corner and will probably pull him over for running the stop sign anyway. All I can think about is James. His truck isn’t out front and I have no idea where he is. Was there an accident on the way home? Did the cops finally bust Leslie while my brother was with her?
We pull up to the house, but the cop stays in his car. Weird. Maybe he’s not here for us? Keeping my head down, I follow Sam up the driveway.
He slides his chain out from beneath his shirt and stoops low enough to unlock the front door with the key I gave him last week. Before I slip inside, I glance over my shoulder at the car and the hulk of a man hunched over a notepad inside. He looks up, as if sensing my eyes on him, and shuts off the engine.
“Hurry!” I all but shove Sam into the foyer, then slam the door behind us.
Now that we’re inside, I should feel safe. I should, but I don’t. A film of stale nicotine clings to the walls like a ghost, stacks of boxing magazines litter the end table, and my father’s recliner still waits for us in the living room.
No, I’ll never be safe here.
Rap-rap-rap.
The sharp knock sends me scrambling into Sam’s arms. “What do we do?”
“We answer the door,” he says calmly, “and ask him what the hell your brother did now.”
Rap-rap-rap. “Miss O’Brien?”
Sam pries me from his body and moves us toward the door. One of my hands grabs for one of his, while the other dutifully reaches for the knob.
A man about my father’s age, at least six foot four with jet-black hair and the body of a weightlifter, towers like an enormous totem pole on the porch. He pins me in place with his dark brown eyes. “Sarah O’Brien?”
My mouth drops open in an attempt to answer the man, but my brain isn’t keeping up. There’s no way this guy is an undercover cop—everything about him screams ex-boxer! The way my father talks about it, they’re like the mafia, which can only mean one of two things: he’s here to kill my father, or my father sent him to kill me. Before he has a chance to make a move and just as my knees threaten to give out, Sam wedges himself between us.
“Can I help you?”
The man produces a black leather wallet that flops open to reveal a shiny brass police badge. “Detective Lilly, Granite Falls police department.” The wallet vanishes and a small spiral notebook and a ballpoint pen materialize in its place. “Your name and relation, for the record?”
“Sam Donavon. I’m a friend of Sarah and James.”
Detective Lilly nods once and scribbles down the information. “I’d like to speak with the O’Brien siblings. Individually, if possible. Is James home?”
I shake my head, but Sam must still be stuck on the first half of the statement, because he says, “I’m not going anywhere unless Sarah wants me to. What is this about?”
Those intense brown eyes give Sam a onceover before turning to me. “May I speak freely in front of Mr. Donavon?”
“Yes,” I squeak. My mind races through everything James might have done to get himself in trouble. A drug bust at Leslie’s, buying an illegal weapon, getting into a brawl at work, doing one of his stupid brake-checks in the wrong neighborhood…
“All right,” Detective Lilly says. “An investigation has been opened with regard to your mother’s death. We’d like to gather some information from your family. See if we can’t piece together a more accurate picture of what happened that morning.”
Though he’s standing in front of us—in front of Sam, who is still shielding me from the brunt of Detective Lilly’s presence—speaking directly to me, my brain struggles to process the words coming out of his mouth. An investigation? As in, maybe they suspect the same thing I do? Sam fumbles behind him for my other hand and gives both a tight squeeze.
“So,” Detective Lilly says, snapping his notebook shut. “Shall we go inside or would you like to answer my questions out here on the porch?”
I let Sam direct the detective into our living room and trail behind them both. We sit silently on the scratchy beige couch that never gets used and wait for Detective Lilly to finish perusing my father’s memorabilia.
Finally, he stops walking and smiles at us—a terrifying facial expression that resembles a grimace more than a smile. “I know your father,” he says. “Knocked me out on more than one occasion during my boxing days. How’s he doing?”
No matter how hard I try, the smile I try to give him refuses to stick to my face. “He’s fine.”
Detective Lilly keeps right on smiling, his dark gaze boring into my skull. “Good to hear. No trouble around the house then? No problems at work that you know about?”
I can feel the blood draining from my face. He knows—somehow, someway, he knows. The realization is paralyzing. Sam nudges me, which catches Detective Lilly’s eye. The man doesn’t miss anything. “James says he’s gotten in trouble at work a few times,” I say to deflect his attention. “We don’t know why. They keep James away from our father at the mill.”
Sam nudges me again. When Detective Lilly reaches for his notebook, I pinch Sam’s leg to shut him up. If the detective notices Sam jump half a foot off the couch, he makes no sign of it. Instead, he settles into my father’s rust-orange recliner and flips through the notebook.
“Tell me about the medication your mother was taking. Are you aware of how many she took? How long she’d been taking them?”
As clear as if she’d died this morning, I can picture the open pill bottles lined up like dozens of unorganized military men on top of James’s old dresser. “I know there were a lot. And she’s been taking at least some of them for as long as I can remember.”
“Who picked them up for her? Or were they mail-order?”
Uh-oh. “James brought them home.” Along with cartons of cigarettes and God knows what else he slipped into those brown paper bags. I don’t know how he pulled it off before he turned eighteen, but he’d faithfully delivered everything to her door once a week since his sophomore year in high school. Maybe that’s how he met Leslie.
Detective Lilly nods and scribbles something into his notebook. “Where did he pick them up? Which pharmacy?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“Okay.” More scribbling. “Any idea why your father didn’t pick them up? Or do you not know that either?”
“Sorry.” I’m starting to feel uncomfortable—more than when he showed up and way more than normal, which is saying a lot. “James and I have never been close to either of our parents,” I say. Hopefully that explains enough without actually explaining anything.
Beside me, Sam is getting antsy again. I can feel the tension in his body and have a pretty good idea what he wants me to do. And why wouldn’t I turn my father in? He’s not here to stop me, and I don’t have to worry about my mother getting hurt when he finds out. Even James would be proud.
But what if I tell Detective Lilly and he doesn’t arrest my father? It’s my word against an adult’s, and I have firsthand experience how badly that ends. When I was in second grade, my teacher saw the edge of a bruise I hadn’t been able to hide completely with my too-short sleeves. She coaxed the barest of information out of me—enough to deduce I hadn’t fallen down a flight of stairs or something—and hauled me straight to the principal.
Who called my father.
That had been a Friday. Even with James’s protection, I couldn’t walk until Sunday night. The memories from that weekend, how battered both James and I had been, and of having to watch my father drag our mother around the house by her hair while she screamed, keeps me from ratting him out.
I’m pretty sure that was his intention.
De
tective Lilly stares at me while I replay that horrible weekend in my mind. My whole life, James has been able to read my face. I hope it’s a brother thing and not a transparency thing, or else I’ve just given the Granite Falls police department exactly what I didn’t want to tell them. Shifting closer to Sam, I try to make my face blank.
With a flick of his wrist, the detective flips his notebook shut and stows it wherever he’s been pulling it from behind his back. “Thank you for your time, Ms. O’Brien, Mr. Donavon,” he says, suddenly all business. “If I think of anything else, I’ll come by again. Do you have any questions for me?”
“No,” I say at the same time Sam says, “I do.”
I gape at him, but he grabs my hand and pulls me off the couch with him.
“Why are you investigating a suicide?” he asks. “That’s not normal, is it?”
For several long seconds, I don’t think Detective Lilly is going to answer. I don’t blame him. Sam’s question sounds like a challenge.
After trying to stare Sam down and losing, he says to me, “Your mother had been using depressants for a very long time from what the medical examiner can tell. He collected eight separate non-prescription depressant drugs from her bedroom, ones your brother has somehow been refilling for years, if what you say is true. The drug she overdosed on was an amphetamine—a powerful one, and an extremely high dose of it.”
He uses that dark gaze of his to bore into my skull again. “And yet, there was no trace of that drug anywhere in her room.”
Seemingly oblivious to my silent horror, Detective Lilly pretends to tip a hat he isn’t wearing and stalks out the front door.
I lose my mind the second the door closes.
“I knew he did it!” My whole body trembles, and I cling to the front of Sam’s t-shirt to keep me upright. “I knew it the second he looked at me that morning. I knew he did it. Oh my God!”
Sam holds me tightly against him. If there were a way to climb inside his skin and hide in his warmth and love, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Anything to take away this horrible ache in my chest. All the fighting and the burns—I didn’t think he’d kill her. Me, sure, but her?
“This is my fault,” I sob into his chest. “If I didn’t always hide or if I’d made James stay away, maybe letting him hurt me would’ve been enough. Maybe he would’ve left her alone. Maybe she’d still be alive.”
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t be,” Sam says. “I’m sure she’d rather it be this way.”
Thinking about her protecting me makes me cry even harder. My whole life, she shut herself away in her room. She heard my screams and not once did she try to stop my father, no matter how many times I cried her name. I can’t believe she’d die so I could live. I won’t.
“Your brother will be home in a couple hours,” Sam says when I’ve cried myself into exhaustion. “Want to rest for a little bit? I’ll stay awake.”
I don’t want to rest. I want to escape. I lead him back to the scratchy couch and ignore the troubling fact that he seems to know where James is and I don’t. Not even his soothing presence or the safety of his arms wrapped around me can touch the dread gurgling in my gut.
You’re next, my father’s look had said.
I know I am.
Thirty-four
It’s 5:28 when our father pulls into the garage. He’s earlier than normal, which is bad because I’m in the middle of cooking a take-n-bake pizza James was planning to polish off himself. Sharing it with me, let alone a third person, won’t sit well with him.
Pretending I don’t see our father standing in the doorway, I open the oven to a puff of smoke and inspect the overcooked crust. Damn it. Of all nights to burn dinner, it has to be the one he’s home. He’ll be pissed for sure. I’m surprised he hasn’t started complaining about the smoke.
The door clicks shut, and his keys slide across the countertop, stopping inches from where I’m stooped over trying to coax the gooey pepperoni pizza from the oven rack onto a plate. Short of burning the hell out of myself or starting a fire because I dumped sauce and cheese everywhere, there’s no way for me to straighten or twist around so my back’s not to him. The most I can do is stab the crust with my fork and drag it out faster, cursing everything from my lack of potholders to our broken kitchen timer.
James drifts into the kitchen then, the sound of our father’s keys scraping the countertop an alarm neither of us ever ignores. When the pizza finally cooperates and I’m able to stand up, my brother is directly behind me, arms folded across his chest, locked in a staring contest of sorts with our father.
He wins.
“Better save me some of that,” our father calls over his shoulder on his way down the hallway. “I’m gonna change and we can all eat at the table like a real family.”
Mockery and distaste drip from his words. James opens his mouth to say something, but I touch his elbow and shake my head. That’d be like jabbing sticks at a sleeping snake. No thank you.
Of course, dinner is every bit the nightmare I expect. Beside me, James inhales his portion of the pizza while glowering at our father. Across the table, our father eats his slices while staring at me. He smiles lightly whenever our gazes meet—which isn’t often, I make sure of it—and for a few too-good-to-be-true minutes, I believe that’s all he’ll do.
“How’d school go this year?” he asks me partway through his second slice.
“Fine.”
“You applying to any colleges?”
“I plan to, yes.”
That earns me a hard what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about look from James. His plan to run away doesn’t include either of us going to college and I know it, but there’s no way I can tell him about Sam and UCLA.
“Apply to GFCC,” our father says. “I don’t want you too far away.”
I know I can get in somewhere more prestigious than Granite Falls Community College. I open my mouth to say as much, but James beats me to it.
“Sarah can go wherever the fuck she wants to go,” my brother says in a dark voice. “The farther away from you, the better.”
James shoving away from the table and stomping down the hall effectively ends dinner. When our bedroom door slams and he cranks Godsmack to an ungodly level of loud, my gaze locks on my plate and the narrow, untouched sliver of pizza I allotted myself. Please don’t talk to me, please don’t talk to me, please don’t talk to me…
My father doesn’t bother trying to talk over the music, which I’m sure everyone in the neighborhood can hear. When he gets up and heads to the garage for another beer, I dump my pizza in the trash, set all of our plates in the sink, and slump off to lock myself in with James.
He’s lying on his back, hands folded behind his head. One look at his face and I know he won’t be speaking to me tonight. I try anyway. Turning off his iPod, I say, “That was a disaster.”
No answer.
I sit on the edge of his bed, my back to him. “I’m not sorry. College is something I think I’ve always wanted to do. I just didn’t realize it until now.”
Nothing.
This time his silence irritates me. Once again, he’s trying to make me feel bad for wanting my own life. I’m sick of his guilt trips. I’m sick of him.
“Can you blame me for not telling you?” I demand. “Look at how you’re acting now that you know!”
“I give you everything I have. Everything I am.” He shoots me a harsh glare. “I give you all of that and you were going to leave me without saying anything? Nice, Sarah. Real nice.”
“I was going to tell you once I knew for sure,” I protest. “I have to actually apply and get accepted before we need to worry about any of that. I’m not as smart as you, remember?”
Jaw clenched, he tries to stare me down like he stared our father down in the kitchen. Guilt eats away at my heart. He has given up everything for me. But if I’m going to diffuse the situation without giving up what I want, I’ll have to pick my words very, very carefully. I gingerly rest my palm on his knee.
My voice wavers and fades away. It’s a lie.
And he can tell. James can always tell.
With one last glare, he shoves past me and grabs his keys.
I slam my fists into his mattress, into his pillow. Why is my life so screwed up? No matter what I decide, I’ll either piss off someone I love or ruin their life. James or Sam. James or the already-fragile dreams I’ve finally allowed myself to have. James or a future. James, James, James.
My brother slams the front door and drives away. I smother my scream of frustration in his pillow. I am alone in our house with our father. If I scream and he hears me, he’ll know I’m still here. If he knows I’m still here, who knows what will happen.
I’m not ready for the other shoe to drop anymore.
Thirty-five
Rolling a fern frond between my fingertips, I analyze the vase of white roses, red dahlias, and yellow daisies I’ve been working on for half an hour. The fluff factor is off, and for whatever reason, the daisies and the dahlias aren’t smelling right together, but Liz won’t let me give up.
“Hmm,” she says from behind me, cocking her head to the side just like Sam does whenever he’s deep in thought. “Maybe some lavender? I think the purple would soften the red tones and bring the daisy scent down a notch. They smell stronger than normal, don’t you think? Or you could try a few sprigs of eucalyptus?”
I wrinkle my nose. Eucalyptus branches, Liz’s latest addition to the shop, haven’t been selling nearly as well as she’d hoped. “I know you’re trying to get rid of it, but I don’t think Mr. Harrison wants to give his wife a bouquet that smells like cough drops. Maybe if we get an order from the retirement home or if someone calls with a cold…”
Liz sighs. “You’re probably right. I just hate the thought of it going to waste, you know? Maybe we should donate it all to the hospital. There’s bound to be someone with a respiratory infection who could use a little cheering up.”
