The Scattering

by Kimberly McCreight

  “What?” I lean forward, heart racing. “What are you talking about?”

  “Okay, hold on.” Rachel holds a hand up in front of me to keep me from talking. Worried. She is a lot more worried now. “What exactly is the scope of this investigation?”

  This has caught Rachel off guard. The situation is much worse than she thought. She doubts her instinct to cooperate. But all I feel is numb. Teresa? How is that even possible?

  “It’s hard to say right now,” the detective says. Her partner is looking on, still mute. “I will say we’re doing our best to keep an open mind.” Except I’m not exactly sure that’s true. “We feel we have enough evidence at this point to charge your client with arson and reckless endangerment, at a minimum. Unless she can explain away some of this evidence.”

  “At a minimum?” Rachel snaps. “And what evidence?”

  The detective’s eyes stay locked on mine.

  “An argument between the girls, for one. What happened between you and Teresa before the fire started, Wylie? You had a disagreement?”

  “I am going to advise against answering that question, Wylie,” Rachel says to me. Then she turns to the detective. “Seems like you’re fishing for your evidence right now.”

  “We didn’t argue,” I answer, even though Rachel just told me not to. How can the truth possibly hurt? “Teresa was upset, and she asked me to walk her back to her room. And so we talked for a little while and then I left her room. After that, the fire must have started, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  I am going to have to mention Kelsey. I have no choice.

  “Did you talk to Kelsey?” I ask. “Maybe she knows what happened.”

  “Kelsey?”

  “She was another one of the girls in the hospital.”

  The detective consults the manila folder in front of her on the table. She pulls out a piece of paper and puts it in front of me. “This is a list of all the girls who were there,” she says. “I don’t see a Kelsey on that list, do you?”

  Of course it’s not there. Kelsey isn’t her name. But how can I explain all that? Instead, I just stare down at the list of names. Whatever I say now will sound like an insane lie.

  “Let’s move on.” The detective pulls something else out of her manila folder and slides it across the table toward me. “Do you remember seeing that?”

  When I look down, it’s a photograph of the baby I threw into the garbage. I pick it up with two fingers. More proof against me. None of this has been a coincidence. Of course it hasn’t.

  “Wylie, I advise you again not to answer that question,” Rachel says, and more sharply. “They can twist things you say here in ways you can’t anticipate. Don’t hand them evidence.”

  But I still have the truth on my side. I believe that. I have to.

  “Somebody left that for me,” I say. Besides they must already know all of this anyway. “They used to leave dolls like that for us at my house, too, before Cassie ever—for a long time.”

  “Wylie,” Rachel growls. “Stop talking.”

  “From what we’ve heard it sounds like you were upset to get one in the hospital,” the detective says. “Were you angry that Teresa left it for you?”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. “She didn’t leave it.”

  “Well, we found another one exactly like it in her bag. The baby definitely belonged to her.”

  I try not to react, though it isn’t easy. Why the hell would Teresa have left that baby for me? And why would she have another one in her bag? I think back to that weird feeling I had about her being excited. Is this what she was hiding? Some connection to whoever had been sending the babies all along?

  “Even if that’s true, I didn’t know,” I say when I realize that they are still waiting for me to answer. “So how could I be angry?”

  “Okay, then maybe you can explain instead why you’re wearing Teresa’s necklace?” she asks. I put my hand to my throat. The cross. The one that’s up against my mom’s ring, the one Teresa gave me for protection. I close my eyes. It had given me such a terrible feeling at the time. But I had ignored that instinct and put it on anyway because I hadn’t wanted to offend her. And now it’s another nail in my coffin. “Our understanding is that she never took that necklace off. It was extremely special to her. Seems unlikely she’d just give it to you. Unless maybe she was dead before the fire started, and that’s when you took it off her? We’ll have to wait for an autopsy to know her cause of death.”

  “Come on,” Rachel snaps at the detective. “That’s absurd. Wylie, do not—”

  “They were basically holding us prisoner. I mean, that might not be important to you, but it was important to the—”

  “Wylie,” Rachel hisses. “Stop talking. Seriously.”

  When I look at her, I can feel how desperately she means this. However much of a liar she is, she is truly convinced that talking is bad for me. She may even be right. What do the lies they told us about PANDAS matter now? They’ve taken it all back with a well-timed “so glad we were wrong.”

  “We found the matches, Wylie.”

  “What matches?”

  “Under the mattress in your room.”

  “Matches?” I’d think she had to be joking except for the way she keeps staring at me. “Well, I don’t know how they got there.”

  “So they aren’t yours?” the detective asks skeptically.

  “No,” I say. “They are not mine.”

  “Move on, detective,” Rachel says, trying to sound relaxed, confident that we have the upper hand. But I can feel she’s afraid she won’t be able to drag me out of this huge hole I’ve jumped down into. “We’ve been polite and patient. We did as you asked and came here voluntarily to answer your questions. And now Wylie would like to go home.”

  The detective presses her lips together. But it is not a smile.

  “You were involved in another fire recently, weren’t you?” she asks me, ignoring Rachel. “Six weeks ago? A friend of yours died?”

  “You are joking,” Rachel huffs.

  “A girl died in a fire in both cases,” the detective says, like she doesn’t understand all the fuss. “And in both situations, Wylie was right there. Like maybe it’s her MO.”

  “That’s absurd. Especially because Wylie wasn’t accused of any wrongdoing in the fire in Maine. She and Cassie were both victims, clear and simple.”

  “Still, it is a coincidence. Can you explain that, Wylie?”

  “Wylie, do n—”

  “No,” I say, because that is the whole and complete truth. “I can’t explain it. There is nothing to explain.”

  “You were in the immediate vicinity on both occasions. You were right there when both girls died. And you seriously have no idea why that might be? Because to be clear, Wylie, Teresa wasn’t just killed in the fire,” the detective goes on. “Teresa was the fire. She was at its epicenter. Just like Cassie. At least that is my understanding. Two girls—who you were angry at—died in the exact same way. Suspicious, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Detective, this is ridiculous, and also unnecessarily cruel,” Rachel says. Her voice is icy. And she is furious now. Furious on my behalf.

  “Angry?” I ask. “I wasn’t angry.”

  “That’s not what Cassie’s father says.”

  “Vince?” The more the detective talks, the more confused I am. “He said I was mad at Cassie? How would he even know? He doesn’t even live here. I wasn’t mad at Cassie.”

  “But you were angry at Teresa then?”

  “Enough!” Rachel smacks a palm down on the table. “That’s it. That was the last question. We were trying to be cooperative, but you are twisting her words.” She stands and motions for me to get up. “Come on, Wylie. We’re leaving.”

  “Not tonight, I’m afraid,” the detective says. “We’ve got witness statements, the matches, your client’s history. Unless she’s prepared to offer an explanation right now, that’s more than enough probable cause for
an arrest.”

  “Arrest for what?” Rachel asks.

  The detective looks squarely at me. “For murder.”

  26

  THE REST HAPPENS PRETTY MUCH EXACTLY THE WAY RACHEL SAYS IT WILL. THEY place me formally under arrest. They read me my rights, though they had already read them to me before I was questioned with Rachel.

  Afterward, they transfer me to the closest juvenile detention facility. When I arrive, there is another reading of my rights, an inventory of my clothing and personal belongings, of which there is so little—what was left of Rachel’s cash and my mom’s wedding ring. Detached from Teresa’s necklace, which was taken for evidence, the ring spins hopelessly around the empty personal-effects bin. It makes me wonder about my mom’s photographs, and whether Riel really will keep them safe and sound.

  By the time they have taken my clothes; searched me in more humiliating ways than I would have thought possible; fingerprinted me; photographed me; and made me answer endless informational questions, I feel exactly as Rachel had warned me I would: far less than human.

  My cellmate’s name is Susan and she is a way nicer attempted murderer than I have any right for her to be. At least so far. By the time I meet her, I only have a few minutes before they bring me to a courthouse with others in a big van for my arraignment. It’s not as stressful as it might be, because, by now, I feel nothing. I am going through the motions of basic human existence—breathing, moving, blinking—without actually being alive.

  Rachel stands next to me in court. She says some things to the judge. The prosecutor—a round, bald man—says some other things. Their words are garbled and far away as though I am underwater and they are on the shore. I do hear talk about the fact that my dad cannot be located. That my mother is deceased. In the end, they deny me bail. I understand that much. I am a flight risk, they say. I have run so many times before. Finally, a fact that is hard to argue with.

  When it’s over, Rachel tries to hug me. I am glad when they yell at her. I don’t want her touching me.

  “I’m going to get you out of here, Wylie,” she calls as they take me away. “I’m talking days.” But she does not believe this, no matter how much she wants to.

  I have not seriously considered finding a new lawyer. Not that Rachel has explained anything to my satisfaction. The only thing she has even tried to get into is why her friendship with my mom ended. She says she was representing people that my mom didn’t approve of, which only makes me more suspicious. Still, I don’t press for details. They no longer seem to matter. Nothing does.

  AFTER BREAKFAST ON the third day, I hear my nickname for the first time—Firebug. It could be much worse. Honestly, I am lucky about the rumors: I am psychic, I lit two friends on fire. Even in here, they are freaky enough that people keep their distance.

  Rachel asks me to call Gideon. He asked her to ask me to call. Rachel helped him clean up the house and has been checking in on him. But he is staying with friends until they find my dad. Until. That is a word that Rachel uses on purpose. So I am reassured.

  But I am not reassured. Not in the least.

  “ARE YOU OKAY?” Gideon asks after he accepts my collect call from a “Massachusetts Youth Detention Facility” on the fourth day. He sounds jittery and fragile.

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” I say, trying to make him feel better. Of course, I am not okay, I want to shout. I am in a “detention facility.”

  Rachel has hinted that Gideon is seriously freaking out. That he has been ever since I got arrested. It does not help that there is still no sign of my dad. Soon he will have been gone for a week. Rachel has said for the first time that we need to be realistic.

  I see no benefit to that.

  In describing Gideon, Rachel has tried to surf a more hopeful line—bad shape, but not scary. She took him to see Dr. Shepard and supposedly that helped. Sort of. Or, in other words, not much at all. Rachel was also able to confirm that none of the girls were Dr. Shepard’s patients, not even Teresa. With my dad missing, and me in here, maybe it’s no surprise Gideon is falling apart.

  “I wanted to say . . .” Gideon’s voice catches now as we talk on the phone. Is he crying? I have not seen Gideon cry since he was five, and that was only when he’d sliced his finger open with a broken piece of glass. He is really, seriously losing it.

  “It’s going to be okay, Gid,” I say, though I’m not at all convinced. Also, I am kind of pissed that I have to cheer him up when I am the one locked away. Still, Gideon’s need right now is real. So real it takes my breath away.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, pushing the words out with force.

  “You don’t have to be sorry, Gideon. This isn’t your fault.”

  “But it is my fault.”

  “Seriously, Gid, no it is—”

  “I gave them the list, Wylie!”

  “What?” And for a second my brain ceases to function—the blood, the nerves, all frozen.

  “I’m sorry, I was so—I’m sorry. I emailed that Cornelia guy because I was curious, and he said he agreed with me that it didn’t make sense that it was only girls and that Dad must have made some kind of small error. He said he would look into it, you know. He listened to me. Dad wouldn’t. And so I gave him the list and your name, too. But, I swear, I had no idea what he planned to do.”

  I am pressing the phone so hard to my ear, it has started to throb. The crazy thing? I want to hate him, to scream at Gideon that he is selfish and reckless. And evil. But I can’t get myself to say a word. And still I don’t feel a thing.

  “Wylie?” Gideon says. “Are you still there? I am so sorry.”

  TIME MARCHES AHEAD. I feel certain there is no way I will survive long in a place like this. And yet I keep on waking up. It’s not even the Youth Detention Facility that’s the problem. It’s the world. A world where these terrible things keep on being true about Cassie, my mom, my dad. Gideon.

  I start to have panic attacks again. Worse than ever before, two or three a day sometimes. Once I black out in the TV room. The guard on duty threatens me with solitary if I do it again. I know I could demand to see a doctor. They can’t punish me for an anxiety disorder. But I don’t. Because I wonder if solitary would be such a bad thing.

  I’ve gotten letters from Ramona and Becca. Rachel asked them to write, I’m sure. She thinks it will help if I have proof the other girls really had made it out all right. The letters were mechanical, polite. Basic. I noticed what they did not say: we know you are innocent.

  Riel sends a letter, too. Or rather a letter arrives that I think is from Riel. Courage is the price that life exacts for granting peace. That’s all it says. Her name is nowhere on it.

  One person I haven’t heard from is Jasper. The judge issued a “no contact” order. It is a condition of his probation on the trespassing charges. The point, Rachel has said, is to make my life more miserable so I am more likely to tell them what they want to hear. So that I will confess to a crime I did not commit.

  But that is something I will not do no matter how much I miss Jasper. And I do miss him. It is as simple and as complicated as that.

  BEFORE LUNCH ON the sixth day, we all head to watch TV as we do each day at that time. Or at least the TV is on, and it is in front of me as I sit on one of several long couches, each with space for six other girls. I stare at the screen, but I couldn’t tell you what’s ever on. Still, it seems better for me to be there with other people than alone in my room. More and more I have the overwhelming sense of something horrifying hurtling my way. And soon. I feel like there should be witnesses.

  “Lang, you’ve got a visitor,” a guard shouts.

  I stare at him blankly, wonder if I am imagining things.

  “Come on,” he shouts, pointing me to the door. “Let’s go.”

  Jasper? I feel a sudden wave of stupid hope. My racing heart sends blood rushing into my half-dead limbs. I jump to my feet. Please. Please. Please. Even though I know it can’t be him. That it shouldn’t be, for Jasper’s sake
.

  “Who is it?” I ask as I make my way more quickly to the door.

  The guard huffs and consults his clipboard. “Brother,” he says, and my heart sinks.

  I don’t blame Gideon for what he did. Or I do, but I also understand. It was stupid and immature and selfish. And impulsive. He wasn’t thinking. But none of what happened is at all what he intended. Still, I don’t want to actually see him. I’m not sure I have the energy to lie and let him off the hook to his face.

  I consider telling the guard I am not up for visitors, but that could backfire. If I make Gideon feel worse, he’ll demand that I carve out even more of my heart and hand it to him.

  “NAME?” THE VISITING room guard asks when I finally make my way reluctantly down there.

  “Wylie Lang,” I say, still waiting for something to head me off at the pass. Instead, the guard just opens the door and waves me inside. The visiting room is a single open space with eight rectangular tables—all numbered—arranged in two rows. There are two chairs on each side. Two guards on either side of the room. It’s more ordinary than I would have imagined before I was locked up in here—no plastic booths, no conversations by phone.

  “Table seven, far side.” He motions across the room. “You got fifteen minutes. No touching. No objects exchanged.”

  The room is so crowded, I don’t spot Gideon until I’m on that side of the room. In a baseball hat, head low. I can’t see his face, but his posture seems worse than before. So hunched. I come around from behind him and take a deep breath. Try to convince myself I can do this again. Cheer Gideon up for betraying me.

  When he finally looks up at me, the world rocks hard to the side.

  “Have a seat,” Quentin says.

  Scream. That is my first instinct. I look around, eyes wide. I want to spit at him, too. I want to slap him in the face.

  “I wouldn’t do that.” He looks me up and down in my sad blue jumpsuit. “Any of what you’re thinking.”

  As I lower myself onto the edge of the chair, I’m not sure I could make a sound if I tried.