by W Winters
I have to tell Dean first. He has to know.
And then I can tell everyone else. And they’ll let Dean go. They have to.
It’s my fault.
My tired eyes lift from the dead violets on the windowsill to the front door. The window’s open and I should have heard someone pull up to the house, but I didn’t.
“Allison?” a soft voice says hesitantly, and I press my palms into my sore eyes.
“Mom?” Through my tears, I think I see her. She’s hazy and the white blinds billow in front of her before she can walk in and shut the door behind her, but I hear her voice.
“You didn’t answer your phone,” she talks quickly as she walks toward me with uncertain steps. “I had to come see you,” she whispers as I get up from the floor with shaky legs.
“Mom?” I can’t stop saying it.
My feet move on their own, guiding me to her and when I finally get close enough, I cling to her. Burying my face in the crook of her neck, I hold on to her with a tight grip.
“Mom,” I say between the sobs.
“I’m here,” she says and holds me back just as tightly, the keys in her hand dropping to the floor and clattering together. The noise makes my shoulders shake, but everything makes me jumpy now. And I don’t care.
I’ve broken down so many times in the last week. I thought I was done with crying. I thought I had nothing left, but as she cries into my hair and rocks me, they come again. They’re merciless.
And I deserve it.
“Are you okay?” my mother asks me although her grip doesn’t loosen. I can’t nod, and I can’t speak. so I don’t say anything until she holds me at arm’s length.
“Talk to me please,” she begs me, and I shake my head.
“I’m not okay. I’m not okay,” I tell her as my shoulders shake.
“It’s okay, I’m here,” she says, just like Dean did. Like words can make it alright, but they can’t. “I heard what happened,” my mother says and my body tenses, but all she says is that it will be okay.
“It’s all my fault.” The words pour from me even though I’m not sure they make sense. I’m not sure she can even comprehend them.
“Shh.” Hushed words won’t keep me quiet. Not anymore.
“You don’t understand it,” I say, and the words come out quickly, and the rest beg to follow. To confess.
“It’s not your fault,” she says and pulls me in close. “What happened to Sam wasn’t your fault either and--”
“Yes, it was!” I scream at the audacity of my mother to say such a lie. Especially now. How dare she! I shove against her, knocking myself backward and scramble to leave her comfort. “When will you admit it?” I shout at her, letting the pain and anger twist in my gut.
My mother shakes her head, denying it as she always has. Her hands are up in defense as if she’s approaching a wounded animal ready to run. Her brunette hair brushes back and forth around her shoulders. “It wasn’t,” she tries to lie again but her words are lost as she cries into her hand.
“If I hadn’t texted her,” I gulp in air and my breath shudders. “If I hadn’t told her you didn’t want me to see her anymore … ” I close my eyes, remembering how I sent the text in anger. I was so upset that my mother would treat Sam the same way everyone else did. Like it was her fault that Kevin had hurt her. Like she was lying about what he’d done to her.
My mother blamed Sam. And I spread that blame to my friend. My friend who was struggling. Who just needed someone to love her. I broke Sam by telling her that. I know I did.
My mother was just like them. She said Sam was trouble, and I should never have turned my back on Sam. I should never have acted so rashly.
That was the last text I sent to Sam. And the last one she read before she killed herself.
“Admit it,” I demand with a note of finality in my voice. “Admit it, Mother!”
“It’s not--” I cut her off, refusing to listen to her denial after all this time.
“Why avoid me then? Why walk around like you’re guilty? So quiet and afraid to say anything to me like your words will break me? Why!” I scream at her.
Both of us were so aware of how our words had killed, that neither of us spoke. I hate her for it. So quiet, I became dead inside. And she’s the one I blame because I’d rather blame her than myself.
“For years you hardly spoke to me. You let me get away with murder. You avoided me. You know what you did, and you know how much it meant to her. You knew how it would hurt her. And you didn’t care! You didn’t care about her and now she’s dead!”
My voice is hoarse, and the words echo in my head. I didn’t care about Sam when I sent that to her. I was just angry at my mom for not believing me. I didn’t think about how it would destroy her. It’s my fault for telling her. It’s always been my fault. But I hate my mother for it.
“I’m sorry!” my mother wails. “I wish I could take it back, Allison, but I can’t and I’m sorry.” Her face is bright red, and she struggles to swallow as she waits for my response. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to hurt her. I never wanted to hurt her. I just wanted to save you.”
It’s the first time she’s ever told me she regrets it. It’s so late. Too late for what really matters, but still, it’s something I desperately want to cling to.
“Please, stop hating me,” she begs, her bottom lip wobbling and her frail shoulders shaking. I always thought she was so strong. I thought I was the weak one. Maybe we’re both weak.
“I never hated you,” I tell her, but I can’t be sure that it’s honest. Pain turns to hate so easily. “I wasn’t okay though. It’s not okay. It never will be.”
“Please, forgive me.”
I nod my head, although I flinch when she tries to hug me and it breaks her. I can’t help it. There’s so much more. And the truth begs me to speak it.
My voice is eerily calm, and my mother just nods her head once, staring at the pot of withered violets and avoiding my gaze. Or maybe my judgment.
“Mom, I have to tell you something.”
My mother’s eyes whip to mine. Maybe because the tone of my voice has changed. From pained to haunted.
“When Grandmom died, that very week, there was an article.”
My mom wipes her face with the sleeve of her shirt, but I know she’s listening.
“There was a name I recognized.” My hands clench at my side as I remember seeing it. “The name of the boy who hurt Sam.” The words hurt as they leave me and the article flashes in my memory.
“What was it about?” There’s hesitation in her voice like she’s scared to know.
“Just about alumni, about tradition. It wasn’t anything that should have made me angry, but it did. I was the angriest I’ve ever been.” I admit to her something I’ve never said out loud. Jack and Kevin Henderson, the proud alumni son. Smiling in an article.
The boy whose father was friends with a judge.
The boy who said she’d made him think it was what she wanted.
The boy who went back home and kissed other girls and smiled, knowing he’d get what he wanted. No matter what.
That boy never paid for what he did.
“Allison?” she says, and my mother’s tone holds a warning. Like she knows what’s coming. Like she’s followed my train of thought.
“I’m not done,” I tell her and her expression changes. I force my clammy hands to unclench.
“I came here because of that article. I came here because I wanted him to do to me, what he did to Sam.”
“No,” she gasps in disbelief, the puzzle pieces finally falling into place for her. I asked for it. Her head shakes as I continue my story. She can say those words now like she did back then. It’ll be true this time.
“I wanted the world to see him for the person he was. I wanted them to know she wasn’t lying,” my words get louder and louder as I speak. More frantic, more saddened. “She deserved some kind of justice. So, I came here, and I sought him out.”
Her cry is all that stops me from telling her more. She covers her mouth with both hands and shakes her head.
I won’t deny it. I won’t pretend things aren’t as they seem.
“I knew what I was doing, Mom. I wanted him to hurt me. ‘Cause if he did it to me, he’d be punished. Sam would finally have some sort of justice. It wouldn’t make it right, but she’d have something,” I croak out the last word, the tears slipping down my face to my chin and falling hard on the floor beneath me. Each one feeling heavier than the last.
I walked away five years ago, perfectly fine on the outside. Nothing happened to me. I was saved by circumstances. But what happened to Sam, not only that night but the weeks after, forever changed whatever it is that makes a person a person.
Death changes people.
But, so does hate.
And that’s all I’ve been since Sam died. Hateful.
And I know my hate came from fear, it came from regret. It was bred from sadness.
In five years, all I’ve been doing is suffering. Until I met Dean.
“You can’t tell anyone, Allison,” my mother speaks with tears brimming in her eyes. She cups her hands around the sides of my face and pleads with me. “They can’t know. Don’t tell them. Don’t give them a reason to blame you.”
“But Dean,” I start, and my voice is tight. The second I say his name, my phone rings.
Chapter 34
Dean
* * *
So many eyes are on me as I sit here in the hard wooden chair. There’s only one gaze that calls to me though. One that begs me to look back.
Allison.
She’s so close, but unreachable. And all I can hear as my lawyer and the district attorney go back and forth in front of the judge is my heart racing, begging me to turn to her and ease the worry and pain that I know she’s feeling.
She’s staring at me like I did that day in class when I first got the balls to talk to her. That day she gave into me. I can feel her staring at me like I did her, but I can’t resist her like she did me. I never could.
When I turn to look at her, I can’t stand the look in her eyes. Like she blames herself. I would give anything to go to her, but I have to rip my gaze away.
I don’t know where we stand. If she hates me. Blames me. Loves me.
My throat’s tight, as is the pain in my chest when my lawyer argues the case against me. It’s only an arraignment and my lawyer said the case they have is weak.
Temporary insanity is what he’s claiming, and I don’t object to it.
Judge Hubert is an old man. The years are shown through the wrinkles around his pale blue eyes and the white beard around his scowl.
His gaze lingers on me while the prosecutor reads the statement from the psychologist who examined my initial confession.
It’s more evidence, but at least the shrink supports my case. Not that the prosecutor sees it that way. He’s doing his damnedest to make sure this goes to court. A plea of temporary insanity isn’t applicable, according to him. And every time his hard voice booms in the room, my hands clench into fists. If he were in my position, I can’t imagine he’d do any different.
I just want to get out of here. In my head, I imagine them letting me walk out right now so I can go straight to Allie. So I can finally talk to her.
I know she’s alright. I know she refused medical help. I know he didn’t get a chance to… I have to clear the swell of a lump in my throat at the thought, a chill rolling down my spine and making me that much more tense. I overheard some cops talking about it. And the only part of it that made me feel like any of this was worth it.
Still, I need to hear her say she’s okay. I need to hear it from her.
I’m only able to take a quick glance, just one. And as soon as our eyes lock, hers well up with a sadness I hate. With a pain, I wish I could take from her. And she apologizes. Again.
“Your honor, our case is strong. There was nothing my client could have done given his mental state when he arrived on the scene,” my lawyer, Nina Abbot, speaks clearly and confidently. As if there’s no greater truth than the words that she’s made echo throughout the courtroom.
I force my gaze back to the wooden table in front of me. It’s smooth and smells like lemon as if it was just polished before we came out here.
It’s difficult to breathe as she places her hand on my shoulder. “It’s obvious given my client’s testimony and the report just read from Dr. Agostino that given the situation, there was no other choice that Mr. Warren could have made.”
“That only holds true if, in fact, the testimony from both Mr. Warren and Allison Parker are reliable, and there are questions surrounding the validity of Miss Parker’s statement,” the prosecutor’s voice rings out and my fists turn white-knuckled. I keep my gaze down, refusing to look at him and his well-cut suit. The image of his face is clear in my mind as I keep my shoulders and neck stiff. His jaw is hard and cleanly shaven. His eyes cold and unforgiving. He’s a man who will fight to put me behind bars at all cost. And the very thought is terrifying as I sit here helplessly. Because I did it. I murdered him. And I’d do it again.
“With all due respect, Miss Parker’s statement is irrelevant. Mr. Warren’s mental state was determined by his perception when he arrived on the property. The same perception that the third witness, Mrs. Clemons, the adjacent neighbor who witnessed the end of the act, gave. As far as my client and Mrs. Clemons could both tell, Miss Parker was in imminent danger.”
The sound of the courtroom doors opening beg me to look behind me, but I refuse. My body’s tight and my muscles coiled. I hardly trust myself to breathe. And I can still feel Allie looking at me. I refuse to move unless it’s to go to her.
It’s only when my lawyer turns away from me and the soft whispers of furious voices make the rest of the room turn silent, that I force myself to look in my periphery.
The sound of two people walking down the aisle draws my attention more. A small woman, skinny and young in black slacks and a loose, cream blouse is hidden by the silhouette of the man beside her, but as they walk, her face comes into view.
I think her name is Angie. The woman standing just past Mr. Beck, the prosecutor, and next to another man in a suit like Mr. Beck’s. I barely turn my head to make sure it’s her. Her blonde curls dangle in front of her face and I’m sure she’s doing it on purpose.
She’s ashamed. Even as she stands there, clasping her hands in front of her, she starts to cry. Silent tears that she quickly wipes away.
“Your honor, new evidence has just come to our attention and we’d like a recess,” Mr. Beck finally addresses the court, although his voice is laced with something that gives me hope.
Defeat.
“And what is this new evidence?” the judge asks, his pale blue eyes moving between Angie and the man who brought her in.
“The prosecution’s defense rests heavily on the questionability of Miss Parker’s statement that Mr. Henderson was forcing himself on her. A witness has come forward stating the action of Mr. Henderson is a repeated offense.”
“As in he’s attempted to rape her?” the judge clarifies, and Angie lowers her head, tears falling freely and this time she doesn’t brush them away.
“Charges were pressed early August, but the case was never brought to court.” The quiet air of the room changes, turning to whispers and murmurs. Early August I wasn’t here yet. But Kevin was.
“Your honor,” Mr. Beck cuts through the tension in the room, “the case was never--”
“They settled out of court?” the judge asks, cutting off Mr. Beck and the district attorney shakes his head no.
“The witness refused to testify.”
The judge taps his pointer finger on the gavel in front of him, considering her and the new information.
“I’m sorry,” I hear Angie say in a tight voice. She’s trying to whisper, but it’s useless in a room where everyone’s watching her. Her shoulders are hunched and trembling as sh
e tells Allie, “I should have told you sooner. I was so ashamed.”
Chapter 35
Allison
* * *
The air is cold for only being September. It doesn’t help that it’s late, dark, and I’m standing in the shadow outside of the jail.
Even with the chill in my bones and the wind whipping around my face, I’m hot. It’s from the anxiety.
I don’t even think I’m breathing. At least, I wasn’t until the double glass doors open and Dean walks out of them.
My eyes don’t stray from the doors as he strides forward, looking to his left and right. I don’t recognize the clothes he’s in, they must be new or maybe the lawyer brought them to him, so he had clothes to leave in. Dark jeans and a crisp white polo look odd on him as he passes under the streetlight just outside of the doors, but he’s never looked better to me. I’ve never wanted him more.
He’s free. Free to go with no charges pressed.
And I want to take him away before anyone can say anything differently.
I take a shaky half step forward, but I can’t move any further. The sheer terror of what this confession will do to me is enough to keep me cemented in place.
It’s enough that he sees me though. The small motion makes him look at me and when he does, everything changes.
“Allie.” The way he says my name frees me from the spot I’ve been chained to. I run to him as quickly as my body will allow. Crashing my chest against his and holding him with a fierceness I’ve never felt before. As if letting go of him would mean losing him.
“Are you okay?” we both say, nearly at the same time. His hands travel from my cheeks to my arms, then lower. As if checking every part of me and making sure I’m alright.
I can barely nod as I look him over. He spent days in jail and was charged with murder. All because of me.
“Everything’s okay. It’s over. It’s okay.” He repeats himself as he kisses my hair. As if it really is, but I know all too well that it’s not.
