Slain

by Harper, Livia

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know. Okay. That makes me feel so much better.”

  The din around us has grown quieter. People turn to stare. I take a moment to get my voice under control, make an effort to speak quietly. By the time I’m ready, people’s attention has shifted back to what they were doing before.

  “Do you know what this has done to me? To my family? I’m going to get expelled. No question. My parents might even get fired.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, his throat bobbing as he chokes the words out. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Did you show it to anybody else, Jackson? E-mail it to anyone?”

  He leans in, his eyes fierce. “Jesus Christ. No, Emma. Do you think I’m the kind of person who would do something like that?”

  “I didn’t think you were the kind of person to break a promise to me either.”

  “How was I supposed to know something like this would happen?”

  “I told you to delete it specifically because something like this could happen. I would have never done anything like that if I thought for a second you would hold on to it.”

  “I didn’t twist your arm. You’re not exactly a pushover, Emma. You wouldn’t have done it if you didn’t want to.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He looks away, shakes his head. “Nothing. I didn’t mean that.”

  “It’s not about what we did,” I say, even though it’s not not about what we did either. It was so stupid of me. “It’s about what you promised.”

  He doesn’t say anything. He knows how bad he messed up. But I say it anyway. Not for him. For me. If I keep these words inside they’ll kill me.

  “You lied to me. Twice. You broke a promise.”

  “I’m sorry, Emma. Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

  I stand up, not trusting myself around him right now. I want to forget this ever happened. I want to go back to the way things were a month ago, me in his arms. But can I after this? It’s a lot to forgive.

  “I have to go.”

  He grabs my hand. “I love you, Emma. I love you so much. Just tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”

  “I don’t know if you can fix this,” I say, and pull my hand from him as I walk away.

  “Fuck,” I hear him say behind my back, the sound of his fist hitting the table sending a shockwave of silence through the restaurant. “Fuck, fuck. fuck.”

  I won’t say that I cried all the way home, because what’s the point? Of course I did.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  “WHAT IS GOING ON with you?” my mother asks, in almost a shout. “I don’t understand anything you do anymore.”

  After I left Jackson, I spent a couple hours walking around to calm myself down. I knew my parents would be upset, really upset. I knew they would have heard all about the video, if they hadn’t already seen it with their own eyes. I knew what I’d be coming home to.

  We’re in the family room. My dad is in his wingback chair. He hasn’t said a word to me in an hour. I have a feeling he’d like to go back to when I was five, and my disobediences could be solved by a good, hard spanking.

  My mom starts up again. “I don’t get it, Emma. I really don’t. You go from a straight-A student to acting out at church. Lying to us about everything. Ditching school. Promiscuity with juvenile delinquents. And now this video too?” Her voice crumbles. “I don’t even know who my own daughter is anymore.”

  “It was a mistake. A big one. But I’m exactly the same person I was a week ago,” I say.

  “No. You’re not,” she says. She sits down on the couch, looking exhausted and empty. “I’m at my wit’s end. There’s nothing else I can do to punish you that we haven’t done already. Do I have to go to every class with you? Stand by your side every moment? Is that what I have to do?”

  “No,” I say.

  My dad stands up, his face red and angry. “I think you’ve got a very big shock ahead of you if you think your mother and I are just going to tolerate this kind of behavior.”

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” my mom asks, but I stay quite. What can I say? “Say something, Emma.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Emma, please,” my mother says. “Just tell me why. Was it something we did? Something you read? Something you saw? What was it?”

  The truth? None of that. What kind of reason can I give them that they’ll understand? Jackson was right. I wanted to do it. I didn’t think anything bad would happen, and I wanted to do it. I liked the idea of him having this little piece of me, something private to look at when I was gone.

  “Oh, please, Gloria,” my dad says. “She’s had every possible opportunity. Every possible privilege. At some point she has to take responsibility for her own choices.”

  My mom turns away from me, stares out the window into the dark backyard.

  “Your mother and I have some serious thinking to do.”

  They go upstairs. I go to my room.

  I’ve already cried so much today that I have no tears left. I try to sleep instead, but my mind is spinning. The thing I haven’t even had the time to really think about today is…who? Who emailed that video?

  It came from Jackson’s phone. But whoever sent it was clearly from the church. They knew exactly who to send it to. Which means the killer either hacked into my e-mail account, or knew the same people I did.

  That’s if it was the killer at all. People at church have been up in arms about all the stuff that’s been going on lately with Mr. Rassmussen. Could someone else have gotten that video? Could Jackson have shown someone and lied to me?

  Which brings me to Jackson. My heart screams that it wasn’t him, but I can’t logically ignore the possibility that he was involved anymore. He had the opportunity to do it when he went to the bathroom. It would have been hard to pull off, but not impossible. It was getting a text from his phone that lured me out that night the car tried to run me down, and his phone that had the video on it. Could Detective Boyer have been right? Could Jackson have been lying about someone breaking into his car?

  There’s also his record. He pulled a gun on someone before, actually pulled a gun on someone. And lied to me about it. But why kill June? And why frame me? Do I really believe that what we shared together was all an act? No. I don’t. But I can’t tell anymore if I can trust my own judgment where Jackson is concerned.

  Maybe I should start from the beginning, review what I know.

  I pull up the article on June’s dad again. Lee, with his conspiracies that his gang betrayed him in exchange for a deal from the police, only all of the possible conspirators locked up just like him. Locked up or dead. It’s probably not even worth it to think about him anymore. But there’s nothing else I can do from my bedroom tonight, so it’s worth a try. There has to be something somewhere, something I’m missing.

  Lee Stuckey, the last of the notorious Milk Gang, has been sentenced to life in prison for the deaths of Cassidy Surleaf and her baby boy, Cody Surleaf. The Surleafs were caught in the crossfire between a bank employee and the gang during the robbery of the Lafayette Credit Union last May 28. Forensic evidence later showed that the fatal bullets were shot from Stuckey’s gun.

  While the $200,000 they stole has yet to be recovered, all the members of the Milk Gang—Sara Jo Ford, Buddy Trent, Jay Peterson, Christina Bromegat, and Stuckey—were apprehended just four days later, on the morning of June 1. All have been formally charged and have begun serving out their sentences.

  While the rest of the Milk Gang each accepted plea bargains for shorter sentences, Stuckey demanded a jury trial. It proved to be a mistake for Stuckey, who was convicted on two counts of murder, as well as armed robbery and possession of an unregistered weapon. Stuckey now has no option for parole.

  The husband of Mrs. Surleaf and father of young Cody, Jason Surleaf, said nothing can ever replace the loss of a wife and child, but added, “I’m glad today that justice was finally served. I pray that Mr. Stuckey comes to find
the error of his ways.”

  I wonder what it was like for June to grow up with her dad in prison. I do the math. The article was written ten years ago. June would have been only six years old, which makes me even sicker on her behalf to know what her father did to her before he went away. Something jogs my memory, and I pull it up just to be sure. June’s testimony is still up on our youth group website. I press play, and there she is again, so alive, blinking against the bright stage lights.

  “My sixth birthday party was at Six Flags. My birthday is on June first in case you want to buy me a present. It’s easy to remember because it’s my name too.”

  I scroll forward to something else.

  Her voice rings out over the crowd, “Once I sat down the best thing happened! My dad sat down right next to me!”

  If her dad was arrested on the morning of her sixth birthday, then how could he have been with her at Six Flags? Did they celebrate her birthday on a different day? Or did June just make that whole story up? I wouldn’t doubt it. She had her head in the clouds about everything, like she was stuck being a little kid in her mind.

  But why? The answer comes to me fast and simple. Because everyone else does. She wouldn’t have been the first to feel pressure to have a good testimony, true or not. But wasn’t June broken enough without it?

  I sigh and push away from the computer. This is getting me nowhere.

  Thinking of June’s testimony brings my thoughts around to Pastor Pete. Chuck said he was there the whole time, but the whole thing about that pink piggy still isn’t sitting right with me.

  Then I remember the files on my dad’s desk, the ones he’s been reviewing ever since they discovered the background check problem. I wonder if they’re still there. Maybe Pastor Pete’s file is with the others.

  I sneak downstairs, past the door to my parents’ bedroom, which is already dark and silent, and into my dad’s study. Sure enough, the files are still there. I shuffle through the boxes until I find Pastor Pete’s.

  The first thing I see is his resume. It shows he graduated from Bethany in 2009, just five years ago like I thought. There are mission trips and volunteer organizations listed, but they all appear to be while he was in school.

  There’s some tax filing paperwork and a copy of a letter, signed by my dad, offering him the position as youth pastor. There’s a copy of his driver’s license and Social Security card. He was born in January of 1981, which makes him thirty-three, the same age Jesus was supposed to be when he died.

  I do the math. It’s never occurred to me before, but he didn’t go to college until 2005? When he was twenty-four? I guess it’s not unheard of to begin school so late, but most people start when they’re eighteen, right after high school. Pastor Pete has never talked about it. Once again, not a big cause for suspicion, but why not talk about it?

  I flip over to the last page in the file—the background check. He has a few credit cards, all of which he got while in college, and all of which are paid on time. No student loans, though, which means he either had a scholarship or parents who could pay. Bethany is expensive. Twenty-five thousand a year just for tuition, not to mention dorms and books. But there’s no mention of his family or relatives. And there’s no criminal activity listed, not even a single parking ticket.

  I’m chasing wild geese here.

  I go back up to bed. It’s late, and I’m tired.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  AGAIN THIS WEEKEND, I’M on lockdown. No driving, no leaving the house, no calling anyone. The last part is the easiest to live with. Who do I have to call?

  On Sunday morning, my parents drag me to church like always. The moment I walk through the door I know it’s going to be a tough day.

  Word about the video has spread through Summit like chicken pox in kindergarten. Mothers tug their children away from me. Men chastise me with their glares—You should be ashamed of yourself, showing your face! Others look away, whisper to their neighbors: “I heard the girl stole her boyfriend. That nice Nicolas boy. That’s why she did it.” A handful stare at me with compassion, shake my dad’s hand, put an arm around my mom—God will help you through this. No one says a single word to me. Yesterday I was their princess; today I’m their worst nightmare.

  I don’t sit with the youth group today. Mom leads us both to her regular seat, front and center, the last place I want to be. It’s a challenge to everyone, a proclamation of my innocence. I’m actually thankful for her faith in me, maybe it’s stronger than I thought. Maybe she’s stronger than I thought.

  Dad’s service is about seeking the forgiveness of God. I wish I could preach a sermon about subtlety.

  He booms from the stage. “Isaiah 1:18 says, ‘Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wool.’ It’s a powerful thing, isn’t it, the love of Christ?” Amens everywhere. “That means that no matter our sins, no matter the terrible things we have done, no matter the darkness in our hearts, Jesus is ready to put His arms around you. To envelop you in His love and make you white as snow.” He strolls the stage, letting us ponder the words.

  “We’ve recently had a terrible reminder about the impermanence of this life, about the sins that can overtake our hearts, haven’t we?” Hmms and nods from the crowd. “My heart is broken for our church today. At times like these it’s difficult to understand the plans Our Heavenly Father has for us. But there’s a lesson here, I think, a tiny ray of hope in our darkness. Because while life on Earth is limited, the Kingdom of Heaven is eternal. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Jesus is cradling that little girl in His arms right now.” Soft hallelujahs echo from the ceiling.

  “I know that He’s drying her tears, and dressing her in His finest linens. Revelation 19:8 says, ‘And to her was granted that she should be arrayed in fine linen, clean and white: for the fine linen is the righteousness of saints.’”

  He says it again for emphasis. “‘The righteousness of saints!’” He’s holding her hand and saying, ‘My dearest child,’” he smiles now, “‘My dearest child, welcome to the Kingdom of Heaven.’”

  I’m seething. How dare he claim to know her soul? He didn’t even know her name until she died. And using her like this, as an object lesson, as though her whole life was only for the purpose of illustrating some stupid idea to others? June’s life was wasted, and saying it wasn’t, saying that she was used by God, that her life was snuffed out just so others can believe? It makes me burn.

  The deacons are lining up at the front, and I know what’s next. “This morning, I’d like to invite you to follow that child’s example. Jesus is waiting for you. He’s waiting to wash your sins white as snow, to turn your private sorrows into joy. Won’t you come forward right now and confess your sins to Him?”

  A thousand eyes buckshot toward me. Mom grabs my hand.

  “Come on, sweetheart.” Her eyes are brimming, and I realize why she chose her regular place so near the front. It wasn’t her having faith in me, it wasn’t her standing by my side. She wanted to be close so I can seek forgiveness for my sins. The thing to worry about now is my soul, my ticket to heaven, the only thing that can save me. Because my guilt isn’t a question in her mind anymore. It’s absolute.

  “Mom.”

  “Come on, baby. Let’s go pray, okay?”

  The singers take their places. The band starts up, slow and reverent.

  “What can wash away my sins?

  Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

  What can make me whole again?

  Nothing but the blood of Jesus.”

  “We’re waiting to pray with you, so come forward,” Dad says, in that dripping cadence that’s supposed to make me believe he cares.

  Mom takes my other hand in hers. “I’ll be right there with you.”

  I see then that it doesn’t matter what I do. If I step forward, I’m guilty. If I stay, I’m rebellious. The band gets to the chorus.

  “Oh! Precious is the flow
>
  That makes me white as snow-oh!

  No other fount I know,

  Nothing but the blood of Jesus.”

  Others are flooding toward the front. Deacons step forward to pray with them.

  “It doesn’t matter what you’ve done,” Dad says, “Jesus sees your sinner’s heart. He knows! Come now, come today, and let Him forgive you. Let the blood of Jesus wash away your sins.”

  But asking for forgiveness would be a lie. It would be more than one lie. I didn’t do anything that needs forgiveness, and even if I did, I don’t believe it’s possible to be saved anymore. I turn to Mom, “No.”

  “Oh, Emma.” She’s crying now, “please.”

  Dad sees us from his place on the stage and looks right at me, “Please don’t shut your heart to God. Repent. Make your wrongs right.” Then he sets the microphone down on a chair and walks straight toward us as the band continues to play.

  “This is all my hope and peace.

  Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

  This is all my righteousness.

  Nothing but the blood of Jesus.”

  “Please, Emma,” he whispers to me when he reaches us. “Please don’t shut your heart to God. He wants to heal your heart. He does.” He leans in close. I wiggle away.

  “No.” My voice is louder than I mean it to be. People turn to gape.

  Pastor Pete sees us. He steps down off the stage and makes his way through the crowd already praying at the front, a throng of people seeking forgiveness for petty sins, more guilt ridden than guilty.

  “Can I pray with you, Emma?” he asks. People are staring now, without shame. The whole row behind us has stopped singing.

  “I won’t ask for forgiveness for something I didn’t do.” His heart breaks a little for me. I can see it. There’s sympathy in his eyes, but whether it’s because he believes me or because he thinks I can’t own up to my mistakes is impossible to tell.

  “Then let’s just pray, okay?” It isn’t a request. He starts before I agree.