Burden Falls

by Kat Ellis

  “Heated seats,” Dominic says, correctly reading my expression.

  I give him a half-lidded stare. “Really? I thought I just peed myself.” I thrust the check at him. “Tell me what this is supposed to be. Please. Because I’m about to lose my shit for the second time today.”

  “Well, we can come back to that last part in a second, but there should have been a letter with the check to explain it.”

  “There was. It was very . . . lawyer-y. But you knew about it?” I don’t know why that stings so much, but it does.

  “Yes. I mean, it wasn’t a secret or anything—unlike my parents buying the manor, which they kept under wraps until two days before we moved in.” Dominic catches my incredulous look. “They didn’t want us—by which I mean Freya—making a big thing about it in front of you at school.” He shrugs. “I want you to know I wasn’t hiding it from you. Seeing as we’re . . . whatever we are. I honestly had no idea you didn’t know this money was coming. And I don’t know all the details, but Dad told me that when he bought the manor, part of the deal he made with your uncle was that your share of the proceeds would be held in trust until you turned eighteen. Again, happy birthday.”

  I look doubtfully down at the check, trying not to dwell on that “whatever we are.” “So, this was Uncle Ty’s idea?”

  “Uh, no. My dad’s. He wanted to make sure the money wouldn’t get . . . swallowed up before you could use it.”

  My cheeks grow warm, and not just because of Dominic’s fancy heaters. “He thought Uncle Ty would spend the money.”

  It’s not a question, but he nods. “I know how you feel about my dad. About my family. And I don’t blame you, honestly. But Dad wanted to do something to try and make things . . . well, a little easier. You lost so much, so fast. I’m impressed at how well you’ve held it together all year.”

  I snort at that. I mean, I’m holding it together so well, I’m full-on seeing things that aren’t real.

  “Better than my dad has, anyway.” Dominic’s voice is quiet on that last part, and he looks out through the window at the falling snow.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dad . . . he . . . started drinking more after the accident. He’d stay in his room, sometimes for days at a time. He was depressed. I know it’s nothing like what you went through, but we were worried about him—Freya, especially. They’ve always been close. I think seeing him like that was part of the reason she wasn’t your biggest fan. I know it wasn’t fair of her to blame you, but there was no one else she could blame.”

  A few weeks ago, I might’ve taken some sick delight in hearing how Madoc Miller suffered. Freya too. But not now. I think a part of me will always hate Madoc for killing my parents, but I don’t want anyone else to be hurt by it, even him. And certainly not Dominic. I can tell it’s hard for him to talk about this.

  “That’s why Freya hated me so much? She blamed me for your dad’s depression?”

  He side-eyes me. “That was part of it. But you really were awful to her.”

  “I was not!” I say, but immediately backtrack. “Okay, maybe I was, but she was always trying to just . . . get at me.” I make an illustrative jabbing motion with my pointer finger.

  “Our first day in this school, you told her that her artwork was ‘not bad.’ ”

  “So?”

  “Come on, Thorn. You know she was better than ‘not bad.’ ” And she’d just said yours was amazing. Freya wasn’t nearly as confident as she liked to make out, and her art was really important to her.”

  “No, I . . .” I mean, I vaguely remember the conversation, but I wouldn’t have said that, would I? Not before I knew her. Not before the crash. “Oh God. I definitely said it.”

  I think that was the day I later overheard the conversation between Freya and Dominic outside the art studio—the one where she asked if my artwork was better than hers. Now his as if takes on a different tone. The tone of an older brother trying to reassure his sister. Not an asshole, like I decided.

  Dominic laughs as I curl up in a ball of shame.

  “Don’t worry about it. She would’ve hated you anyway, because of how bad things got with Dad. You two were alike that way. Very family-first.”

  “What happened with your dad?” I say, ignoring the alike part because it’s blatantly untrue.

  “He checked into rehab for a month at the end of last year, and I’m hoping he won’t need to do that again, but we’ll see. He goes to therapy every week now. It’s helping him deal with losing Freya, I think.”

  “But . . .” I hesitate, the question almost out before I can think better of it. Dominic just waits, though, so in the end I spit it out. “If your dad was so cut up about the accident, how could he buy the manor? Why would he want you all to live there?”

  Dominic purses his lips, considering. “I think buying the manor was the only way he could come up with to make amends to you. Stepping in before the banks foreclosed . . . Well, it got your uncle out of a lot of trouble, from what I heard. And Dad wanted to make sure you could have the future you should’ve had . . . at least part of it.”

  I turn the check over and over in my hands. The edges are already starting to look wrinkled.

  This is A LOT of money. I could hire a lawyer. A top-notch therapist. Pay for a spot in the summer art program, maybe. Hell, I could even go to art college if I wanted to.

  If I don’t end up in jail first.

  “Will you keep it?” Dominic asks.

  I think about it hard before answering. “I’m not sure yet.”

  He nods, like that’s a good enough answer. “So what was the other meltdown about?”

  I look at my hands, which haven’t suddenly developed those disgusting holes again, and decide to just tell him the part about Freya.

  “Hamish said something earlier, and it reminded me of a conversation I overheard a few days before Freya died. It got me thinking . . . Could Freya have been involved with Hamish?”

  * * *

  * * *

  I sit next to Dominic at the police station while he tells Detective Holden about a day around New Year’s when he saw Freya talking to Hamish inside his car in the school parking lot.

  “They looked . . . well, guilty, in hindsight. At the time, I just thought I’d startled them both.” Dominic leans back in his seat. “Look, Detective, if Hamish or some other older guy was taking advantage of my sister, they need to at least be questioned.”

  Detective Holden bristles. I can tell he doesn’t enjoy being told how to do his job by a couple of teenagers. I’ve already filled him in on my suspicions, though I can admit they sound a lot flimsier when I try to explain them to a cop. Dominic seems to think we’re making our case well enough, though.

  “I saw Hamish and his girlfriend . . . fiancée . . . the night Ford died,” I blurt. “They were still with him when I went back inside the gas station. What if he was trying to run into Ford with his car? Or what if Ford said something to him about Freya after I left? Maybe Hamish followed him to the river?”

  With his fiancée in the car?

  Okay, that seems unlikely. Unless she’s in on it?

  No. That makes no sense. But none of this makes any sense.

  “I’ll look into it,” Holden says, and stands. “Thank you both for coming in. But perhaps you should be getting back to school?”

  “Did you find anything on the phone yet?” I ask before he can actually kick us out the door. “I’m sure if you check for Mr. Hamish’s number—”

  “It’s in hand, Miss Thorn,” Detective Holden says through clenched teeth.

  “Come on, Ava,” Dominic says. “Let’s leave the detective to do his job.”

  And as we make our way out, walking past another interview room along the corridor, I spot a familiar face.

  Sitting there, with a fading black eye and the ha
ngdog expression of someone expecting a world of trouble, is Liam Walsh.

  * * *

  * * *

  When I get home from school, Carolyn and Uncle Ty are still at work, so I don’t have to decide whether or not to tell them about Madoc Miller’s check. I mean, I assume Uncle Ty knows about it, at least. But the fact he didn’t give me a heads-up is weird. Did he just want it to be a surprise? Or was a part of him ashamed for agreeing to take Madoc Miller’s money?

  Either way, I need to figure out what I’m going to do about the check before I talk to Carolyn and Uncle Ty about it.

  Daphne and Carla arrive with pizzas and gifts a short while later. Even though I didn’t want to celebrate this birthday, I’m glad I let them talk me into it.

  “Hasn’t your dad told you why Liam was at the police station?” I ask Daphne. We’re sprawled on my bed like cats, my laptop propped against the headboard, but none of us are really paying attention to the movie that’s playing.

  Daphne pouts. “He’s gotten very stingy with information lately. Says now that it’s a murder investigation involving people I know, he can’t share all the details like he usually would.”

  Dominic doesn’t know, either. Apparently, the cops are even less forthcoming with his parents about who’s at the top of their suspects list.

  Carla idly picks up a birthday card from my nightstand, wincing as she reads it. “Ford’s mom gave you a card?”

  “Yeah. It was so sweet of her to remember.”

  “How’s she doing?” Daphne asks.

  I shrug. Ms. Sutter looked gaunt, her eyes vacant, as if all the spark that was usually there had just . . . gone out. For the first time, I wonder if Dominic’s seeing the same thing with his parents. He puts on such a convincing show of being fine most of the time, I selfishly forget he’s actually going through the worst time of his life right now. Of all people, I shouldn’t be the one to forget that.

  “I miss Ford like hell,” I say, “and I hate that he’s not here right now. But I’m also still really pissed at him, you know?”

  Before my parents died, I’d have felt terrible for admitting I was still mad at Ford. But Dr. Ehrenfeld was the one who got me to see it was normal to have mixed-up feelings after someone dies. Like I was so mad at Madoc Miller, but sometimes that anger spilled over and I got angry with Mom for not seeing Madoc’s car in time. Mad at Dad for having a seizure right then, which I know is completely irrational. I even got mad at the damn owl for swooping in front of our car and distracting Mom for that second when she might otherwise have been noticing the Hummer careening toward us.

  The anger passed, mostly. So I know I won’t always be pissed at Ford. Maybe my feelings about him, about our friendship, won’t ever be clear-cut—good or bad—but I still get to miss him.

  Carla nods. “I wasn’t his biggest fan, but it sucks he’s not here.”

  “Are you still having the dreams?” Daphne asks. I bite my lip, not sure how truthful to be. But I figure we’re sharing, so I might as well get all my shit out in the open.

  “Most nights, yeah. But it’s not just dreams anymore. I mean, I think I might actually be seeing things that aren’t really there.”

  “What kinds of things?” Daphne asks, but Carla cuts in before I can answer.

  “Have you seen Sadie again?”

  “Yeah. I saw her today in Hamish’s office, and the other night at my window.” Daphne and Carla both turn at once to look at the little round window. It’d be funny, if I weren’t losing my damn mind. “But it’s more than that. Sometimes when I look at people, I see them without any eyes. And this morning I had a weird episode where I thought the scars on my hands had opened up like empty eye sockets.”

  Carla and Daphne stare at me, horrified.

  “Forget I said anything. Who wants cake?”

  “Whoa there, birthday girl,” Carla says, stopping me as I’m about to head to the kitchen in a cloud of embarrassment. “We’re not just skimming over this one. You’re really worried about this, aren’t you?”

  “It totally freaked me out.”

  “Then go see your old shrink,” Carla says. “What was her name? Dr. Ehrenfeld?”

  “It couldn’t hurt,” Daphne says, “although . . .”

  “What?” I think she’s about to point out the same problem I came up with earlier—about looking even more like a suspect to the cops. But she doesn’t.

  “It does feel like there’s something weird behind what’s been happening. Something supernatural . . . don’t you think?”

  I keep my mouth shut because I’ve had that same feeling. A lot.

  “Obviously, I think that’s crap—sorry, Daph,” Carla says, taking a bite of pizza. “But maybe you should see a regular doctor, not a psychiatrist.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there could be some other reason you’re hallucinating.”

  “Like . . . ?” I press. Damn it, if there’s an explanation for what I’m seeing that doesn’t involve ghosts or me going mad, I’m pretty much open to anything.

  “Well, people hallucinate for all kinds of reasons. Head trauma, oxygen deprivation, poison, drug abuse, gas leaks, brain tumors . . .”

  “Jeez, Car.” Daphne nudges her.

  “What? I’m just saying Ava shouldn’t assume she’s losing her mind. That’s a good thing,” Carla says. “Now, what do you say we watch the rest of this shitty vampire movie?”

  THIRTY-THREE

  There’s a joint memorial for Ford and Freya at school Thursday evening. I think it’s so the funerals can be done privately.

  It’s just as awful as I expected it to be. The school assembly hall is packed. But whoever laid out the folding chairs seems to have anticipated a lower turnout, so there are people standing several rows deep around the edges, with some at the front opting to sit cross-legged on the floor. It looks more like a folk festival than a memorial.

  With people crammed in like this, and everyone wrapped up in thick winter clothes because of the icy weather, it’s getting pretty sweaty.

  Ford’s mom sits up front. Madoc is a couple seats along, with Dominic between them like a buffer. I don’t see Dominic and Freya’s mom anywhere.

  Ms. Sutter is one of those people who has Big Energy, even when she’s not doing anything. Always super busy, but like she enjoys being busy, you know? When she walks, it’s almost like skipping. Her feet don’t get time to touch down. If I drew her, she’d be in a glowing bubble, floating just a little off the ground. Always in motion. But today she looks exhausted. It’s in her sunken cheeks, the dark circles under her eyes. Gravity and grief have caught up with her. She looks over her shoulder from her seat in the front row, peering out at the assembly. Her eyes move from one face to the next. Is she looking for someone? The person who murdered her son? Or just making a tally of who’s here for Ford, and who for Freya?

  She pauses when she sees me. For the briefest moment, Ms. Sutter smiles.

  A sudden downpour of rain wails on the corrugated roof of the assembly hall, making me flinch. I can barely hear what Principal Gower is saying into the mic. I strain to pick out the words, then realize she’s actually reading out Ford’s latest report card.

  “Jesus,” I mutter. It’s not even a great report card. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  Carolyn squeezes my hand, despite the fact it probably feels sweaty through the glove. Uncle Ty just looks like the heat’s getting to him, his cheeks all red and splotchy. I’m glad they’re both here, even though I’ve kind of been avoiding them for the past couple days. I don’t know how to bring up Madoc Miller’s check. I still can’t decide whether to keep it.

  “Ford would’ve hated this,” Carolyn whispers.

  I imagine him sitting next to me, scanning the faces of the crowd and giving me a look like, Can you believe these assholes actually showed up?

&
nbsp; Most of the people here are from school, but there are plenty of adults too. Friends of Ford’s mom and Freya’s parents, I guess. Or at least people who know them.

  I sit between Carolyn and Daphne, with Daphne’s dad on her other side, and Uncle Ty next to Carolyn. Officer Chavez isn’t in uniform; only here to pay his respects, he said as we came in, not on official police business. But there are plenty of cops who are. They’re dotted around the back of the gym, by the exits, up front near the stage. For a second, I think I see a girl with long dark hair hanging over her face standing between two cops in uniform, but when I blink, she’s gone.

  Detective Holden stands stiffly against the back wall. Even if I hadn’t already met him, I’d sense the cop vibes he’s giving off a mile away. He strides to the front of the gym, taking Principal Gower’s spot at the podium, and taps on the mic. The sound booms across the room, followed by an ear-splitting surge of feedback.

  “Excuse me,” he says, like he doesn’t already have everyone’s attention. “My name is Detective Mike Holden, and I’m here working with your local police force to investigate the deaths of Ford Sutter and Freya Miller, whom you’ve all come here today to remember. I wanted to take a moment to let everyone know that we’re doing everything we can to get to the bottom of what happened. I know a lot of you have already spoken with us, and we’re very grateful for your help. I’d like to reassure you that we don’t believe Ford’s and Freya’s deaths are the start of a pattern, though we do encourage everyone to avoid going out alone after dark. You’ll also have noticed an increased police presence on your streets. Now, I won’t take up any more time here tonight, but, if anyone has any information that might be pertinent to the murder investigations, I’ll be leaving my contact information with Principal Gower, and she’ll be happy to put you in touch with me.”

  He’s about to leave the stage when someone in the audience calls out, “What about our kids? Are they safe?”