Far From You

by Tess Sharpe

“So why didn’t she take it with her that night?” Trev asks, and there’s this angry note in his voice that makes me flinch. “She knew where it was, how to use it. She could’ve protected herself.”

  “She didn’t bring the gun because she didn’t suspect whoever she was meeting,” I say.

  We slow to a halt at the stoplight at the end of the street, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see a muscle in Trev’s jaw twitching. It’s eating at him, that Mina knew she was in enough danger to want to learn how to shoot but had kept her secrets too long.

  “Matt doesn’t think much of Detective James,” I say, because I hate how well Trev can blame himself. I need to steer him away from this.

  “Neither do you,” Trev points out.

  I roll my eyes. “That’s because Detective James gets an idea in his head and won’t budge from it. How much progress has he made in all these months chasing after nonexistent drug leads? If he’d done his job the first time, Mina wouldn’t have had to go after the guy who took Jackie. He’s failed to catch the same killer twice. That’s his fault, too.”

  “Look, I’m pissed at him, too, but eventually, we’ll take all of this stuff to him. We’ll have to get along.”

  “He’s an ass.”

  “Well, let’s say that Matt is responsible,” Trev says. “What’s his motivation for getting rid of Jackie?”

  I flip the turn signal at the stop sign, looking both ways. “Did they fight?”

  “Sometimes. I think she was pissed he was smoking so much pot. She was trying for a scholarship so her parents wouldn’t have to pay for college. Spent a lot of time working out, running drills, studying so her grades were good enough. She wanted him to keep up.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “So, what—he kills her ’cause she’s bugging him about weed?”

  “Maybe it was an accident,” Trev says. “She disappeared out on Clear Creek; that’s getting into the woods. Maybe they went hiking or they were fighting and she fell?”

  “Then why wouldn’t he just call the rangers and tell them it was an accident? Accidents happen in the Siskiyous all the time. No, someone took Jackie and killed her and probably dumped her somewhere. That’s why no one’s ever found her body.”

  “This is so messed up,” Trev says under his breath.

  “I know,” I say. We sit in silence for a long moment. “You still up for going to talk to Jack Dennings?”

  “I can’t let you go alone,” he says, which isn’t really an answer, but I’ll take it.

  “Then get my phone out. I have the directions on it.”

  We’re quiet on the drive to Jack Dennings’s place out in Irving Falls. Trev fiddles with the radio, finding an old-school country station, and Merle Haggard’s worn voice fills the cab of the truck as I focus on the road.

  I don’t know what to say to him when it’s about normal stuff. So I keep quiet and roll down the window, trying to get some relief from the heat, but the hot air blasts me, blowing my hair back in my face. The truck’s AC has been broken for as long as I can remember, and though it’s not even noon, it’s in the triple digits already. Sweat collects at the small of my back, and I pull my hair off my neck with one hand, slinging it over my shoulder.

  He watches me out of the corner of his eye. I pretend not to notice. It’s easier.

  The air cools as we keep driving. Climbing up and out of the valley, we’re surrounded by mountains on both sides, thick with pines, the houses set in the far reaches of the woods where privacy is paramount. About twenty miles ahead is the waterfall the town is named for, but Jack ­Dennings lives on the outskirts, a real backwoods sort of man.

  “This is it,” I say, slowing down at the life-size iron turkey nailed on top of the wooden mailbox. We weave through the thickets of digger pines and barbed wire fencing that line the dirt road, and it twists and turns for a few miles before we come across the house, set far back in the taller trees. It’s a simple little one-story rancher, stretched out low on the hilly terrain.

  Trev and I get out of the truck and walk up to the door to knock. Dogs bark frantically inside, but there’s no answer. After a minute, Trev steps back and shades his eyes against the sun. He gestures to the old two-tone Ford parked underneath an oak tree. “Maybe he’s around back?”

  I follow him, a foot behind as we circle around the house. There’s a neat vegetable garden with sunflowers planted around the border, and beyond that a huge chain-link enclosure, brimming with lush green plants.

  Then I hear it.

  A click.

  It’s familiar.

  Dread surges through me. I’m blocking Trev. Maybe I can save him, like I should’ve saved her.

  I spin around, instinctually, toward the noise, and for the second time in my life, I’m looking down the barrel of a gun.

  50

  FOUR MONTHS AGO (SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD)

  Detective James is tall, at least six and a half feet, with slick dark hair and a worn plaid shirt. He sits on my mom’s red couch, and the cup of coffee looks tiny in his large hands.

  My mom places her hand on my shoulder. “Sophie, this is ­Detective James. He has some questions for you.”

  I’m ready to answer them. He’s safe. He’s police. If I just tell the truth, everything will be fine. He’s going to find her killer.

  I have to repeat it a few times in my head before I can venture further into the room.

  “Hi,” I say. “Do you want me to sit?” I ask.

  “Hello, Sophie.” He stands up briefly to shake my hand and nods, short and clipped. His face is grim, like he’s seen it all and then some.

  I sit down in my dad’s armchair across from the couch, folding my good leg underneath me. I stretch out my bad one, the flex brace on my knee only letting me get so far. My mom hovers in the doorway, arms folded, her eyes on the detective. I can hear Dad moving around in the kitchen, staying close so he can eavesdrop.

  Detective James pulls out a notepad. “Sophie, can you tell me who attacked you and Mina?”

  “No. He was wearing a mask.”

  “You’d never seen him before?”

  I frown. Did he not hear me? “I don’t know. He was wearing a ski mask.”

  “But it was a man?”

  “Yes. He was tall. Over six feet. That’s really all I can tell you about him. He had a big coat on; I’m not sure if he was heavy or thin.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Not at first. He…” I can feel my face scrunching as I try to think, and it pulls sharply on the stitches swirling across my forehead, ending at my hairline. “He said something. After he hit me. Right before I passed out, I heard him. He said something to Mina.”

  “And what was that?” Detective James asks.

  I have to think about it, pick it apart through the tumult of fear and pain and panic that had surged through me in that moment. “He said, ‘I warned you.’”

  The detective scribbles something down on his notepad. “Had someone been threatening Mina? Had she been fighting with someone? Having problems with anyone?”

  “I don’t know…I don’t think so. I—”

  “Why don’t you tell me why you girls were out at Booker’s Point?” he interrupts. “Your mom says that you told her you were going to a friend’s place—Amber Vernon—but Booker’s Point is a good thirty miles away from her house.”

  “We were going to Amber’s,” I say. “But Mina had to take a detour to the Point. She was meeting someone for a story.”

  “A story?”

  “She has an internship at the Beacon.” I stop, my lips pressing together tightly. “Had,” I correct myself. “She had an internship.”

  “She didn’t tell you who she was meeting?” The skeptical note in his voice makes my mother bristle, the lawyer coming out in her face
.

  “No. She wouldn’t tell me. She said she didn’t want to jinx it. She was excited, though. It was important to her.”

  “Okay,” Detective James says. For almost a minute, he’s silent, writing on his notepad. Then he looks up, and my mouth goes dry at the look on his face—someone zeroing in for the kill. “Booker’s Point is well known as the place to go for drug deals,” he says. “It would be understandable, for someone with your history, to return to bad habits.”

  “We weren’t out there for a drug deal,” I say. “Test me again. Go get me a cup right now to pee in. I don’t care what anyone’s saying. Kyle’s lying. Mina was meeting someone for a story. Ask her super­visor at the paper what she was working on. Ask the newspaper staff. Go through her computer. That’s where you’ll find your killer.”

  “And the drugs in your jacket?” Detective James asks. “Were those part of Mina’s story, too? Or did they just appear out of nowhere?”

  I open my mouth, tears flooding my eyes, but before I can say anything, there’s Mom, striding to the center of the room. “I think that’s all for tonight, Detective,” she says firmly. “My daughter’s been through a great deal and she’s refused pain medication. She needs to rest.”

  He opens his mouth to protest, but my mom is already hustling him out with the power of her stare and the authoritative click of her heels.

  I’m left alone in the living room, my parents talking in low voices in the kitchen, so I slip upstairs before they notice.

  I curl up on my bed, and a few minutes later my mother comes into my room. My mattress sinks down as she sits next to me.

  “You did well,” she says. “You didn’t incriminate yourself. But this is just the first interview. There’ll be more as the investigation proceeds.”

  I look straight ahead, unable to meet her eyes. “I didn’t relapse,” I say. “I know you don’t believe me, but I didn’t.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think,” she says. “It matters what the police think. You could be in a lot of trouble, Sophie. You need to be aware of that.”

  I turn over on my back and finally look at her. “What matters is that they find Mina’s killer. They can’t do that if they think it was a drug deal. Because that’s not what happened. I don’t care if they charge me with possession—I only care about finding the person who did this.”

  Mom flinches. “Well, I care what happens to you,” she says curtly. “I am doing everything I can to keep you out of trouble, Sophie. You’re seventeen; you could be tried as an adult. No offering drug tests, do you hear me?”

  “I’m clean,” I grit out.

  “Promise me.” Her fear has crept inside the room with us, thick and heavy. Her mouth, shark-bite red, trembles, and her fingers twist together. Mommy will always protect me, even when I’m destroying her.

  “I promise,” I say.

  It’s the only way, because I know my mother. She’ll never believe me, but she’ll do whatever it takes to keep this from ruining my life.

  It’s the first thing I’ve done that isn’t about Mina.

  It’s for me, and for Mom, who’d claw her fingers bloody fighting for me.

  It feels like a betrayal.

  51

  NOW (JUNE)

  It’s happening again.

  I’ve wondered every day how it could have been different: if I had been faster, braver, if he hadn’t gone for my bad leg first, maybe I would’ve been able to stop him.

  And now there’s another gun in my face and I want to be brave this time. More than anything, I want to be brave.

  But I can’t stop my bad leg from folding beneath me.

  I go down hard. My knees scream in protest. There’s blood in my mouth; I’ve bitten through my cheek. I can’t look anywhere but at the shotgun barrel. Can’t even focus enough to make out the blurry figure holding it. All I know is that it’s happening again and I can’t do anything to stop it. I’m not blocking Trev anymore, and the panic makes me scramble forward, toward the gun. I can’t be responsible for his dying, too.

  Someone’s yelling. Something brushes against my shoulder, forcing me away from that night and back to reality. Trev’s moved past me.

  “What the fuck?”

  It’s Trev. Trev’s yelling. Angry and loud in a way that’s shocking, because he has the slowest fuse in the universe. Things start to sharpen, my heartbeat slowing in my ears as my eyes focus.

  He takes another step until he’s completely in front of me. I want to grab his legs, yank him away. “Get that out of her face!” he yells.

  “Who are you two?”

  I try to focus on the voice, on the white-haired man holding the gun.

  “I said put the gun down!” Trev looms in front of the man, using his height, his broad shoulders, and the strength that he won’t unleash until it’s needed. There’s no fear in his voice, ringing out clear, an unmistakable order.

  It’s crazy.

  It’s stupid. And I love him for it.

  The man, bent, scrawny, with leathery skin and a razor-blade mouth, lowers the barrel a few inches. “What the hell are you two doing here?”

  “I’m Mina Bishop’s brother. We wanted to talk about an interview she did with you a few months ago.”

  The suspicion melts from the man’s face, and he lowers the gun. “Sorry ’bout that,” he croaks, wiping his forehead. “You never know, out here.” He nods toward the cage of plants. “Kids come out all the time, try to steal my medicine.”

  “We’re not here to jack your weed,” Trev says as he kneels down on the ground next to me. “Soph,” he says gently, and I can see in his face how bad I must look right now. He holds his hand out, waiting for me to take it.

  Both my legs shake as I get up, and I rub at my cheeks with my sleeve.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you that bad, girlie,” Jack ­Dennings says to me.

  “Yes, you did.”

  He smiles like I’m being funny. “I’m sorry to hear about your sister,” he says, nodding at Trev. Trev nods back, his shoulders still tense. “What did you want to know about Mina talking with me?”

  “All we want to know is what you two talked about,” Trev says.

  “Jackie’s childhood. I showed Mina the trophies she won.” Jack smiles, and this time there’s sadness at the edges of his mouth. “She was a natural. Got a soccer scholarship and everything. Was gonna be the first in the family to go to college.” He taps the rifle against his leg, eyes softening. “She was my first grandchild…such a good girl.”

  “And did you tell anyone Mina was interviewing people close to Jackie?”

  “Nope. I don’t get into town too much these days. Though I think Matt Clarke knew about it, because that’s where Mina said she got my phone number.”

  “Are you close to Matt?”

  Jack Dennings spits on the ground. “Not likely. Boy wasn’t good enough for my granddaughter. He took a bad turn when his daddy left. Quit sports, started fighting, doing too many drugs. Didn’t want that for her, told her that, but she was a headstrong one, my Jackie.”

  “You ever think he was responsible for Jackie going missing?” Trev asks.

  Jack’s eyes narrow. “You sound like your sister,” he says.

  “Did she think Matt did it?”

  “Don’t know, didn’t ask.”

  “Do you think he did?” I demand.

  “Let me put it this way,” Jack says. “You gotta be sure, and I’m not. So Matt gets to go along, live his life.”

  “And what happens if you are sure?” I can’t help but ask.

  Jack Dennings smiles wide. He’s got a gap in the back of his grin, missing a few molars. “When that day comes, that boy’s gonna be bear food in the forest before his momma even misses him.”

  I shud
der, too on edge to stop it, because I can see how much he means it.

  Because something inside me understands him.

  “Okay, thanks,” Trev says. “We’ll be going now.”

  “You don’t come back, you hear?” Jack orders. “Don’t be getting any ideas.”

  “Your plants are safe, sir,” Trev says wryly.

  He slips into the driver’s seat without asking, and I hand him the keys, not taking a deep breath until we’re on the move, driving down the highway. Trev shuts off the radio and watches me out of the corner of his eye, one hand on the wheel, the other curved out the window.

  One mile. Two.

  I’m drowning in the quiet.

  We don’t speak the entire forty minutes it takes to get back to my house. And when he pulls up to the curb and I get out, he follows. He follows me down the driveway, through the back gate, along the raised beds he built for me, up into the tree house that he’d repaired countless times.

  I scrunch myself in the corner, and he sits across from me, the silence as bruising as a hailstorm. I think about the last time I was up here with him, how I don’t regret it, even though I probably should.

  There are still gingham curtains, crudely sewn, hanging from one of the windows. They flap gently in the midafternoon breeze, their lace edging ratty and yellowed.

  “Do you remember when we met?” I ask him.

  He looks up, startled. He rubs his thumbs over his bent knees, straightening one leg out slowly. The hem of his jeans brushes my calf.

  “I do,” he says. “Mina had been talking about you for weeks. I remember being glad she’d made a friend, that she was talking and laughing instead of crying. You were so quiet at first, you held yourself so still, sort of like Mina’s opposite.” He laughs. “But you were always watching her. I knew I could count on you, that you’d help her. Looking back, I feel so stupid, not realizing the two of you…” He lets out a huff of breath, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “It’s weird to think she and I had the same taste in girls. Is that why she never told me?” Trev’s hands knot together. “Because of you?”