It's Our Secret

by W. Winters

  “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.

  “Shhh.” Hushed words won’t keep me quiet. Not anymore.

  “You don’t understand,” I say and the words come out quickly, the rest begging to follow. To confess.

  “I do understand. I know that boy’s name. I know who he is,” she says and her gaze turns hard and full of worry. “You can’t tell them you knew. They won’t look into it. Don’t tell them you knew.” Her throat’s tight as she swallows and it takes a moment for the realization to hit me with full force. She knows. Maybe not all of it, but she knows.

  “I have to—”

  “It’s not your fault,” she says, cutting me off. “What happened to Sam wasn’t your fault either and—”

  “Yes, it was!” I scream at the audacity of my mother saying 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. “I knew the truth and I didn’t fight for her! I didn’t help her!” I practically hiss, the shame and regret all-consuming as I say, “I walked away because you told me to.”

  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 blonde hair brushes back and forth around her shoulders. “It wasn’t your fault,” she tries to say again but her words are lost as she cries into her hand. “None of this is your fault and I’ll protect you, baby. They won’t find out.”

  “If I hadn’t texted her,” I say then gulp in air and my body 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. I didn’t agree with my mother. I wasn’t going to leave her. But I wasn’t given the chance to show her. I sent that message without thinking what it would do.

  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—” she starts to say but I cut her off, refusing to listen to her denial after all this time. Her shoulders shake with a sob she tries to silence.

  “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. I was quiet for too long. All of this waiting to come out and instead it only festered inside.

  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. 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 anything and everything. You avoided me. You know how much you 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 Sam. It was my fault for telling her. It’s always been my fault.

  “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.

  How could I ever be saved in a world that allowed this to happen? In a world that makes a victim feel like they could have stopped it when there wasn’t a damn thing they could have done to prevent the inevitable. There’s nothing that can save me.

  “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.

  “You don’t need to tell me this.” There’s hesitation in her voice like she’s scared to know.

  I hear her and I know she already assumes, but she should know. I want the world to know what I did. “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 nephew. Smiling in an article.

  The boy whose uncle 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. He smiled at me. “Sam could never smile again, but there he was, smiling.”

  “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 says and shakes her head, denying it, the puzzle pieces firmly 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 as I speak. More frantic, more saddened. “She deserved some kind of justice. I came here and I sought him out on purpose.”

  Her cries are all that stop 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. Because 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 six years ago, perfectly fine on the outside. Nothing happened to me. I was saved by circumstance. But what happened to Sam, not only that night but the weeks after, forever changed whatever it is t
hat makes a person a person.

  Death changes people.

  So does hate.

  That’s all I’ve been since Sam died. Hateful.

  I know my hate came from fear, it came from regret. It was bred from sadness.

  In six years, all I’ve been doing is suffering. Until I met Dean. It hurts. Whatever heaviness was lifted from my shoulders by my confession comes crashing back down tenfold.

  “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 like a mother does 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.

  34

  Dean

  Exhausted isn’t even close to the right word. Terrified doesn’t do it justice either. Both are nothing compared to the concoction that flows through my veins as I sit here. Still, I don’t feel either. All I feel is the pain for my Allie Cat, sitting on the other side of the plexiglass wall.

  “You only have ten minutes,” the guard reminds me before stalking off. I don’t turn to look at him. Instead I take in Allison, the darkness under her eyes and the dress that hangs delicately on her slender frame. Her hair’s brushed back and falls around her shoulders. She tried to look good for me. Although her mascara doesn’t stay in place when she wipes under her eyes before desperately reaching for the phone. One on her side, one on mine. There are eight other stations like this. Only two others are being used, though.

  I don’t make her wait long before picking up the phone and breathing her name.

  “Are you okay?” she asks but her voice is strained, and then she lowers her gaze, closing her eyes tight. Don’t look away. Please.

  My hand against the glass brings her attention back to me and she’s quick to put her hand on the other side. As if magically the barrier between us would vanish at her touch.

  She swallows thickly and tells me, “I know you’re not. I’m so sorry, Dean. I—”

  “I’m all right,” I say, cutting her off and remind her, “I’ve done this before, you know.”

  “It isn’t the same.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she cries even though I shush her. She keeps saying it as she unravels in front of me.

  Even on the phone, the sound of her swallowing thickly is audible. “Dean, I have to tell you something,” she says and her voice begs for mercy she doesn’t think she deserves.

  “Is it about the case?”

  “Yes and—”

  “Don’t say a word.”

  “I have to—”

  “No.” My voice is sharp and her eyes strike me with both surprise and pain. As if the single word was venomous too.

  “You won’t say anything here. Where there are other people who can hear you. record you.”

  “Dean, you don’t understand,” she says then pulls her hand away from mine as she shakes her head, but I keep mine in place.

  “I do. I understand more than you realize, Allie Cat.” My expression softens and when it does, hers mirrors mine, softening with a sadness. Her bottom lip trembles when I say her nickname and my throat goes tight as I swallow down the pain of it all.

  “Give me something I can dream about in here and I’ll make whatever it is come true when I’m out,” I tell her and even though it’s spoken like a command, I’m desperate for it.

  The tips of my fingers slip on the glass and they get her attention. She’s quick to put her hand back and her head drops down, her eyes never leaving mine, though.

  “Don’t let me see you sad, Allie,” I say, consoling her in a whisper over the phone. “I need something to dream about.”

  Removing her hand for only a moment to wipe under her eyes, she sniffles and then tells me, “I miss you in bed at night.”

  “Oh yeah?” I comment with an asymmetric smile and she heaves in air, attempting to keep herself from crying although it doesn’t work.

  My heart breaks a million times for her and it’ll break a million more with every tear she sheds.

  “I miss you too. At night and always. I miss your sassy mouth and stupid jokes.”

  She huffs a laugh and wipes her tears again. “Mine aren’t stupid, yours are stupid.” Her rebuttal makes both of us smile.

  “You should get a big pillow. Like one of those long ones while I’m gone.”

  “Dean.” She says my name like it pains her, closing her eyes tight.

  “Look at me, Allie Cat.” She responds to my command without hesitation, waiting with her lips parted and her body at the ready.

  “Get a long pillow, and hold it at night.” I force a grin when I tell her, “It’s the only thing allowed in your bed until I get out of here. You hear me?”

  She barely laughs and the sound is saddened, but she does and presses her hand against the glass again, its warmth coming through to me.

  “It’s only you, Dean,” she confesses, her voice lowered and full of sincerity on the line. “You’re the only man I want and love.”

  The itch at the back of my throat and the prick at the back of my eyes is hard to hide, but I do it for her. “About time you told me,” I respond and a genuine smile paired with a huff of a laugh from my Allie Cat is my reward. “I love you too, Allison.”

  She’s got to know I love her. And that makes this worth it. I would do anything for her.

  35

  Allison

  “We just have a few more questions.” There are two detectives in the room and I can tell the men apart from their voices and picture exactly how their lips move with each word without looking up from the pile of chipped nail polish I picked off in the last hour I’ve been sitting here.

  “Explain the altercation again,” the other cop, Detective Massing asks and then the other, Detective Ballinger, adds, “At what point, exactly, did your ex decide to pick up the lamp?”

  My mother begged me not to come in at all. She said I legally could decline. She’s afraid I’m going to say something I shouldn’t. Truth be told, right now I’m afraid too. I made a promise to her though, that I wouldn’t tell them. That’s because I’m going to tell them all the truth when I’m on the stand. I have to. My eyes prick with tears. It’s the only way to save Dean. I have to save him. That’s the only reason I’ve been sitting in this chair.

  “I told you, he didn’t decide.” My voice cracks and my eyes gloss over remembering the haunted look on his face. “I was screaming before the door burst open and when I looked up, he saw what was happening. He ripped him off of me without thinking at all.” I watch it all unfold again, barely breathing. I see it every night, a memory that will stay with me forever.

  “And then?”

  “And then he picked up the lamp and I yelled for him to stop from where I was, but he was so fast and …” I trail off and my eyes lift to meet theirs as I continue, “it was over before I could even breathe.”

  “And then what did he do? Did he attempt to conceal the weapon?”

  “He didn’t even seem to know what he’d done. Dean approached me and tried to reach out for me and there was so much blood on his arms.”

  “From bludgeoning his friend to death,” the asshole one says. Ballinger. I ignore him and my response is only a whisper when I say, “It was like he didn’t realize.”

  “How is it Dean entered your place of residence?”

  I blink at him. “He opened the door.

  “So you didn’t have it locked?”

  “I …” I have to think back to whether I did or not and Kevin’s eyes stare back at me.

  Do you want to come in? Was that what I asked him? My bottom lip quivers with the visions playing in front of me.

  “I asked if you had it locked,” Ballinger repeats with a hardened tone. As if reliving the moment just before trauma and tragedy doesn’t take more than a second to get through.

  Swallowing thick
ly, I answer him, I didn’t even close the door. The vision of Kevin kicking it shut as I tried to sway, deliberately appearing drunk takes over.

  “So he didn’t need a key to get in.”

  “No, anyone could have opened that door to help me.”

  They don’t like it when I say help me. They quiet down and share a glance each time I say it. But that’s what Dean was doing. He came in to rescue me because I was screaming and in return, I made him a murderer. I don’t know how he’ll ever forgive me. But so long as he doesn’t pay for my sins, I’ll be able to sleep at night. At least I pray I will.

  “You said you were screaming,” Massing starts then takes a long inhale. The air conditioner kicks on in the quiet room with a click. It’s empty except for us, another uncomfortable as fuck chair next to me, and a folder containing Dean’s rap sheet sitting in the middle of the table. “And that’s because Kevin was on top of you?”

  “Yes, he was forcing my clothes off.”

  “And did you at any time, help him?” Ballinger asks and I peer up at both of them, unflinchingly looking back at me.

  “Help him?”

  “To remove your clothes,” he clarifies. I’ve never felt so disgusted and the emotions that swell up inside of me are a mix of raw pain and fear and anger. It’s all of it, all at once.

  “I want a lawyer.” My statement is simple and I damn well mean it. My throat is sore and the words raspy, but clear.

  “You don’t need one; you haven’t been charged with anything.”

  “So I’m free to go then?” My voice is flat, my lips pressed in a thin line.

  “We have more questions.”

  “I won’t be answering any without a lawyer.” For the first time since I walked in here, I speak with authority.

  “Why is that?” Massing asks.

  “Do you have something to hide?” Ballinger says with a sneer.

  My entire body is tight with a pain neither of these two pricks will ever know.