“He showed up on our doorstep a week before Dad disappeared, shoved him through the screen door.”
“Why?”
“The police had been questioning Dad’s mates, seeing if they thought he had anything to do with Mum’s disappearance…I think Terry started to believe he did.”
“And this Terry,” he says, “he knew your dad…got physical with your mum?”
“He hit her, yes. Everyone knew. Nobody did anything about it.”
For the first time, he falters. His professionalism cracks, and for a moment, the man beneath it shows.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Min,” he says softly, looking away.
“DV is pretty common ’round these areas.” I shrug before adding, “You wouldn’t understand.”
I don’t know why I said that last part. Why I sneered it. But there’s a piece of me that needs him to know, we’re not the same. We never will be. That some wounds don’t heal, they just harden.
Us. Them.
Me. Chris.
He stares at the wedge of lime, studying it. “So Amy was lying? About what you did to her?” He hesitates. “What youtriedto do?”
My shoulders drop. I lean back on both elbows, sighing, thinking about things I haven’t thought of in years. I tilt my chin to the ceiling, speaking to it. “The town kids used to meet up at the creek in the woods after school. It was safer than…” I shrug. “…than home, I guess. We’d pelt each other with creek pebbles, get someone in a headlock, hold ’em under, that sort of thing. Amy was…well, she didn’t live here, you know what I mean? She was different from us.”
We were bruised and grimy, shifty and slack-eyed. Amy was sparkly nail polish and striped swimsuits with matching caps. She looked ridiculously out of place in that piss-colored creek, waddling in like a baby duck. I didn’t want her there, in our territory,myterritory, but she was oblivious. I didn’t want her sitting next to me at school, either. But there she was, chatty and painfully nice, stealing glances at Trav when he wasn’t looking.
“We played rough,” I admit, remembering. “Iplayed rough. That’s just how it was. How we were raised. Maybe I went too far one day…” My voice trails off. “Maybe it scared her. I didn’t mean to.”
I lift myself up on my elbows. Chris rubs the back of his neck, beer forgotten in his lap, still half full. I reach for the bottle, the heel of my palm grazing his thigh. He freezes, tight-lipped, as I shift the bottle to my knee. Without thinking, I stick my finger down the neck, poking at the lime wedge. I pluck it out, chomp into its tangy flesh, and it reminds me of something. Someone.
Trav.
We’re passing the pineapple juice box between us, taking turns, each sip slower than the last. It’s citrusy bright, tastes like summer afternoons and lazy violence.
I spit the lime wedge into my palm. My skin’s hot, my mouth burns. When I look up, Chris is watching. His eyes drop to my hand, the half-chewed lime glistening in my open palm.
He grimaces, pretends to shudder. “Need a bin for that?”
I close my fist slowly. Juice slips through the cracks in my knuckles, runs warm down my wrist. I let the silence stretch. Then I open my palm again, pulp glistening, fingers wet. “Got something for you,” I say, softer now.
“That’s disgusting.”
I half close my eyes, smiling. I’m not here anymore. I’m motionless and silent at the creek, staring at the boy kneeling in the amber water. He reaches up wordlessly, offering me something. I take it, quickly, hungrily. Starving for something only he can give me.
“I need to go,” I mumble. “Leavin’ in the morning.”
We don’t look at each other, and I think his interrogation is finally over. But it’s not.
“Wait.”
He lifts his head, and says, “Tell me about the fire.”
Chapter 20
You comin’ to the Wicked Woods after school?
Bring matches.
