She says it like a statement.Not a question.Like everyone already knows and I’m just behind.
I don’t answer right away.I’m tamping gravel into the base of the post, feeling for give.
“Which one?”I ask.
That’s when she turns.Her eyes are red but dry, like she’s already used up the part of herself that cries freely.
“The younger one,” she says.“The one on the cheer team.The one who went dress shopping last month.”
I straighten slowly.
“She didn’t wake up,” Mrs.Mather says.“They said it was pills.Same ones that took those last two kids.God rest their souls.”
She presses her lips together.Swallows.
“They’re having a terrible time picking something for the funeral,” she adds.“Her mother said it didn’t feel right to bury her in a dress she never got to wear.”
She laughs then.A sharp, broken sound.“Can you imagine?Planning a funeral instead of a prom.”
I can.
That’s the problem.
I finish setting the post.Level.Solid.It won’t lean this time.
“The police know who’s selling,” she says, wiping her hands on her apron like this is gossip and not an indictment.“Everyone does.But they say they need proof.Or warrants.Or something that keeps them from having to do anything until it’s too late.”
She finally looks at me.Rattles off a name I’ve heard before.
“But you know how it is,” she says.“You hear things.”
I don’t correct her.
“Who’s to say what’s true?”she continues.“I’m sure the cops will take care of it.Just hope too many other kids don’t have to die first.”
I meet her eyes.Hold them.
“Me too,” I say.
“Hope I got it sweet enough,” she tells me, motioning at the glass.“It’s the least I could do for all of your trouble.”
I finish the fence.Pack my tools.Drive into town without thinking too hard about it.
10
Marin
It starts with the porch.I go back out to the car because denial comes with a timeline, and mine runs out when the bottom step gives way under my weight—just like he said it would.
It’s not a dramatic fall.No arcing limbs, no slow-motion gasp.Just a sharp crack and my foot punching straight through the board, wood splintering around my shoe like it’s been waiting for the chance.
I grab the rail on instinct, wrench myself upright—and then feel it.
A hot, slicing sting along my shin.
“God—”
I yank my leg out and look down.A rusty nail has torn through my jeans and caught skin on the way out.Blood beads immediately, bright and rude.
