But the blood…
“Jackson. He was on the ground. Staring at the sky.”
I can feel the tension emanating from Cynthia on the couch, and the silence stretches taut between us. But she gives me time.
My tongue feels dry. Like sandpaper. Heavy and clunky, too.
“Someone had stabbed him.”
Cynthia’s sharp intake of breath is the only sound.
“He was… He’s dead.” I told my brother last night and Cynthia at the start, but somehow, speaking it more calmly in the light of day—or the thin trickle of it anyway—it feels more solid. Real.
He really is dead.
And I wasn’t in love with him. Not even close. He was a liar and he yelled all the time and I was afraid he’d hurt me last night.
So there’s no grief like I imagine a true girlfriend would have felt, but it’s stilla lot.
“Neve.” Cynthia’s voice is a forced calm. “Who did it?”
I snap my gaze to her, in motion once again. “I have no idea.” The truth.
And she has the right question.
“Was it… one of them?”
I know who she means. But I shake my head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but…” I imagine how they trapped me between them. They didn’t hurt me, but Sylvan’s gloved hand on the back of my neck and the words he spoke, the calmness in them,couldhe have done something like that?
The police questioned us separately. I have no idea what they said, but it must have lined up enough, or we’d be in a cell, wouldn’t we? And we never did plot our story like they seemed to think we should have.
But there’s still time for prison, I guess.
I need to check my phone. I need to do what Nolan said and call a lawyer. He messaged me the names of his recommendations last night and said if I didn’t do it, he would. Not really a threat, to be honest. I’d rather not have to deal with this at all.
“Who else could it be? Was anyone else out there? At that time of night, no game, practice over…” Cynthia trails off. She’snot an athlete, but she likes to date them, which apparently keeps her up to date on most sports schedules. She shakes her head, then blows out a breath, her round cheeks deflating as she does. “There will be cameras.”
My stomach twists as I stare at her.
“Maybe not right there exactly, but enough to see who was around.”
“Unless they came from the woods.” I think about the forest behind the arena.
“Surely they’ve got some on the players’ lot in the back.” She blinks as she sits up straight, her mug cradled close to her chest. “I know a girl who was talking to Sylvan.” She says it slowly, as if she’s testing out the words on me.
For some reason, I can’t imagine this girl, whoever she is, really knows him very well. He’s like a poisonous snake, smooth and deadly. And Faust, he was quiet, hard to gauge. Who could break down those walls? But then again, I only interacted with either of them for what, ten minutes total? And yeah, they smelled good, and they looked good, and maybe I had to stop myself from Googling them last night so if the police checked my phone, it wouldn’t look suspicious, but I have no idea if they could murder anyone or not. Maybe Cynthia’s girl will have some insight.
“She’s in my pottery course.” Cyn rolls her eyes; she hates pottery. She’s a Museum Studies major. Strolling through art galleries is one thing we both love, but she doesn’t want to make the art. She wants to talk about it and take photos of it. She’s acurator,as she calls herself. Personally, I think she should go into sports curation, if there is such a thing. She knows every stat in the GTA, even from sports she doesn’t give a fuck about. Like disc golf. “A sophomore, so she can’t stop talking about him like he’s a shiny new toy.”
I frown at Cyn. “Is Sylvan… what? Afreshman?”Sure, he had too much swagger and cockiness but he seemed far more in control than I’d assume an eighteen-year-old would be.
“He’s twenty,” Cynthia says. “Spent time in a junior league near Buffalo.”
“Doyouknow him?” It’s not an accusation, but Cyn jerks her head back like I’ve offended her all the same.
“Uh, no, Neve. But I pay attention to sports on this campus, you know that.” The words have bite, then she winces, and swallows hard. “I just… I want to make sure one of them didn’t do it. Because if they did, and they think you’re a witness, they could come after you.” Her tone is softer now.
I take a deep breath in. “But we don’t really think the hockey players are out here stabbing people, do we?” As I say it, I refuse to remember it. Like if I keep pushing away the blurry, dark image of Jackson on the ground, it didn’t actually happen. Or maybe it did, and I only read about it somewhere, but I never experienced it myself. I never got caught up in the middle of it. Even with all the denial and the compartmentalizing I’m doing, I feel unsteady on my feet.
