“You wear it a lot.”
I nod, wondering if he’s asking a question or stating a fact, and then deciding it doesn’t matter. I do wear blue a lot. Maggie thinks it’s my favorite color.
It’s on my nails, my shirt, even my car.
My brother isn’t perfect. He can be overbearing and judgmental, and he always thinks he’s right even when he’s not. Forcing me to jump off those train tracks wasn’t the first less-than-perfect thing he’s done and it wasn’t the last either. There were times growing up when I hated him and he hated me. I used to try to block out those memories, push them to the background of my mind and let only the good ones rise to the front. That’s what I did when Jason was first arrested. I acted like people do at funerals, making saints out of even the most wretched people as though the involuntary act of death erased all the bad things they’d ever done. That’s harder to do when the person isn’t dead but in prison. Jason killed someone, yet I still surround myself with his favorite color because he’s my brother and I miss him. But that isn’t fair to confess to Heath. My brother is alive, but gone; his brother is dead, but everywhere.
Because of Jason.
I can’t look away from Heath, even as my staring approaches an uncomfortable line and then barrels past it. I’m thinking about Jason and Laura and whether or not I’d be able to stand here with him if our situations were reversed and his brother was responsible for either of their deaths. The answer is swift and sure.No. I’d have gougedhisname from the tree. I’d have chosen the rain over a ride. I’d have done more than yell when I threw Heath’s money back at him. I wouldn’t have been able to hold on to my composure in front of him, not for a single second. It bothers me that he can stay calm, even though I can see that the effort is costing him.
“I don’t hate you.” Heath’s face is as expressionless as his voice. “I thought I would, that the sight of you, any of you, would be like seeinghim.” Jason. Heath’s weight shifts forward as though he’s considering taking another step, one that would bring him under the shade with me. “It hurts, but it’s not hate.” After a moment he nods like we’ve just settled something, only I can’t begin to fathom what it is. He turns toward his truck.
But then he stops. He doesn’t look at me when he says, “I’ll be here again after it rains.”
CHAPTER 14
The murder of Calvin Gaines was the worst crime to ever hit our town. It briefly made national news and locally it was broadcast around the clock for months. TV crews lived in our yard, shoving cameras and microphones into our faces the second we stepped outside. They followed me and Laura to school, chased Mom down at the library where she worked and bombarded Dad at every possible opportunity. One even pretended to be a nurse at my doctor’s office. And it was always different versions of the same questions:
“Did your brother ever display homicidal tendencies before he killed Calvin Gaines?”
“Did your brother torture animals?”
“Your uncle is a convicted felon. Did he play a role in the murder?”
“Did your brother talk about planning to murder his friend?”
“Were you ever afraid your brother might harm you or your sister?”
“What do you say to those who are demanding the death penalty for your brother?”
Once Jason confessed, that was it. There was no safe place, no safe person. Too many of our so-called friends were suddenly all too eager to give interviews revealing that they always secretly knew how unhinged Jason was. Not unhinged enough for them to say anything to anyone, but just enough to cash in on their fifteen minutes of fame afterward.
Mom never said she was asked to leave her job at the library, but Dad had some choice words for the branch manager when she called to say that Mom didn’t need to put in her two weeks.
We didn’t stop going to our church all at once. Heath’s family were members of the massive Southern Baptist church while my family attended the smaller United Methodist church. Otherwise we would have stopped right away. Our church numbers swelled in the weeks following Jason’s arrest; the new attendees ranged from gawkers to gossips to reporters waiting for us in the parking lot. The brazen ones even sidled up next to us during Communion. Mom actually kept going for a full month after Dad, Laura and I stopped, but even she couldn’t hold out forever. I think most of the congregation was relieved. They tried not to be, but what do you say to someone when their child is a murderer?
At our old church, Pastor Hamilton used to preach about forgiveness and the grace of God being greater than all our sins, but Telford was still small enough that most of the people outside the walls of our church were either unwilling or uncertain how to extend kindness to my family without spitting on the Gaineses. The ones who didn’t keep their distance on their own weren’t given a choice.
And I know they were relieved.
Now we drive an hour and a half south to Odessa once or twice a month to attend Uncle Mike’s mega church, which is so big I’ve never seen the same face twice, and where the rotating pastoral staff preach sermons with titles like God Wants You to Win the Lottery.
Slowly but surely we all withdrew from everything and everyone in Telford. It was almost too easy. I’d been homeschooled briefly before due to my ice-skating training, so it was simple enough to transfer Laura and me to an online school. We don’t live in town, and once Dad took an ax to our mailbox, it became a lot harder for reporters to find us. He picks up our mail—and the groceries Mom now orders online—from the post office once a week. Apart from Dad handling that unavoidable task, I’m the only one who still ventures beyond our property on a regular basis.
I wouldn’t even do that if it weren’t for the ice rink.
And now Maggie.
Which is why I’m riding shotgun while she drives Daphne to Keller’s Creamery for frozen custard on an early Monday afternoon. Keller’s fresh frozen custard is so rich and so creamy, I didn’t put up a protest when she called earlier begging me to make a run with her. She thinks I have a mild form of agoraphobia. She hasn’t forced the issue with me, since she openly prefers the online world to the real one herself, but she’s not wrong about Keller’s frozen custard being worth a little potential discomfort.
I’m hoping it won’t be too busy. It’s barely noon and the people who grew up in this town know to wait until after one, when Ann Keller herself comes in. She’s seventy-eight years old and almost as revered as Willie Nelson around these parts. Whatever she does when she serves the custard makes it infinitely more decadent than it already is.
I have my excuse ready for why I’ll need to stay in the car while Maggie goes inside, but I can’t speak when we pull into the half-empty parking lot.
A silver SUV is parked not three spaces from us and Mark Keller, grandson of the beloved Ann and Mitch Keller and the guy I gave my first and last kiss to—the guy who even now has his initials carved next to mine near the top of Hackman’s tree—is making his way to his vehicle. He stops when he sees me, but whereas I try to slink down to hide, he only pauses to swallow before heading straight for me.
“No, no, no, no, no...” I mutter as he approaches. Maggie is too busy shimmying while singing the frozen custard song she made up as she digs through her massive purse for cash to notice until he raps on my window.
