“I’m sorry. I got held up. There was an accident on LaSalle.”
“You should have called to tell me.”
“Sorry,” she says, moving on to a big pasta pot. She hasn’t properly looked at me yet. “I didn’t realize they’d called you.”
“Why is your car in the street?”
“Those agents informed me that there would be an unmarked car across from my house. So, when I saw it when I came home, I pulled in in front of them to speak to them before going in. After we chatted, I decided to leave it there. Figured someone would be less likely to mess with it with them right behind it.”
“Good point,” I say, staring at the side of her pretty face. I can’t read her. It’s one thing to not be able to read Jeremy Fisher. It’s another entirely not to be able to read my own sister. It’s like everything with her has gone haywire. The old Jess would have called the school if she was just five minutes late. One night after the rape, she told me that she wanted to take her own skin off and climb out of it. It almost feels like that’s exactly what she’s done.
I return to the living room and sit on the couch with Sam and read several cards, moving from actual creatures like the Giant Orb Spider and some dinosaurs to scarier mythological ones like the Wendigo and the Kraken, at which point Sam begins to rub his eyes. Jess comes in from the kitchen and declares that it’s time for bed. Sam fights her, saying that he wants to fully see me off when I leave. It’s our little ritual, when he stands at the big living room windows at the front of the house and waves at me until my car is officially out of sight.
Jess tells him “Not tonight” and takes him to his room. Twenty minutes later, she returns while I’m picking up Sam’s stray toys—minus a Star Wars Lego project in progress.
Jess sits, places her face in her palms, and rubs. Hard. When she looks up, she says, “Look, Cros, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Vivian.”
“It’s okay,” I say. I don’t want an apology from her. I want to give one.
Yes, it dawns on me. I really do.
Maybe not to the world, but at least to her. It’s time. Her anger at me feels like it’s growing, like it’s taking on a life of its own, becoming its own monster stalking the edges of our relationship. It’s as if she senses that I’m the cause of all the toxic things in our lives. And I guess I am.
After the flood of fright I felt after receiving the message from Sam’s school, I have to start somewhere. I need to confess, ironically, as the Confession Artist wants me to do, at least to her.
“I’ll tell those agents about it if you think it’s wise,” Jess says. “I’ll have to give Vivian a heads-up, but she’s not going to be able to tell them anything that I haven’t already told you.”
“They should know about the boy and his connection to Askens,” I say. “You know that, right?”
Jess begins to weep and shake her head. She’s brittle. A soft breeze might take her down. I want to weasel out of what I’ve suddenly decided I need to do, but the tug to protect her pulls fiercely.
I won’t back down. I can’t. Not with my guilt building, wanting to burst past its dam, knowing that my dirty secrets might be putting them in danger, too. Plus, there’s a tiny voice whispering in my ear:Your sister, the one who was helplessly crying in her bed just earlier in the day, is notthathelpless.This morning, I wouldn’t have thought so, but after seeing those files in her office and how she held that information back from me, I’m wondering how much of her I’ve misunderstood. But I need to plow forward, for her, for me.
“Jess,” I force myself to say, “there’s something I need to tell you, too.”
She stops crying and swipes at her eyes. “What?”
“About Mark Coleman.”
“What about him?” Her voice goes higher with fear, as if he’s in the kitchen grabbing a beer. Her eyes widen, her nostrils flare.
“It’s just—” I shake my head. Swallow hard. The cartwheels going on in my stomach make me feel like I might vomit.
“What?” Jess stares.
“It was my fault Railes shot him.” I spit it out. “I was so angry when I found out who he was. I went for my gun too hastily. Railes saw me and pulled his.” But even as I’m saying it, I know it’s not quite right. Itiswhat happened, but Railes ... he would have gone there anyway, regardless of my actions. I know it in my gut.
No, the real problem stands with what happened later. This is just warming up, trying to build on the courage of saying the first thing out loud.
“But it was self-defense,” she says. Confusion and shock scroll across her face. She pulls her head back like she’s already distancing herself from me before she even knows the full story.
I let a long moment fill the abyss to hell. And back. I don’t breathe. My stomach curls into an even tighter knot while my head goes dizzy. “Railes shot him in cold blood,” I say. “Railes claimed Mark had a knife, and when the investigator came to question me ...”
“What?” The confusion changes to desperation, which alters her face into someone I don’t recognize.
I take a big breath like I’m about to leap off a cliff. My heart goes from a fast-paced thrum to a forceful bang. It’s too late to back out, to not say it now.
“What?”
