Page 77

Mom winces. “Maybe don’t use that phrase around your dad, okay?”

“Right,” I say, nodding, even though my mind is chasing something else. Mom brought me two pieces of news, and both of them exonerate a Jamison. Not only was I way off base by accusing Dover of murdering someone who isn’t dead, but I realize now that I also still carried a shadow of a doubt that Bristal might have been involved with setting our yard on fire.

“Hey, you’re good at apologizing, right?” I ask Mom, who quirks her head to the side.

“Are you inferring that I do a lot of things wrong?”

“No, just that you always know the right thing to say. Does that sound better?”

“Yes, but maybe say the words in your head first before trying them out loud,” Mom says. “Just a tip, for the future. Maybe on dates.”

“Yeah, those,” I say, tapping out a text to Bristal. I haven’t tried reaching out since our blow-up at the prison. It comes back as undeliverable.

“Fuck,” I say, slamming my phone down. “She blocked me.”

“Strike three,” Mom says. “You’re out. And by that I mean drive your ass over to her house and make amends. This family owes that girl.”

“Yes,” I say, reaching for my shoes. “I know we do.”

“Tell her Steven says hi!” Mom calls after me as I step out into the hall. I don’t have to look back to know that she’s waving his paw.

Thirty-Three

I rehearse on my way over to Ash Park. Bristal has already given me a hard time for being rusty on apologies, and she’s right. I’m not good at admitting I’m wrong, and even worse at vocalizing it, so this is going to be like eating humble pie with crow for dessert. I pull into Ash Park and scan the long lines of trailers. They’re all set at angles, like Matchbox cars pulled into a parking lot in a diorama. Luckily, Bristal’s Neon is easy to spot, the four mismatched doors standing out like a beacon.

I pull in behind her and scan the trailer for signs of life. There’s a punching bag hanging from a tree, utterly still in the lack of any wind or breeze. If I needed any more confirmation that Bristal lives here, the punching bag is it.

I know she has a younger sister, Mariana, a freshman. There could be more siblings, and if the lore of the fecundity of Jamison girls holds true, there probably are. A shadow passes in front of a window, the outline of a cigarette held in one hand. Bristal has mentioned her mom before, and I think her dad lives with them, too, but I couldn’t swear on it.

“Lydia, you’re kind of a dick,” I whisper to myself, alone in my car.

Bristal had texted me to make sure everyone in our house was okay after Dale Childress vented his rage on our front lawn. She even asked how Steven was—and I don’t know how many siblings she has, or if both of her parents live in the trailer I’m about to go into . . . if she’ll let me in. There’s a good chance I get a door shut in my face and might have to dodge a fist immediately before that. But if I really do want to launch a career as an investigative journalist, I need to be okay with slamming doors and awkward moments on front steps.

Might as well start now.

I hear a child’s cartoon music through the thin walls of the trailer as I knock, but there’s no movement. Aware that the music might be louder than I am, I knock harder. This time a bellow comes from inside, “Bristal! Somebody’s at the door!”

“Cause and effect, Mom,” I hear her say. “Cause and effect.”

The door opens, and I’m face-to-face with Bristal, her dark hair jet-black from a shower, the angry bruise on her eye now a weltering red. The swelling has receded, and the pupil is now visible—as is the anger that flashes there.

“Wait!” I say, shooting an arm out to stop her from shutting the door. “Denise is alive! Michelle Denney found her online.”

I’m here to apologize, but first I’ve got to gain entrance, and I know that piece of news will stop Bristal in her tracks.

“What?” she asks. “Are you serious? How?”

She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt, the scabs on her knuckles barely visible as she clenches the door handle, still considering slamming it closed.

“And that was Dale Childress,” I say, pointing to her fist, and then her eye.

“Heh,” she says, cracking a smile and rubbing her knuckles. “Felt like a Childress’s cheekbone.”

There’s an awkward moment where we look at each other and finally she shrugs and says, “Don’t just stand there, asshole. You’re letting all the heat out.”

I breathe a sigh of relief and follow her into the trailer. There’s a couch and love seat jammed tightly together to form a right angle, facing a TV. Mariana is cuddled with two smaller girls under a flannel blanket; she tosses me a wave, and the girls look at me curiously, but Bristal doesn’t bother introducing us. Instead, she pulls me to the right, where there’s a kitchenette and a small round table. I’d interrupted a card game; the table is covered with poker chips, peanut shells, and ash from her mom’s cigarette.

“We’re seeing who has to do the laundry tonight,” Bristal says, waving me into a chair as she slides into her own.