I’ve made enough of those.
She put away her pistol of a flashlight and scooted down to take her things. I scooted down too, trying to help, able to smell her—a mix of vanilla and cinnamon, like something out of a bakery.
She paused to look at my wrist—at the tattoo of the pickax on the underside. I watched her stare at it, unable to tell what she was thinking. Finally she met my eyes again, but instead of showing fear, her expression seemed softer somehow. The tension in her mouth had melted. The muscles around her eyes were relaxed. Maybe I’d been locked up for too long, but she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
I looked away again, stood up, and handed her a stack of folders. “I should go,” I said, peering back at the barn.
“I was actually hoping you might want to get started now, since we’re both up.”
“Get started?”
“With your case.”
Right. My case. I think I nodded. I’m pretty sure she said “great.”
She came to the barn not long after, carrying a couple of tote bags. She pulled a jacket from one of them, held it up to my chest, and then forced it into my hands. “I have others if it doesn’t fit. My dad is a regular at yard sales.”
She took out a blanket next, explaining that she’d knitted it in the eighth grade as part of a fund-raising event for the children’s hospital. “It was just sitting in my room,” she explained. “I’m happy it’ll actually get some use.”
I lifted the blanket up to my face, without even thinking. It smelled like her—that vanilla-bean scent.
“Thank you again for salvaging my stuff from the trash,” she said. “I’m kind of embarrassed, actually…that you heard my mother and me fighting.” Her face turned bright pink. “I was kind of being a brat—not exactly one of my prouder moments.”
The comment took me off guard, because if she was embarrassed for fighting with her mother, then I should’ve been mortified for ending up in juvie.
She opened another bag and took out a bunch of stuff—soap, hand towels, napkins, food supplies—setting it all on a toolbox. She held up a can of tuna. “I heard this was a personal favorite of yours. The only problem is that I didn’t know if you preferred freshwater or oil-packed. Do tell. Inquiring minds want to know.”
“Oil, for the fat. Believe it or not, small cans pack big protein—at least in the case of tuna.”
“Good to know.” She nodded like she actually gave a shit.
“And now my inquiring mind wants to know: Why are you doing this? Giving me clothes, food, and water, and letting me use this place as shelter? You don’t even know me.”
“I actually don’t know any of the people who receive my charity.”
“Is that what I am to you? A charitable cause?”
She shrugged like the term was no big deal—like there was no shame in getting help. “Would you prefer it if I called you something else?”
“How about a felon? That seems the most obvious choice.”
She let out a sigh. “I technically can’t call you that if you haven’t been proven guilty.”
“Who are you?”
Her face messed up in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, who are you?”
We were standing just inches apart, and I had no idea how we’d gotten that way. Had she moved closer? Had I? Would it have been too obvious if I stepped back? She could sense the awkwardness too—I could tell because she suddenly didn’t know where to look. Her gaze flicked back and forth between the stuff she brought and the door to the barn before finally resting on my chest. There was a smear of something red in the corner of her mouth. Strawberry jam? Residual toothpaste? I wanted more than anything to wipe it with my thumb.
I backed up, looked away, and threw the blanket down on a toolbox. I didn’t want to smell it. I didn’t want to feel this. She needed to go. I needed some space. “I have to get some sleep.”
“I thought we were going to get started.” She pulled a tape recorder from her pocket—one of those handheld ones—and explained that she wanted to tape our conversations. “That way, I can go over the details of the case as many times as I need to.”
I hated the idea—the possibility that she could use my words against me. My father was always using my mother’s words against her:
“You promised you were going to stop taking pills.”
“You said you were going to clean this house.”
“You told me you were going to make sure the kids wore their seat belts.”
I don’t trust words—not my parents’, nor my own.
I place the tape recorder on the bale of hay between us and pull a list of questions from my pocket. Instantly he withdraws, backing away, avoiding eye contact.
“I’m not going to share this with anyone,” I tell him.
“Even if I say something that could pin me? Or reveal a clue that could possibly exonerate me? Then, seriously, what’s the point?”
He’s right. There would be no point. “You’re just going to have to trust me,” I say, looking toward the side of his face.
His jaw is locked. His lips look tense. “I don’t really trust anyone.”
“Did you trust your parents?”
He shakes his head. “I especially didn’t trust them.”
I take a deep breath, thinking how no matter what information I’m able to dig up, this case isn’t just about his guilt or innocence. He lost both his parents in a really traumatic way. “I’d like to try to help you,” I tell him. “But if you’ve changed your mind, that’s okay too. You can leave by tonight. I never saw you here.”
“I want your help,” he says, quickly, quietly.
“Okay, then I’m going to have to record our conversations.”
It’s silent between us for several seconds, which I totally understand. I mean, he doesn’t even know me. What reason does he have to give me his trust? Except for the fact that I haven’t turned him in yet.
“Let’s go,” he says, nodding to the tape recorder.
I push RECORD before he can change his mind.
ME: Where were you on Saturday, May 4th, the day of your parents’ deaths?
JULIAN: I mowed my neighbor’s yard first thing in the morning, around ten. After that, I drove to Dover Beach; that was at noon.
ME: Did you come home between mowing the lawn and going to the beach?
JULIAN: Yes, but I didn’t change.
ME: You went to the beach in your mowing clothes?
JULIAN: Yeah. I was wearing a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. I don’t go to the beach to suntan. Plus, it was May—too cold to swim. I just like to sit on the rocks and write. Sometimes I also read. I’ve kept a journal for most of my life.
ME: How long did you stay at Dover Beach?
JULIAN: Until four thirty or five.
ME: Did you see anyone while you were there?
JULIAN: I did. A girl named Ariana. We bumped into each other.
ME: So, you have an alibi.
JULIAN: I thought I did. Ariana said she saw me there too, but then the police got her all confused. By the time she was done talking to them, she didn’t know if it was Saturday or Sunday that she saw me.
ME: How about the security cameras? I know that Dover Beach has them.
JULIAN: They do, but they only caught me there on Sunday.
ME: Were you there Sunday too?
JULIAN: Yep.
ME: And how about Ariana?
JULIAN: She was there both days.
ME: Did the camera catch her there both days?
JULIAN: Yep again. I should add: I later learned that one of the security cameras was broken.
ME: Which one?
JULIAN: The one in the far left corner of the parking lot.
ME: Is that where you bumped into Ariana?
JULIAN: No. I saw her by the showers.
ME: But you weren’t taking a shower.
JULIAN: I was just walking by that area when I bumped into her.
ME: Did the police talk to others who were at the beach on that date—anyone else who might’ve confirmed that you were there? Or did you order any food at the snack bar? Might you have a receipt?
JULIAN: Negative. To all of the above.
ME: And nothing out of the ordinary happened while you were there?
JULIAN: Nope.
ME: Okay, so you left the beach around four thirty or five. What did things look like when you got home?
JULIAN: Just like normal, I guess.
ME: Did it appear as though someone had broken in?
JULIAN: No.
ME: Is this too hard for you?
JULIAN: It’s just a lot—picturing everything, remembering my mom like that.
ME: And your dad?
JULIAN:…
ME: Do you want to take a break?
JULIAN: No, it’s fine. Keep going.
ME: Who do you think killed your father?
JULIAN:…
ME: Julian?
JULIAN: I think my mother did it.
ME: But investigators say no?
JULIAN: They think she was too weak to be able to strike my father over the head with the kind of force that caused his brain hemorrhage.
ME: And what do you think?
JULIAN: I think people are capable of a lot when they’re really pissed off.
ME: Are you cold?
JULIAN:…
ME: You’re shaking.
JULIAN: I’m fine. Really.
ME: Why do you think your mother killed your father?
JULIAN: Why does anyone kill? Because they want that person dead.
ME: Did your mother want your father dead?
JULIAN: Yes.
ME: How do you know?
JULIAN: She told me—many times, actually.
ME: According to police reports, your mother was found in the bathtub with the water still running. Did you find her?
JULIAN: Uh-huh.
ME: And there was something in the reports about prescription medication….
JULIAN: Yep. She’d recently taken enough to gag a horse.
ME: Do you think she took them on purpose? Or by accident?
JULIAN: Hard to accidentally swallow an extra twenty-seven pills.
ME: Could someone have forced her to take that many?
JULIAN: Yeah, it’s called her inner demon—the same demon that made her slit her wrists twice.
ME: Didn’t she ever get help?
JULIAN: She was seeing a therapist at one point. You can see how well that worked out for her.
ME: And after that?
JULIAN: She said that therapists were a waste of her time.
ME: So, how did she keep getting pills?
JULIAN: Who says she was getting them legally?
ME: Did your father know about any of this…her slashed wrists, the illegal medication, or her attempts to get help?
JULIAN:…
ME: You’re shaking again. Do you need to grab a blanket?
JULIAN:…
ME: Do you want to take that break?
JULIAN: That’s probably a good idea.
I spend the following day trying to catch up on schoolwork, but failing miserably because I can’t stop thinking about Julian’s case. At night, I toss and turn in bed, unable to sleep. There are way too many questions bouncing around inside my head:
Why didn’t Julian trust his parents?
Why did the surveillance cameras only catch him at the beach on Sunday rather than Saturday, when they caught Ariana there on both days?
Is it true that Mrs. Roman really wanted her husband dead? And, if so, why?
I try to distract myself with thoughts of happy-funny times—like Halloween, two Octobers ago, when Tori showed up at Lesley Thibodeau’s party dressed as a tampon, even though it wasn’t a costume party.
I didn’t really know Tori back then. To me she was just the pink-haired girl in my study hall that always doodled geisha girls on the covers of her notebooks and wore mismatched socks. But I still tried to help her out that day (not that her tampon-wearing self really needed it) by giving her my sweater to break up all that white. Unfortunately the sweater was red, and so she ended up looking like a used tampon, which was sort of gross and funny at the same time—at least, it was funny to us.
Needless to say, we didn’t last long at the party, but that turned out to be perfectly okay, because we laughed the entire way to Dino’s, where we fit right in beside a busload of senior citizens after their Halloween-costume-wearing bingo night party. Tori and I ordered root beer floats and a basketful of onion rings, and really got to know each other.
We’ve been close ever since. As nutty as she can be, she often has the enviable ability of seeing the world through a crystal-clear lens, which is why I should’ve called her last night instead of losing it on my mom and throwing away all my meeting stuff.
I roll over in bed and stare out the window. The light from the moon casts over me like a blanket. A soft breeze filters in through the open crack. In textbook terms, this is an optimum night for sleep. And yet I couldn’t feel more restless.
“Day?” Mom knocks lightly on the door.
I sit up, just as she comes in.
“Is it safe in here?” she asks.
“Safe?”
“Yes. Is this a war-free zone?”
“I don’t want to fight,” I tell her. “But I also don’t want to be ignored.”
Mom sits on the edge of the bed. Her hair’s pulled back in a messy heap. Aside from a trip to the grocery store, she’s been working in her office all day. “I didn’t feel like I had much choice. You weren’t acting rationally last night—at least not for a serious discussion.”
“Do all of your serious discussions involve cupcake-shaped Band-Aids?”
She smirks. “I guess I deserved that. I’m sorry I haven’t been so available lately. That’s what this is about, isn’t it…rather than your less-than-successful club meeting?”
“It’s about everything.” I sigh. “Dad and I were waiting for you to have dinner with us last night.”
Her jaw stiffens and she looks away. “I doubt that he was waiting.”
“Since when are you Miss Insecurity?”
“It’s just that your dad seems happier on his own.”
“Are you happier?”
She repositions on the bed. Her eyes fill up with tears; the sight of them takes me aback, because Mom has always been the confident one—so courageous and unbreakable.
“Work helps keep me distracted from worrying too much about happiness,” she says. “It also gives me a sense of value—like what I’m doing is really meaningful. But the deeper I dig into my work, the more needed I become. There are people really counting on me, Day. And I know that you’re counting on me too. It’s just…It’s hard to find a balance, you know?”
I reach out to touch her forearm, thinking how tiny and fragile she looks all of a sudden, like a little girl, rather than the pillar of strength I’ve grown so accustomed to standing behind.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, taking my hand, wrapping her fingers around my palm. “For not being around, for getting emotional like this.”
“It’s human to get emotional,” I tell her. “You should try it more often.”
She moves to give me a hug. I stroke her back, grateful for this moment. This is the most human I’ve ever seen her, and so I take a mental picture, reminding myself, once again, that no story is complete without listening to all sides.
“Day?” my mother calls.
“Just a second,” I holler back.
It’s Sunday morning, I’m in my room, working on my list of questions to ask Julian.
“Breakfast is ready!” she calls again.
I get up and head downstairs. Mom’s loaded up a serving dish with stacks of French toast; they’re dripping with maple syrup. There’s also a separate plate of sausage links.
“What’s the special occasion?” I ask her
, suddenly feeling on high alert.
“How about hunger?” She motions for me to take a seat at the kitchen island, beside her. She looks way too put-together for just a lazy Sunday at home. She’s showered and changed. Her hair’s been freshly flat-ironed and there’s a subtle layer of pink shimmer on her lids and cheeks. Her phone sits on the island, between us—the third wheel in our party of two.
I fork off a piece of my French toast and take a bite. The thick wad of syrupy goodness all but melts in my mouth. “Did you somehow channel Paula Dean to make this?”
“Not good?”
“More like delectable.”
“Really?” She straightens up on her stool. “Go, me!”
I spoon a couple of the sausages onto my plate, noticing the suspicious pale brown color. “Real?”
“What do you think?”
Tofu; I’m sure of it. I can tell by the super-shiny casing. Mom likes to think of herself as a health nut, but in reality the majority of our meals come out of a cardboard box.
“Are you working today?” I ask, already anticipating the answer.
“Not if I can help it. Maybe one video conference call. Two at the most.” She checks her phone for the time.
I take a sip of coffee, wondering if I only imagined our conversation last night. “How are you so sure that Syrian-prison Pandora is innocent? I mean, you’ve never even met her.”
Mom’s syrupy mouth drops open, her eyebrows shoot up, and she lowers her fork to her plate with a clank. Shit, meet Fan. I’ve evidently hit a nerve.
“I may have never met her,” Mom says, enunciating every syllable, “but that doesn’t mean I haven’t looked into her story, pulled it apart, consulted with the officials in charge of keeping her imprisoned. I’ve also talked to her family, friends, schoolteachers…”
“I get it,” I say. Mom practices what she preaches, examining the facts from different angles—at least when it comes to her work. “It’s just weird,” I continue. “I mean, in theory, guilty people are supposed to get punished, but there are plenty that don’t, thanks to plea deals, mishandled evidence, and different tiers of attorneys—from freebie public defenders to million-dollar lawyers who know how to work the system. In the end, where lies the truth? Thousands of dollars and hours later…do any of the players even care?”
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