The Best of Friends

by Berry, Lucinda

  “Were you fighting with your brother before the incident?” Detective Locke asks.

  “Yeah,” Reese says like it’s not a big deal.

  Paul’s head snaps up. He’s only been half listening, since he knows as well as I do that this interview is only a formality to get out of the way and won’t provide helpful information to the investigation. Reese’s response surprises us both. Nobody has said anything about the boys fighting. It seems like pretty important information to mention, but that’s Reese for you.

  Detective Locke raises his eyebrows. “Can you tell me more about that?” Reese gives his classic noncommittal shrug, which came on the scene in fourth grade and hasn’t left since. Detective Locke continues gazing at him until Reese’s lack of response grows awkward.

  “Reese, he wants you to tell him what you were fighting about,” I say before it gets any more uncomfortable.

  “Oh, me and Sawyer fight every day. Like every single. Day. Of. My. Life.” He draws out each word for dramatic effect, finishing with a grin.

  Paul laughs and squeezes Reese’s shoulder. Reese beams from the attention. I’ve barely touched him since the funeral, and he’s the type of kid who needs lots of physical affection. During the funeral, people kept commenting about how nice it must be to have him to hug when I miss Sawyer or how I must want to hold him tight and never let him go, but it’s not that way at all. My thoughts horrify me. I’d never share them with anyone else.

  Detective Locke smiles back. He seems to get Reese. He’s one of the rare people who do. Probably because he was as awkward in high school as Reese. “What were you fighting about that day?”

  Reese shifts his gaze to the floor and mumbles something underneath his breath.

  “What?” Detective Locke probes, leaning forward.

  Reese shifts his eyes to me, then quickly back down again before speaking. “He was mad because he got ripped off buying pills, and he wanted some of mine.”

  “What kind of pills did you have?”

  “Adderall.” Guilt clouds his expression.

  Fear squeezes my chest. What was Reese doing with Adderall?

  “And that’s the kind of pills Sawyer wanted?”

  Reese nods.

  Paul interrupts, looking confused. “Adderall?”

  “It’s a stimulant medication prescribed for ADHD,” Detective Locke explains as Paul’s face pales.

  I step out from behind the cameraman and into Reese’s view. “What are you talking about?” Both hands go to my hips. “How could you not tell me something like that?”

  “He drank all the time. You knew that, Mom.”

  There’s no mistaking the judgment on Detective Locke’s face when he turns to see my reaction.

  “Drinking is one thing. Drugs are entirely different.” I cringe at the hypocrisy.

  Reese shrugs. “He liked to party too. I told him he should’ve come to me in the first place; then he never would’ve been ripped off. I don’t treat my people that way.”

  This is unbelievable. What is Reese doing talking like he’s some kind of drug dealer? I leap around the coffee table and grab him. “Did you give Sawyer drugs? Did you give him any?” I shake him, flinging him back and forth. “Tell me! Did you give Sawyer drugs?”

  Paul jumps up and pushes me aside. “Don’t say another word, Reese.”

  TEN

  LINDSEY

  “Wyatt?” Detective Locke asks, stretching the top of his body across the desk to get closer to him.

  Andrew and I are in the same room as yesterday, except this time Wyatt sits between us. I place my hand on Wyatt’s knee. At the beginning of the interview, Detective Locke went through a long list of rules for our behavior. He stressed the importance of not intervening in any manner, which included touching, but he quickly relaxed his rules when he saw Wyatt’s anxiety and resistance. He hadn’t wanted to come, but we’d told him he didn’t have any choice. It might not have been the best idea to do the interview at the police station, but Sutton might have overheard something if we’d done it at home. We’ve been trying to keep her sheltered from all of this, but it’s proving pretty impossible. We wait another torturous minute before Detective Locke tries again.

  “I know this is difficult, but I’m going to need you to try and answer, okay?” he asks. “Had the boys been fighting in the days or weeks leading up to the accident?”

  “Buddy.” Andrew can’t help himself; the uncomfortable silence is too much. “Jacob can’t talk right now, so we need you to tell us anything you can think of that might be helpful, even if it means getting someone in trouble. It’s okay to tell. Nobody is going to be mad at you.”

  “Of course not, honey.” I reach over and give him a side hug. His body is rigid and stiff next to mine. I rub his shoulder, trying to help him relax. “Go ahead and tell the officer what you know,” I say as if I know what he’s going to say. Really, I’m as curious as Detective Locke.

  Wyatt pulls away from me and crosses his arms on his chest. “They’d been fighting,” he says reluctantly.

  Detective Locke nods like he’s not the least bit surprised by this information and flips through a pile of paperwork on his desk before pulling out one of the sheets and setting it on top of the others. He skims through it without looking up. “Things were a bit rough for you guys heading into nationals, huh?” he asks.

  Wyatt nods. This is the first year he’s made the soccer team. He’s third string, but he doesn’t care, because he’s the only tenth grader on the team, and he gets to play with Jacob. Thoughts of Jacob and soccer immediately sober me. I make myself focus on their conversation, refusing to spiral down that hole.

  “I spoke with your teammates yesterday, and they filled me in on what’s been going on.” Detective Locke gazes at him pointedly.

  “They did?” He raises his eyebrows in genuine surprise.

  What’s Detective Locke talking about? Which teammates? Andrew’s eyes are laser focused on Wyatt.

  “It’s like I told you when we got started, Wyatt; nobody is trying to hide anything. All we want to do is figure out what happened so that we can help everyone move through this.” Detective Locke nods while he speaks as if he’s agreeing with himself. “Everyone had noticed something going on between them. The other captain . . . what’s his name?” He scratches his chin. “Josiah?” He peers at Wyatt, and he nods back at him. “Right. Josiah. Anyway, he told me he cornered the three of them in the locker room a week before the incident and told them to work out whatever was going on because it was negatively affecting the team. He threatened to tell the coach and ask him to bench them for playoffs if they didn’t. Whatever it was must’ve been pretty bad for him to be willing to risk nationals. Any idea what was going on?”

  “Stupid stuff,” Wyatt mumbles.

  “They were always fighting about silly stuff. You know kids,” I interject, losing hope that he knows anything about kids, since I finally tracked down someone who keeps in contact with him, and he’s never been married or had kids.

  Detective Locke never moves his eyes from Wyatt. He gives a slight shrug like what I’ve said hasn’t fazed him. “I don’t care if it’s stupid. I’d like to hear it.”

  “Girls.” His voice is barely audible.

  “A girl? Many girls? Somebody’s girlfriend?” There’s a shift in his tone.

  Wyatt shakes his head a few times in rapid succession. “I have no idea. All I know is it had to do with girls.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  He shrugs. “Because that’s what everyone said.”

  “Everyone being the team?”

  He nods.

  “But Jacob never told you that himself?”

  He nods again.

  “How about Sawyer or Caleb?”

  He bursts out laughing, just like Andrew does when he’s nervous. “I’m sorry.” He takes a minute to compose himself. “Those guys told me less than Jacob did about what was going on in their lives.”

  And
rew cuts in. “The boys fought all the time. That’s what happens when you grow up like siblings. It was only a matter of time before they got into it over a girl.”

  “Did you know they were fighting?” Detective Locke shifts his attention to Andrew.

  Andrew blushes and nods. Detective Locke asked him the same question yesterday, and he said no. Panic bubbles in my chest. How could he have lied to a police officer?

  I whip around to face him. “You knew they were fighting?”

  He looks like he’d tuck his tail between his legs and hide underneath the desk like our dog does after he’s been scolded if he could. And he should. How could he leave out something like that?

  “Honestly, I didn’t give it any thought until just now.” He keeps his focus on Detective Locke. “Even when you asked me about it before.” His face flushes with embarrassment. “I know you must think I’m an idiot, but I didn’t lie on purpose. You asked if I’d noticed anything out of the ordinary, and their fighting didn’t seem like it qualified because it was so normal for them. How many times have they fought over the years?” He turns to me for confirmation. Worry lines his face as his eyes search mine for understanding. “Please, I didn’t intentionally lie. I wouldn’t do that. You know me better than that, Lindsey.”

  All we’ve done since the accident is go over what could’ve happened that night. We find our way back to it even when we try to give it a rest. He didn’t think to tell me they’d been fighting? But I can’t stay mad at him. I don’t have space for the anger. I need to get back to Jacob.

  I turn my attention to Detective Locke, eager to get out of this room. Jacob’s surgery went well this morning, but he usually struggles in the afternoon. “The boys fought all the time, so it’s not surprising they were fighting that week too. I’m sure it was nothing, and that’s why Andrew left it out. Can we move on?”

  ELEVEN

  DANI

  I stare straight ahead in the back seat of my Uber so I don’t get carsick. Normally, I would’ve hopped in the front, but my driver is sketchy looking, and I’m not taking any chances since I’m by myself. Bryan’s already texted twice from the restaurant. Hopefully he’ll be more forgiving than usual tonight since leaving the house takes longer than it did when the kids were little.

  Caleb freaked out right as I was leaving. It was one of his inconsolable sobbing episodes that come out of nowhere. At least that’s the way they seem to us. One minute he was on the couch flipping through trashy magazines with Luna, and the next minute he was crying in the way we’ve started calling his “somewhere-else cry.” It’s different from his other cries. This grief sends him somewhere, and it takes him a long time to get back. That’s how Bryan explained it to Gillian and the hospital psychiatrists. He does a better job explaining his episodes than me.

  Luna swooped in as he started pacing the living room, trying to save him before he disappeared. The episodes make him so agitated. He rubs his hands down his forearms while he walks, like he’d step out of his skin if he could. She walks beside him without touching him. I tried it once, and he came at me, so I keep my distance, but he allows it with her in the same way he allows her to give him his medicine without a fight.

  It’s been amazing watching her take care of him. I’ve seen glimpses of the Luna I didn’t think I’d ever get back. We used to be so close. She was my best friend, even though you’re not supposed to say that about your kids. I’ve never felt so betrayed as I did when she suddenly wanted nothing to do with me and everything I said was the most annoying thing in the world. Just because it’s a normal part of being a teenager didn’t make it any less heartbreaking, and she’s further away from me than she’s ever been.

  But we’ve been caring for Caleb like we used to care for him when he was a baby. She was barely over two when he was born and just an itty-bitty thing herself, but she was determined to help me with everything. She didn’t just want to be his big sister—she wanted to be his second mommy, and she told that to anyone who’d listen. It’s been so nice having her around and not bristly.

  “Right here!” I call out to the driver as he’s about to miss the valet parking entrance. He jerks to the side, almost hitting the car pulling out behind us, and cusses at the driver underneath his breath even though he’s the one at fault. I hop out as soon as he pulls to a stop. Definitely no tip.

  I smooth down the front of my dress and tug the arms of my jean jacket down. Am I overdressed? Underdressed? It was impossible to get a good idea of the restaurant’s dress code in any of the pictures. I hate when that happens. Bryan picked the latest hip and trendy place on Fairfield since we’re having dinner with Ted, like we’re still up on what’s cool even though we rarely go out on this side of town anymore.

  I push through the door into a dimly lit and heavily crowded room. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust from the outside. Throngs of people push by me, most of them talking loudly. A circular bar stands as the room’s centerpiece. Maybe it’ll be better this way since I’ll barely be able to hear Ted speak over the music. My phone vibrates again.

  Upstairs. I see you.

  I raise my eyes, noticing a second floor for the first time. Bryan smiles down at me from the balcony as Ted talks with the server. He’s probably ordering another round of drinks. It’s why I got a ride. Bryan drove here, but there’s no way he’ll be in any condition to drive home, although we’ll pretend like he’s going to all the way to the valet. We’ll put on a good show—we always do—as he drives around the block, and then we’ll switch spots. He barely got out of his last DUI. We’re not taking another chance.

  I’ve never met a drunk like Bryan. I have plenty of drunks in my family, but they act like drunks. Some of them are super sloppy and embarrassing, while others get emotional. We even have a few of the angry kind who look for a fight whenever they have more than two drinks. But nobody like Bryan.

  Alcohol turns him into a special kind of monster—a perfectly articulate and well-poised monster. He doesn’t slur his words or stumble over his sentences. He walks straight and appears aware of himself and his surroundings. You’d never guess he was drunk. It’s why they’ll give him his keys tonight, because they won’t see the darkness that’s taken over his insides.

  I smile and wave back before moving through the crowd as I scan the room for stairs. They’re all the way on the other side of the restaurant, so I don’t bother using the restroom before hurrying to join them, since Bryan’s patience has reached its limit. They both stand when they see me approach, and I hand my purse to Bryan as Ted leans in to greet each cheek with a kiss. Bryan slips his arm around my waist.

  “Glad you could finally join us, sweetheart,” he says. There’s a barely detectable edge to his tone.

  “Me too. I’m so sorry,” I say, turning to look at Ted before shifting my attention back to him. “Caleb had one of his fits before I left, so I couldn’t leave until Luna had things under control. I—”

  “She sure has grown up this past year,” Ted interrupts with a disgusting smirk on his face as we slide into our seats.

  I flash him an annoyed glance. “Anyway, like I was saying, we probably won’t be able to stay long because I don’t want to leave her alone with him for too long when he’s having a rough night.”

  A sharp pinch stings my upper thigh. My back straightens against the chair. What did I say? Did I insult him? Ted?

  Bryan increases the pressure on my skin, twisting slightly. The first time he pinched me flashes through my mind, like it does every time he hurts me. I didn’t stop him that night, and that’s what you’re supposed to do when your husband physically hurts you on purpose. You draw a line in the sand—put your foot down and say never again; leave. But I didn’t do any of those things. I fixate on that night as if all it would take to fix our problem is to go back in time and make a different choice.

  Caleb was only a few weeks old at the time, and my mom was staying with us to help me with him even though she only lives a few miles awa
y. It was easier having her with me because I’ve never felt so clueless as I did during those early days with a colicky baby. Luna cried when she was a baby, but never the way Caleb did, and she slept like a champ, which didn’t prepare me for the sleep deprivation that accompanies a difficult infant. The hormone surges only made things worse. My mom’s presence irritated Bryan, but I needed her close to keep me from losing it.

  I was in the middle of feeding Caleb when he had a huge diaper blowout on my lap that soiled us both. Bryan scooped him from me, and I hurried to the bathroom in our master bedroom to clean up while he cleaned Caleb. When I got back to the living room, my mom pointed out that Bryan had snapped Caleb’s onesie wrong. He’d put both legs through the same hole, and they looked like two fat sausages squeezed together. My mom and I burst out laughing. As soon as she left the room, Bryan scooted down the couch to sit beside me and pinched my arm as hard as he’s pinching me now.

  “Don’t you ever embarrass me like that again,” he hissed. He never yells. He always speaks in an even, calculated tone, which makes it worse, colder.

  “Stop it.” I jerked away, but he didn’t let go. “You’re hurting me,” I cried.

  “Oh, please,” he scoffed and slowly released his hold on my arm.

  Tears filled my eyes. “I can’t believe you just did that. Why would you do that?”

  “Quit acting like I punched you in the face,” he said.

  My insides twisted at his response, but I started feeling overdramatic when he immediately began talking about the golf scores without missing a beat like nothing had happened. I’d almost forgotten about it until I noticed the purple prints on my triceps the next morning in the shower. I thought about saying something—telling him that he’d left a mark, really hurt me—but I didn’t. I assured myself he hadn’t done it on purpose and it’d never happen again. Besides, he was right. I’ve always been a bit on the dramatic side.