by Abigail Haas
‘You’re a mess,’ Oliver said calmly. ‘The sweater. Put it on.’
I did as I was told, pulling the oversized blue sweatshirt over my bloodstained clothes. I slouched lower in the seat, trying to disappear into the soft folds of fabric as he drove up to the window and paid, chatting nonchalantly to the cashier about the weather and the late shift. Then, when I almost couldn’t take it any more, he pulled into a space in the far corner of the parking lot and turned the engine off.
‘Here,’ he offered, holding out a bag of fries. ‘I knew you’d only steal mine.’
The smell hit me, grease and starch, and I gagged. I quickly threw open the car door and leaned out, waiting until the rush left my bloodstream before slowly sitting upright again.
Oliver was eating his burger, licking sauce off his fingers.
‘So,’ he began, looking at me again with those clear blue eyes. ‘What do I need to know?’
I shivered. Already, the scene in Ashton’s house seemed like a dream, a terrible nightmare. Here, with the lights, and the buzz of traffic audible and Oliver so casually ripping open a ketchup packet and smearing the sauce on his cardboard carton lid, I could almost tell myself it wasn’t real.
Then I felt the inprint of his touch, burning on my body, and I was right back there again. Screaming. Struggling.
And angrier than I’d ever felt before.
‘My car wouldn’t start again.’ I finally found my voice, quiet in the dark. ‘My teacher, he offered to give me a ride.’
There was silence, as Oliver methodically worked his way through the rest of the fries. I wanted to scream, to shake him, to ask if he had heard a single word, but something stopped me. Ethan would be all over me now: demanding we go to the police, asking if I needed the hospital, protective and concerned. I would be back there again, describing it, reliving every terrible moment and trying my best to calm him down.
Oliver just slurped his milkshake, watching the distant lights on the highway snake past in a stream of red and gold.
I exhaled. As the silence stretched, I found myself reaching for the fries. I chewed slowly, tasting salt. Took another. Before I knew it, I’d eaten the whole package, and my throat was dry.
Oliver passed his milkshake without a word.
‘Thanks,’ I murmured, tasting the cold sweetness, feeling it shiver down my throat. It felt too normal, all of this did, but now that normalcy gave rise to a small flicker of hope.
Maybe I could pretend none of it had ever happened. Maybe nobody would make me speak of it again.
Except Ashton was out there, and I knew now, he wasn’t the kind of man to let things go.
Oliver finished his food and neatly folded our wrappers into the bag, holding it out for mine too with an expectant look. I passed my debris and he got out of the car, walking back to the trash-can by the main building.
I watched him in the faded neon: unhurried, casually sauntering, his face shadowed in the dark. I never knew what he was thinking, it was infuriating like nothing else, but tonight, I found his mystery was almost a relief. I wasn’t responsible for his thoughts, trying to navigate them, keep him happy the way I did with Ethan. He was as inscrutable as ever, and I was left alone with myself.
He slid back in.
‘Ready to go?’
I nodded slowly. I wasn’t shaking any more, and my heartbeat had slowed. Now, I was just tired, bone-deep, my limbs aching from the struggle, my body crashing after the surge of adrenalin.
Now, I just wanted to sleep.
Oliver drove us back on familiar roads, winding through town until they reached my neighbourhood. There were lights on in the houses as we passed; neatly-cut lawns and old front porches.
Safe.
He pulled up outside my house. I hugged my purse to my chest.
‘Thank you,’ I said quietly, already reaching for the door.
Oliver’s hand shot out, capturing my wrist. I flinched. He tugged again, and I had no choice but to turn. His eyes were watching me, dark in the night.
‘Did anyone see you get in the car with him?’
I thought back. ‘I . . . I don’t know. The parking lot was empty, but we were at the college, there could have been people around.’
Oliver nodded, and I could see his brain working, turning things over. ‘What about at his place?’
I shook my head. ‘It was dark . . . I didn’t see anyone around.’
‘Then he took you straight home. If anyone asks, he dropped you off, safe and sound. Nothing happened.’
I paused. I wanted to ask what he would do, but I knew it was safer if I didn’t.
‘Don’t tell Ethan,’ I said instead.
Oliver’s lips curled in a smile. He released me. ‘It’ll be our little secret.’
I climbed out, walking slowly towards my front door, but something stopped me and made me turn back. Oliver had his window down. I met his eyes, dark in the night. ‘What are you going to do?’ I asked, my voice shaking.
He smiled at me. ‘What do you think?’
Ashton was found dead in an alleyway two days later. The reporter said he’d been beaten and mugged in a drug deal gone wrong. The college board sent out an email, saying there would be a replacement lecturer for his classes. His pregnant girlfriend was shown, weeping on the news. Nobody knew he had a problem, but everyone in class agreed there had been something off about him all along.
I found the newspaper left on my front step, tied up with a red ribbon. I kept it in my top dresser drawer and re-read it every night, searching for clues.
Deep down, I knew, I didn’t need them. Oliver had worked that intricate brain of his and found a solution, just the way I’d wanted.
Just the way I’d known he would.
‘You think Oliver killed your professor?’ Weber looks at me, his eyes wary and searching. We’re still alone in the empty room across the hall from Ethan, the neon hum of the hospital filtering in bright strips through the blinds while we sit here on hard plastic chairs, dredging through every detail and lie.
I nod, shredding tissues in my hands. Tiny strips, over and over, I can’t keep still. I thought telling Weber about what happened would help my story – paint Oliver as a monster, capable of anything.
‘Why you didn’t say something? You could have come to me,’ he points out. ‘You could have told a teacher, your mom . . . What about Alisha? She didn’t mention anything to me.’
I have to hold back a sorrowful laugh. As if my mother would have been any help at all. And as for my teacher . . .
‘I was scared,’ I whisper, shivering in my sweater. It’s lost property, maybe, or belongs to one of the doctors: an oversized grey hoodie that dwarfs my frame, wrapping me in the bold team logo of some sports club or major league team. I don’t know. I never followed sports all that much.
‘Chloe?’ Weber’s voice rises, and I realize he’s still waiting, still watching me with that expression that’s equal parts sympathy and confusion. He’s been wearing it all night, just like every other adult whose tiptoed around me, speaking in hushed tones. But now I realize, there’s something more there too, a new emotion flickering to life in his eyes.
The steely glint of suspicion.
‘I saw you together,’ he adds slowly. ‘Around town. At the station. It didn’t look like you were scared of him. It looked . . . ’ He pauses, then glances away.
Fear strikes me. ‘I didn’t know what to do!’ I lie, my lips already trembling, tears stinging the back of my throat. ‘He was so . . . charming, everyone in town thought he was so great. I tried to tell, I really did.’ I babble, trying to get my words out. The right ones, the words that will make him see. ‘But I didn’t know what to say. He killed someone, and I was scared he’d do the same to me! It all sounds so crazy, when you say it out loud.’
‘Then why did you go to the house?’ Weber asks, changing tack, catching me in one of my earlier lies. ‘If you were so scared, why go meet him, all alone?’
‘Be
cause he threatened to tell,’ I say quickly, ‘He was going to tell Ethan, about the kiss – only he made it sound like something it wasn’t. I wanted to talk him out of it, I thought I could keep the secret. I didn’t want to hurt Ethan!’ I fix my eyes on his, pleading. A girl broken and bruised, with blood still drying on her skin. A victim. ‘And I didn’t know for sure he killed Ashton, not really. I had no proof, nothing real to prove any of it.’
Sheriff Weber stares back at me, almost regretful, but unmoved.
‘You still don’t.’
There’s silence. Panic blossoms in my gut, sharp and bold. He’s supposed to believe me now. He’s supposed to be on my side. Instead, I can see the gears turning behind those small-town eyes, already weighing up my story against what he’s seen, what other people might have already been whispering.
‘You didn’t tell anyone about Oliver’s harrassment, nobody who can back you up?’ he asks again, a last note of hope in his voice.
I’m shaking my head slowly, numb with resignation, when a voice comes from the doorway.
‘She told me.’
I snap my head around. It’s Annette Reznick, her slight frame wrapped in a navy wool coat. Even in the dead of night, even for this, she has a full face of makeup on: her brows arched defiantly, her lipstick bright against her lifeless skin.
She strides over and stands behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder. To anyone else, I know, it would look like a supportive gesture, but I can feel her fingers desperately digging into my skin. Holding on for dear life.
‘She told me.’ Annette speaks again. Her voice is shaking, but it rings out in the room. ‘She said she was worried about Oliver. He was acting strangely, obsessive. I should have listened, but I thought . . . it all seemed like childish rivalry to me. Oliver always wanted what Ethan had, even when they were kids, he’d steal his toys just to spite him.’
Weber looks from Annette to me and back again. ‘When was this?’ he asks, checking his notes.
‘A couple of weeks ago,’ I lie. I don’t know why Annette is supporting my lies, but I leap on her excuse like a life raft in the storm.
‘We were out of town,’ Annette adds quickly. ‘She called me, but I was running late. It all sounded like high school drama. You know kids and their relationship tangles.’ She gives a weak laugh, but it fades on her lips. ‘I didn’t realize . . . How could anyone expect this?’
She turns to look across the hall at Ethan, pale and unmoving, strung up under the tangle of breathing tubes and IV wires. In the lull, we can hear the faint beep of his heartbeat monitor, steady and too slow.
I turn back to Weber. He’s watching the two of us, trying to make sense of it. I can see he wants to push harder, but it’s not just about me any more. Annette is on my side now, and what can he say to that?
Is he really going to call a grieving mother a liar?
‘Will you be making an official statement?’ Weber presses gently. ‘We’ll need to get it on record down at the station.’
Annette nods once, briskly, wiping at her eyes. ‘Can it wait? I don’t want to leave him.’
‘Of course.’ Weber is chastened. He clears his throat, uncomfortable. ‘Now, Chloe, you were saying—’
‘Uh, excuse me, Weber?’ One of the other police officers interrupts, lurking in the doorway. ‘The guys from the fire crew were looking for you.’
He looks annoyed, but he rises to his feet. ‘We’ll talk more later,’ he tells me, almost like a warning.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I reply quietly.
The men leave, and Annette and I are left alone. A phone rings down the hallway, voices sound, muffled, and through it all, Ethan’s monitor keeps on.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Annette’s head lifts, as if she’s hearing it for the first time. She drifts across the hallway like she’s sleepwalking, and I follow, two steps behind, watching as she fusses over Ethan: smoothing back his hair, adjusting a tube, tucking the blanket carefully around his body. Finally, she stands still, trembling, her hands folded together, clutched at her chest.
‘When they called and said something had happened with the boys, I thought, “Oh God, he’s finally done it.”’
A laugh bubbles up, hysterical. She clamps a hand over her mouth, white-knuckled. Shaking.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask slowly, not taking my eyes off her.
Annette doesn’t answer. She stands, watching over Ethan, and I wonder if she’s even heard me at all. Then she turns to me and her eyes are bright, wet with tears, and a nervous flicker.
‘I knew,’ she whispers. ‘Right from the start. The very beginning. Oliver was wrong.’ She says the word like a curse, and then again. ‘Wrong.’
‘Annette?’ I reach out a hand to her and she flinches back, quickly walking over to the window. It’s dark outside, the blinds lowered, but she stares into the faded yellow fabric for a moment, collecting herself. When she turns back to me, her face is composed. Resigned.
‘He didn’t stop crying.’ Her voice is steady now, like this is a story she’s been rehearsing for years. ‘From the day he was born, he just howled and howled. Nothing I did was right. He wouldn’t sleep, he wouldn’t eat, and then when he did, he would bite down so hard, I swear, it was just to spite me.’ She swallows. ‘I know they’re just babies, they don’t even know themselves yet, but that boy . . . He never let me get a moment’s rest and, Lord, I hated him for it.’
I slowly close the door behind me, so there’s just an inch of space left. I move closer to her and sit on the edge of a chair. Waiting.
‘I didn’t know what to do,’ she continues quietly. ‘Derek was away for work all the time, and it was just me, stuck in that house with that crying . . . thing. All day and all night. I used to dream about making it stop. Pressing down with a pillow, gently. Just ending it for good.’ Annette meets my eyes, sharp. ‘Maybe it would have been better for everyone if I had.’
I inhale in a rush.
‘But I didn’t, of course.’ Her face twists. ‘And then the guilt, to even think about doing that, to my own child. What kind of mother was I?’
I don’t answer, I just wait.
‘After that, I thought, it was my fault.’ Annette continues, glancing down. She twists her rings around her fingers, the gemstones catching in the light. ‘He could tell I didn’t want him, so he was doing it to punish me. I deserved it. But then, Ethan came . . . ’ Her face relaxes. She looks across to his body, tender. ‘He was a dream. So sweet, he would lie there, cooing for hours. He was my boy, my good boy. And I thought, maybe Oliver wasn’t my fault, after all.’
Her lips press together determinedly and that’s when I realize, she’s absolved herself. If this sounds like a rehearsed speech, it’s because it is. All these years, she’s been waiting for the call: waiting for the day when she’ll have to explain herself. Justify her choices. Lift herself neatly off the hook of responsibility for anything that Oliver became.
‘I couldn’t leave them alone together,’ Annette continues, her face clouding at the memory. ‘Oliver was still just two, three years old, but already . . . I had to answer the door to the mailman once, I left them together in the crib. When I came back, Oliver was twisting his arm, just, pulling it further and further while Ethan howled in pain. I asked him why he would do that, why he would hurt his brother. He just stared at me. “My toy,” he said. “Mine.”’
Annette shudders.
‘All these little things. Signs. Finding the hamster dead in its cage, its head smashed in with a rock. Ethan would have strange bruises on him and, Oliver, he always knew what to say, how to be cruel, to twist the knife. I kept them apart, I didn’t take my eyes off them, not for a second, and as soon as he was old enough, I got Oliver away.’ Annette’s expression brightens. ‘We were moving so much for Derek’s work, I told him it wasn’t fair, to keep pulling Oliver out of schools when he had so much potential. I planned everything. Those boarding schools damn near bankrupted us, back then,
but it was worth it to keep my boy safe. Of course, there were always reports from the schools,’ she adds dismissively. ‘Incidents with his friends, feuding . . . There was a suicide, his junior year. A boy jumped from the roof, and I always wondered . . . ’ Her face twists, a look of perverse pride. ‘But Oliver was smart, smarter than anyone. They never got anything on him. He stayed gone, living the high life with all his rich friends, and Ethan was just fine. Safe at home, with me.’
She pauses, looking up with an accusing stare. ‘Until you.’
The New Year dawned, crisp and bright. Ethan and Oliver’s family went out of town for the holidays, visiting family in Colorado. Mom and I ate Christmas dinner at the diner, then watched the New Year’s Eve celebrations on TV, sitting together under a blanket on the couch, like we had done every year since I could remember.
But this time, it was different. Everything had changed.
All week, Ashton’s death had been the only thing on my mind, haunting me. I read that newspaper article over again, turning up the volume on the TV whenever the news reports came on. Part of me couldn’t believe that Oliver had killed him; the other half saw it made perfect sense. But still, all I had were suspicions, waiting, half expecting someone to challenge the official verdict and demand answers.
But of course, nobody did, and soon the reports were replaced with holiday gift guides and celebrity breakdowns, and stories about polar bears mating at the national zoo.
At first, I’d felt guilty. I should be guilty: horrified that I could have done that to him, even worse, to have been complicit in his death. This was a man with family and a future, and now he was nothing but flesh and bone rotting in a grave somewhere.
Because of me.
I even visited the cemetery. I snuck in, one dark rainy evening, and stood over his grave, waiting for the guilt and misery to wash over me, even a small dose of the regret I’d felt for Crystal, but instead I felt something else, a clear, sharp burst of satisfaction.
Ashton had deserved to die. I was glad he was gone.