The Telling (13 page)

“Okay, Dad. Thank you,” I whisper.

Willa.
Did the police show up for her this morning? Are all seven of us being hauled in, or is it only me? I text Willa swiftly.

The police are bringing me to the station.

I wait for a response. What could the police want to ask me that they didn't the other night? We told them the truth, and in what universe isn't that enough? I smile bitterly at my hands. The truth usually falls short—or else it is entirely too much. The truth hurts you if you tell it and kicks you if you don't. I've wondered if losing Ben was my punishment for lying. If I'd been honest and brave and said,
Screw this small life
,
it isn't enough,
would Ben be here?

The shorter cop in the passenger seat half turns and slips a tissue through the divider that separates us. I wipe my running nose. “Your dad's coming?” he asks, concerned. I bob my head and try to look less guilty than I feel. “There you go. I'm sure he'll straighten this out.”
The tall cop gives a warning glare, and the short one turns abruptly to the windshield.

We follow Harborview Drive as it winds in the direction of downtown. Before the city streets, the car reaches a fork in the road. To the left is Swisher Tunnel, a short pass-through under the ridge with railroad tracks on top. The tracks used to carry minerals that were mined from the island and trees that were logged to the commercial loading dock and warehouses on the far side of downtown. The tracks are abandoned, crisscrossing the undeveloped segments of the island. If we followed the road through the tunnel, we'd reach Swisher Spring. We go to the right, but for the split second the car passes the mouth of the tunnel I squint up the embankment for the lumpy outline of Skitzy-Fitzy's tent. It isn't there, and the only reason my thoughts travel in his direction is because Ward asked if I've ever seen Fitzgerald at the spring.

I don't suspect the guy with his threadbare parka and soiled cargo pants of killing Maggie, any more than I suspected him of hurting Ben. When the police were investigating Ben's murder, they asked about him, obviously. But Maggie knew Skitzy-Fitzy from around town and was certain it wasn't him on the highway. And even if I didn't believe Maggie, Ben would be the last person Fitzgerald would hurt.

Ben became aware of Fitzgerald, in more than just the passing way everyone knew of Skitzy-Fitzy, a few weeks after that first trip to Guatemala, freshman year. Ben hated that in the middle of all this
privilege
—he liked that word most for Gant—there was a homeless man living in a tent. Ben was always buying him deli sandwiches or ducking into the bakery to order a box of croissants for him. Fitzgerald was polite and at the worst, skittish, easily startled. On the
occasion I was with Ben, he accepted the food with a brisk, “Thanks.”

Ben wanted to believe he could make a difference—and not just with Fitzgerald. He started taking the ferry to volunteer in a homeless shelter in Seattle. I went with him up until Dad found out and said he didn't want us exposed to
those people
. Ben kept going in secret. This is why I wasn't surprised that he wanted to spend months digging in another country so strangers had clean water to drink. That was Ben.

Ben didn't like that Gant was removed from the world most people lived in. Gant was the picturesque, plastic island at the heart of a snow globe. As he got older, he started noticing the glass walls. He started feeling trapped inside them. Dad said once that Ben had twice the share of opinions of most and four times as many about Gant. Diane's usually mild expression became the saddest face I'd ever seen as she said, “Sometimes it's safer not to care so much.” Ben pushed away from the dinner table and replied, “Most people can't switch their feelings off like you can.” Diane's features went neutral, her wineglass traveled to her lips, two fingers tugged at the blush petal of a rose in the bouquet Dad had given her, and she steered us off the subject with a feathery sigh about the perfume of flowers.

At the police station I'm ushered through the rear door. All seven of us are here, and everyone, other than me, has at least one parent with them. Willa's mother's heels are clacking like a hammer on nail heads as she paces figure eights. Willa's eyes are cast on the yellow linoleum as I'm led into a corridor where folding chairs have been lined up. I'm told to sit between Josh's mom Karen and an empty chair, presumably for my parent.

I drop down as Willa's mother takes one, two, three strides, the
click-clack
of her shoes driving into my skull. Principal Owen, a witchy version of her daughter, stops over me, leading with a pointed finger and a scowl.

“You look me in the eye,” P.O. demands. I do. Her usual stern calm cracks. Thick clumps of bangs stick out from her bun. She has gray hair rather than highlights. “I know that you're the reason Willa is here.” She jabs a finger, and I shrink to avoid its nail. I meet Willa's puffy eyes beyond her mother's frame.

This is my fault. Willa didn't want to be at Swisher Spring; she wanted to watch the History channel. She's hung out with the core for me.
Only for me.
I'm the reason she was there to find Maggie, and I'm the reason she's been brought in by the police.

P.O. snaps for my lost attention. “There are consequences for loose morals, Lana.”

“Mom,” Willa calls.

“The parties and the boys and the broken commitments,” P.O. hisses, a vein poking up through the tissuey skin of her forehead. “You've been spiraling and now you're dragging my girl down. Ever since that stepbrother of yours died—”

Karen hops from her chair and closes her hand around Principal Owen's finger. “Rhonda,” she warns. But it's too late. She's right. Not about Ben but everything else, yes. I dragged Willa along on my misadventures. I made Willa compromise everything she loved and worked tirelessly for.

Karen continues in her friendly but authoritative way, “I think you should sit down. If you have something more to say, Lana's father should be here.” It's as if Willa's mom only just realized we're in the company of the parents of her students, their individual conversations
gone quiet. Principal Owen smooths her unwrinkled pencil skirt and nods once before returning to Willa, who is doubled over, her forehead on her knees.

Karen claps her hand over mine as she sits. Her skin is warm and calloused, and it cuts right through me to where I hide the longing for my mother.

Josh leans forward and smiles in a hopeful way. “It'll be okay, Lana.” Lily, on his other side, inclines her head, her eyes creasing as she watches him. It's instantly obvious why it's easy for Josh to believe that everything will work out. Has there ever been anything in his life that hasn't? Has he ever been sweaty and puking with regret? Has he ever been so consumed by a secret that continuing to exist—to breathe and blink and sleep—becomes a lie?

I understand that it wasn't only the red corduroys that made me smitten with Josh way back when. I was a motherless four-year-old girl on her first day of preschool when I spotted two women flanking Josh. He had
two
moms. Josh has an extra portion of what I have none of.

“How long do
these people
think they can keep
us
waiting?” Carolynn's mother asks. Her vowels are liquid and her consonants candied. She subscribes to the wisdom that you can say anything as long as you remind others that you and yours are exceptional. My mother used to be one of those lunching, committee-sitting, tennis-playing women. She was always in the getting-ready or cleaning-up stages of going out.

Rusty's father, City Councilman Harper, is in a suit tailored like a second skin. He drills his heel impatiently. His hand never strays from cuffing Rusty's neck. He leans forward and, red-faced, bellows, “Officers,
are you aware that I'm your city councilman?” He throws the title out as a dart, anticipating that it will hit its mark. It usually does. Gant cares about titles. “We're tired of humoring you and will be leaving soon.”

Detective Ward passes through a doorway into the hall. His voice and expression are carefully neutral. “If you wouldn't mind humoring the police a bit more, we need your children's help in understanding the circumstances of a young woman's death.” Councilman Harper's face reddens up to his receding hairline. Dad sidesteps Ward and slides into the chair next to me. The anger is dimpling the corners of his mouth, and he looks like he's been biting into a lemon wedge.

Still, he manages a comforting, “It's going to be fine, Bumblebee. You don't have anything to hide.” There are whispered deliberations among the rest of the parents.

As they die down, Ward continues, “I assume that all present are aware of Thursday's events at Swisher Spring. After forensic analysis of the body, I'm afraid additional questioning is necessary.” Ward explains that there is one caveat to us being treated as cooperating witnesses. We must speak with the detectives alone. More loudly voiced protests, shaking fists and heads, folding chairs shrieking against linoleum as a few parents stand, threatening to walk out. After a brief standoff, the adults yield one by one. Ward's chest swells as though gathering strength from each parent giving permission.

“Ms. McBrook, care to go first?” Ward asks. I start in my chair and look to Dad.

He nods encouragingly and says, “Remember that you can get up and leave at any time.”

It strikes me that I'm less afraid and feel less alone than I did
when being questioned by Ward before. I am braver. I stand and march into a claustrophobic interrogation room. There's an additional set of lungs recycling the air inside.

“This is my partner, Detective Sweeny of Seattle PD.
Homicide
,” Ward tells me.

Sweeny half stands. “We've already met. Good morning, Lana. How have you been?”

I lower myself into the lone metal chair placed across the table from the detectives. The single lightbulb overhead buzzes and flickers. Homicide. Sweeny. I work to keep the memories of June from creeping up, from bottlenecking in my throat. Fragments of that night flash: the clouds that disintegrated as they were blown across the sky while Maggie and I waited for the police; the blood drying on my hands; the yellow moth that landed in the splatter on the dashboard and was stuck there, wings beating in vain, stringy brown legs trapped as the blood clotted. I wonder how long it took that moth to die.

I am June. I am a hand shaking so badly it drops the phone twice before I can get out one sentence after my father finally turns his phone on.
Daddy, Ben has been attacked.

Sweeny waits patiently for my response. Maybe she can see I'm not here, not really. My mouth is dry. “I was doing better,” I say. “What about you?”

“Busy,” she says, thin lines spreading from the corners of her downturned mouth. Intelligent brown eyes study me. “How are your father and stepmother?”

My shoulders rise and fall. “Dad started working again. He's in the hall. Diane needed some time away.”

“I hope it does her well,” she says. Ward's head is cocked as he listens. Sweeny doesn't explain our history to him; I assume he must already know, since they're partners. I can't remember Sweeny ever mentioning having one or that another detective was working on Ben's case. Ward could have been behind the scenes, back in Seattle. It makes sense that once Maggie was found dead, Seattle PD would send someone familiar with her and Gant. I pull my shoulders back and stare unblinking at him.

He clears his throat. “We've officially declared Maggie Lewis's death a homicide,” he says, and waits. He waits for shock to register in my expression, or waterworks, or a silly wail—who knows. I don't give him anything, because
big freaking surprise
. We suspected Maggie's death was murder two days ago. Maggie the murderer was murdered. Maggie's killer did what I couldn't.

“You don't seem surprised, Lana,” Sweeny says, her tone inviting me to explain.

I shake my head. “We figured it might not be an accident.”

Ward leans forward, nostrils flaring like he's trying to scent the truth. “Why is that, Ms. McBrook?”

I hesitate over how abrupt his tone is. Sweeny bows her head, urging me on. “Lots of reasons,” I say. “Maggie was attached to something at the bottom, weighted down. She supposedly left town once you—the police—suspected her of being involved in Ben's death. She wouldn't have been casually swimming at Swisher Spring or in Gant at all, like no big deal. She wasn't even in a swimsuit or her underwear. She had one shoe on.”

What I really want to say is this: How couldn't it have been murder? Maggie was hateable, a cruel, vengeful girl. She was a villain.

Ward smirks. “Are you sure there isn't another reason you know it wasn't an accident?”

He says it in a you're-an-idiot-if-you-think-I'm-an-idiot way. I must be missing something. “Yes, I'm sure.”

“Ms. McBrook,” he says in a furious and tight voice, “if you refuse to cooperate, we'll have to treat you hostilely and move forward with booking.”

I cross my arms at my chest. “I'm answering your questions.” Sweeny's and Ward's expressions are only similar in that neither reveals a thing.

“When was the last time you saw Maggie Lewis before you
claim
to have pulled her out of the spring?” Ward asks.

June is there in the room with us, crooking her finger, urging me back. “Almost eight weeks ago, while the police were investigating Maggie,” I say. I wait for Sweeny's corroboration. She stays as unmoving as her starched blue blouse. Ward's big pink lips spread into a smug smile, as if I've confessed to murdering Maggie myself. I get dizzy thinking it. “Why?” I ask.

“Wouldn't you wonder if you were me?” His brows quirk up and they stick there, making a home high on his forehead. “Think how this looks. Maggie was questioned regarding your brother's death. Not two months later you're in the very spot she's murdered with a group of your friends, and you just happen to be the one who surfaces with her body?”