I wrench the shower’s faucet to turn up the heat. Dana’s house has much better water pressure than our hovel. Hot water pummels my head and shoulders. My neck’s knotted. I sense that I’m missing something. Something important, related to Dana.
I crank the heat higher. I revisit our rendezvous in the school bathroom this afternoon. Jesus. The truth hits like a blast of ice water. Dana’s been lying through her perfect teeth. I should have realized sooner.
When I asked why Owen had Stan’s burner phone, she claimed not to know. Then noise in the hall distracted me; I had to get back to my class—I let it go.
But thinking back, her voice should have tipped me off; how hard and thin it got, a crust of ice over a pond, easily shattered. I’ve heard Dana lie before. I’ve watched her tell whoppers. Her face gets still, her eyes wide and innocent.
I snap the faucet shut. How dare she lie when she needed my help? How dare she keep lying!
My spine’s rigid as I step from the shower. My toes find the soft mat. I yank at a towel, drag it over myself. Struggle into sweatpants and a hoodie.
I find Gloria alone in the kitchen, chopping broccoli. The air smells of roast chicken.
“Where’s Dana?” I ask.
My tone must be off because she frowns. In her hand, the knife flashes. “In her studio.” She sniffs, resentful. “Working.”
I know Gloria wants me gone. It’s more work for her with me and Ruby here. She’s aware I’m not rich and feels I’m no better than she is.
I speed-walk down the hall. The door to Dana’s studio lies open.
She’s at her workbench, bent over a blue and white flower arrangement. Cornflowers, delphiniums, irises, and anemones rise from clouds of chrysanthemums, peonies, and daisies.
Hearing the door, she looks up and smiles. “Hey, is dinner ready?”
Seeing my face, her smile dies. “Jo?” She puts down her knife and straightens.
I barely dried my hair, which drips cold down my collar. As always, her studio’s frigid. The overhead lights are bright, the tiles icy. I march closer.
In Dana’s hand is a single blue iris. Her favorite flower, named for the Greek goddess of rainbows and sacred oaths.
“Jo, what is it?”
Storming down here, I felt loaded with fury. Now, faced with her fear, my rage misfires and fizzles. Flower clutched to her breast, she looks baby-bird fragile. I’m more disappointed than angry.
“I just realized why Owen had Stan’s burner phone,” I say quietly. “You didn’t kill Stanley.”
She sets down the flower and grips the counter. She tilts forward. Her hair falls into her face, a perfect, shimmery curtain. Owen uses that trick too.
I wait, my resentment rebuilding. I deserve an explanation.
“I’m so sorry.”
I shake my head, hard bullets of anger clicking back into place. “No, Dana!” I hiss. “Fuck your sorrys!”
She blinks, fingers splayed on the counter. She’s got lovely hands, her fingers long, white, and slender. Beneath her bright work lamp, those preposterous diamonds sparkle.
I step to the edge of the bench. Only the counter lies between us. “Tell me everything. I want every detail.”
Dana inhales, pulls herself together. “Okay.” She stares at that single iris, laid flat on the counter. “That night. Stan and I fought.”
“What about?”
She hesitates. “About you.”
“Me?”
She nods. “Chad got a C-minus on his Antigone essay.” I wait. I remember that essay, a half-baked examination of sibling love and rivalry. It should have been a D or a D-minus. Chad’s smart but lazy, like many beautiful people. The world’s kinder to them. They get used to making less effort.
“Stan was mad,” she says. “He wanted me to talk to you.”
I cock my head. Huh. Stan felt he owned me.
Dana looks sheepish. “I know. I told him that’s not how it worked. Chad deserved a C-minus. He had to try harder. Stan just went on and on about how his grades mattered, how he had to get into Harvard.” She clears her throat. “He’d given up on Owen. But Chad was the son he could brag about. Football star. Yada yada.” She rubs her forehead. “I couldn’t take it anymore. He was being such an ass. We argued. I slapped him. He caught my wrist and twisted it.” She touches her wrist, as if it still hurts. “I left the room.”
“Where was this?”
“The den,” she says. “I went upstairs and had a shower to calm down.”
“Then what?”
“I heard more yelling: Stan super loud, and someone else softer. I . . . I just stayed in the shower. I was upset. I had to calm down. Then I’d go down . . . try to sort things out. When Stan got worked up, he could be a real dick. Not just with me but with the twins. Chad could handle him, mostly, but Owen . . .” She bites her lip. “I should have gone straight away to help.” Her head bows.
I stay silent, waiting.
“I thought they were in the den, but when I got there, it was empty.” Her voice softens. “I looked everywhere, in the living room and the kitchen. I didn’t think of the studio until I’d checked everywhere else.” She blinks repeatedly, like there’s something in her eye.
I grit my teeth. We don’t have time for her dramatics. Who knows what the cops have surmised? All this time, I thought I knew the real story, that that was the basis for our lies. Now I’m learning the starting point was a world away, like I was dropped in the Gobi with a map for the Kalahari. “Then what?” I ask.
“I found Stan dead on the floor in my studio, with blood everywhere.” Her eyes latch onto mine. “A knife was sticking out. Here.” She touches her throat. “I ran over and pulled it out.”
I grip the cold counter. “Who else was there, Dana?”
Her head tilts, eyes full of horror. “No one!” She looks toward the service entrance. “That door was open.”
I follow her gaze. That door exits onto the side of the house. I’m not sure I believe her. My jaw hurts. We can return to this later. “What next?”
“I figured . . .” Her voice slips away.
I won’t let her evade me. “You figured what, Dana?”
Again, she hides her face. Her voice is tiny. “When I saw the knife, I knew Owen did it.”
I nod. That’s what I thought. “Why would he?”
“Stan saw Owen kissing Emmett and lost it. You have no idea, Jo! Stan could be awful! Hateful! He’d get after Owen and . . .” Her eyes squeeze shut. “He’d torment him! Say horrible things! Even hurt him.” She shakes her head, as if to shake off her memories. “But Owen denies killing his dad. He swears he didn’t do it!” She sounds frantic and pathetically hopeful. She’s still in denial.
I tug at my hair. My God. Emmett was there too? “Then what, Dana?”
“I ran to grab a towel to stanch the blood. But there was so much . . .” Her voice drops. “I went to find blankets.”
I blink. Had she already decided to wrap him up and dump him?
She’s hoarse. “When I came back, the knife wasn’t there.”
“Did Owen take it?” I ask. “Or Emmett?”
“I don’t know,” says Dana.
I turn to her tool rack. Pruning shears. Wire cutters. A long knife for cutting foam. Short, sharp knives with pointed tips, all bought to replace the ones the cops took. “Did you ask Owen?”
“He said no.”
She attempts a smile, like that will win me over. “I panicked that night,” she whispers. “Owen would be bullied in juvie. Or in jail, if he was tried as an adult. He’d never survive!” Her eyes are pleading.
Despite myself, my chest softens. She looks tragic, and beauty is compelling; we’re wired to respond to it. Those big eyes blinking at me. Dana looks like a scared, pretty baby. Or a kitten.
She wrings her hands. “I couldn’t let Owen go to prison! He’s so . . .” She gives up. “You know him, Jo! I couldn’t call the cops and turn in my own son! I . . . I just couldn’t.”
“So you called me.”
She doesn’t respond. Her face is so pale it’s translucent, like the petals of her white flowers. Against that blanched background, her eyes seem even bluer.
If she’d told me the truth, the whole truth, would I have helped her? “First you hit yourself so I’d believe Stan beat you,” I say. Bitterness has left my voice flat. How brilliantly she played me, ruining her own perfect face so I’d never doubt her. “Then what?”
“I was frightened.” Her lip trembles.
I nod. I get that. If it were Ruby—not that Ruby would kill someone, but if—would I have done the same thing?
“He’s my baby! The one who needs the most help. The one who struggles.”
I recall her back when Owen was little, taking him to therapists and doctors. He seemed much better lately. Until this.
I look away. It’s hard to think with Dana’s pleading baby-gaze on me. I stare into a cooler ablaze with bright flowers. I don’t blame Dana for lying to protect Owen. Good mothers defend their children. But how dare she lie to me! I put everything on the line for her, including my daughter, yet she didn’t trust me.
I inhale slowly, then exhale. I must stay calm to find a way through this mess. Yet I’m not calm; I’m buzzing.
“Jo?” Her voice is petal thin and equally fragile. “Do you think Owen killed him?”
My jaw clenches. Her question, so full of false hope, leaves no doubt. She knew it was Owen from the get-go. This is worst-case scenario. The boy’s fifteen and troubled. He killed his own father. What’s to stop him from talking—if he hasn’t already? Teenagers talk. We’re fucked if he confesses.
Fresh anger rises in me. I tamp it down. I need to focus. We’re rats on a sinking ship. If Owen goes down, Dana and I drown with him.