In desperation, I yank Owen’s iPhone from its charger and dial Jo’s number. I’m scared her phone’s off, but it rings.
“Pick up!” I beg. It’s late. It could be on silent. “Please! Please!”
Five rings. She picks up. Her voice is throaty: “Hello?”
“Jo!” I cry. “Don’t hang up! I need help!”
There’s an exhale that’s almost a laugh. Jo sounds incredulous, like this is a joke. “What? Fuck, Dana, it’s two a.m.!”
I sink against the wall. It’s hard to get the words out. I’m sure she’ll hang up on me. I’ve started to cry. “I . . . It’s Owen.”
“What?” She sounds alert. “Dana? What’s happened?”
Down the hall, Chad yells. I start to run. The hall’s dark. “Chad, don’t go out there!”
“Dana?” says Jo. Her voice is a nail, rusty but sharp.
“He’s—” I careen down the hall. A sliver of light shines from Owen’s opened door. “Oh my God! I . . . I have to go,” I tell Jo.
Chad yells again. I hang up and run into Owen’s room. The only light shines from his desk lamp.
Chad turns at my approach, his hair tossed by the wind. He’s standing by the open window. The curtains billow. Wind and rain blast in. “Mom, what do we do?”
I stop beside him. Rain stings my eyes. I raise a hand to shield them.
“Did you call for help?” asks Chad.
I don’t answer. I don’t dare call the police or the fire department. What if Owen confesses to killing his father? I’ve repeatedly told him that Angie belongs where she is, but he feels guilty. The wind yanks my hair. I lean out the window. I just wasted time calling Jo.
The roof’s dark and steep. Rain snakes down the tiles. Treetops thrash. The ocean’s seething. Owen’s crouched on the roof, below. “Owen!” I scream. My knees buckle. “Come back here!”
His shoulders shake. He ignores me.
I swipe wet hair from my eyes. Looking up, I see two tall chimneys; looking down, the sharp, black roof edge. Owen crawls lower. For a good five minutes, I stand there, uselessly pleading. Owen ignores me.
“Stay here,” I tell Chad. His mouth is slack with panic.
I climb out the window and start to crawl. I’m barefoot. The slate tiles are slick. Wind shakes me. I’m soon sodden. The rain’s freezing.
I start to slip and squeal in panic. I lie flat on my belly. Time stops. “Owen,” I croak. My voice is lost in the wind. “Honey. Please! Come back here.”
He doesn’t turn. He’s moved even closer to the roof’s edge.
Moving slowly, I slither sideways on my belly. I try to talk to him but get no response. Perhaps he can’t hear. He’s squatting near the edge, peering over.
A yell comes from above: “Dana!”
I turn. Two figures are silhouetted in Owen’s window. The shorter one’s Jo. I can’t believe it. She actually came! And so quickly. She must have sped the whole way here.
“Dana! What the fuck?” she yells. “Come back here!”
I turn away and keep inching downward. I can’t leave my son.
“Owen!” yells Jo. “The roof’s wet! What are you doing?” She’s got her teacher’s voice on—calm but stern, like she’s discussing late homework. I pray Owen will listen. Kids respond to Jo. She’s an excellent teacher.
Owen turns to peer up at the window. He’s crying like he did when he was tiny, his face scrunched with resentment and fury. He yells at Jo: “Go away! You understand nothing!”
“Okay,” calls Jo. “Tell me.”
Owen leans closer to the edge. I bite back a whimper.
“What’s the point?” he yells. “When no one believes me? Everyone at school still thinks I did it!” He glares my way. Through his sobs, his words are garbled: “Even you don’t believe me!”
I can’t breathe. I have no answer. What triggered this breakdown? I thought things were fine, that Angie’s sentencing would help. I thought we were safe, that this was over.
Owen keeps sobbing. He turns and yells into the wind: “I didn’t do it!”
In the window, Chad jolts as if tasered. He starts to clamber over the sill.
“Chad! Stop!” screams Jo. She tries to grab him, but he shakes her off. He’s strong and nimble. I scream too. Chad’s on the roof. He starts shimmying toward me.
“Chad!” I shriek. “Go back!”
He keeps coming, on his feet but crouched low, arms outstretched like he’s surfing. He creeps closer to me and Owen.
My throat shuts. What do I do? Both my babies are out here. If I reach for Owen, he might jerk away and topple over. If Chad slips, he’ll start a domino effect. I look back and forth between them. “Please, stop!” I rasp. “Both of you! No!”
“Owen!” says Chad. “Don’t worry!” He’s getting closer.
I try to crawl his way and block him, but he evades me. His eyes flash. “Mom! No!” His voice is flat but fierce. “Let me do this.” His calm is unnerving.
I’m shaking so hard I’m scared I’ll roll off the roof. I shouldn’t have come out here. I cling to the tiles, watching Chad’s progress.
Back when the twins were small, they were close. Chad had a knack for soothing Owen. Now they’re rarely together. Still, might Owen listen? I hold my breath, hoping.
“Owen, it’ll be okay,” says Chad.
Owen spins. His mouth twists with scorn. “That’s bullshit! Gemma’s mom pled guilty, but everyone still thinks I did it! Mom can’t even look at me.” He claws wet hair from his face. “I scare her.”
I gasp. “That’s not true! I knew how Dad could get! I should have left years ago! When you were little . . . This is my fault! Not yours!”
He ignores me.
Chad stops sliding. His head snaps my way. “What?” he says. His lips are curled and disbelieving. “You think Owen killed Dad?”
“I . . . No!” I say. “I don’t . . .” I can’t get the words out. It’s obvious I’m lying.
“Jesus,” says Chad. He turns back to Owen, then to me. “You’ve got it all wrong, Mom. It wasn’t him, it was me!”
I can’t speak.
Chad looks right through me, his eyes unfocused. “Dad kept yelling at Owen. And he hit him.” He sounds unnaturally calm, like he’s in a trance. “I went into the studio.” He frowns. “But Owen wasn’t there.”
“I ran out the side door,” says Owen. “I hid in the cedars.” His voice softens. “You know, our old fort?”
Chad nods. “Sure. Our old fort.” He shimmies closer to his brother. “When Dad saw me, he grabbed me. Asked why I hadn’t told him you’re . . . gay.” He swallows. “I told Dad to stop, but he just laughed. He said at least he had me to be proud of, that I’d go to Harvard.” Chad’s voice cracks. “I said no. Never. I told Dad I hated him.” Chad’s eyes shut. “He pushed me and I fell . . . It hurt.” His jaw clenches. “He said—” His back straightens. “Dad’s dead. It doesn’t matter.”
All around there is howling wind, waves, and rain. Only my sons and I are silent.
I dig my nails into the roof, feel the house hunched beneath me. At any moment, it might wake, and shake us off.
“I saw the knife on the bench,” says Chad. “And I grabbed it.” He grits his teeth, half grin, half grimace. “I stabbed him.” His eyes shut. “There was so much blood! I just lost it . . . Oh Jesus, my life is over.”
I can’t stop shaking. Tears and rain blind me. How can this be true?
“I went back inside,” says Owen. He blinks as if to unsee the memory. “Dad was dead. His neck was peeled open . . .” His face scrunches up. “I grabbed the knife off the floor. And a phone. It must have fallen from his pocket.” He laughs in despair. “I thought Mom did it.” Owen’s voice quakes. He sounds very young: “I . . . I kept the phone. And hid the knife in my Legos.”
I sit up. A wave of dizziness fells me. I look down at the swaying treetops. Rain gushes toward the eaves. My sons hunch like gargoyles, framed by the sea.
Rain blasts my eyes. I duck. The roof shakes. Someone screams.
I squint into the wind. I don’t believe what I’m seeing. On the roof below me there’s only one figure.