I WAITED AT JP’s with Brandon until more cops showed up. None of them seemed concerned with Brandon’s suspension. In a case with so little evidence, the backpack had everyone buzzing with excitement. Jenny’s murder had the attention of the nation, and the local cops beamed with the idea they were there for the big arrest. Even Brett, the funeral bouncer, couldn’t help but smile as he searched through the drawers in the kitchen for the murder weapon.
JP didn’t say a word. He sat on the couch, his hands cuffed behind him, with his head hanging low. The only reaction Brandon could get were involuntary blinks when he raised his voice unexpectedly.
I wanted out of there. I was disappointed. I didn’t want it to be JP. It was a depressing answer that made the world seem somehow darker. I felt sick to my stomach. Not about the murder or JP. It was where my own thoughts were trying to go that nauseated me.
Seeing my passport tore open old wounds that I’d hoped this experience had brought closure to. I saw my young face. I thought about Mark’s notes. I needed to get home.
I snuck out once Brandon was surrounded by uniformed cops hanging on his every word. My car was back at my apartment and I made a choice that showed my desperation. I walked down the road almost to the end, then cut through the trees once my father’s house was visible. Only one small light glowed from inside.
My right shoulder slammed into the door next to the garage. It was locked, and I wasn’t expecting it to be. Even after Jenny’s murder, they never locked the doors. Locking the doors now would be admitting their actions might have contributed to her death. I didn’t know what had changed.
I had no choice but to knock. There was no doorbell, and I pounded my fist, hoping the sound would echo throughout the large house. Eventually, I heard footsteps.
My father opened the door a sliver, not expecting any guests. When he saw me, a relief came over his face that was almost nice. “Virginia,” he said, opening the door all the way.
“Hi, Dad. Can you give me a ride home?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead he wrinkled his forehead and tried to figure out what set of events since I’d left the hospital had brought me to his doorstep on foot. “Where’s your car?”
“I was with Detective Colsen. We found him.” I hadn’t planned to share the news until it was already coming out of my mouth.
“The pervert?”
I shook my head. “It wasn’t him. It was a kid from school. I don’t really know what happened. They were dating maybe.” I wasn’t trying to be vague. I really didn’t know the answers. The more I thought about it, the less sense it made to me too.
“Who?” He adjusted his stance. His shoulders seemed to widen, and his chest puffed out.
“JP,” I said, seeing if the name registered with him. It didn’t. “He lives up the hill.”
My father turned back into the house and grabbed his coat. “The cops are there now?”
I nodded, not sure what I was witnessing.
“Where exactly?”
“Boomer’s place.”
“You should have called me. What were you doing there anyway?”
I followed him into the garage and watched as he flung drawers open, looking for something.
“Are you going to give me a ride home?” I asked.
He pulled a key from the drawer, slammed it shut, and glared at me. “You always were so selfish. Even as a child.” He crossed the garage toward a locked metal cabinet.
His words ripped through my body. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I said.
“Watch your language.”
“What do you think you’re going to do? March up there and strangle the kid? Some kind of vigilante justice to make you feel like you weren’t the shittiest parent on the fucking planet?”
“Your dramatics are not charming.”
“Dad, you fucking thought I had something to do with it. Did you forget that? Because I’ll never be able to forget. Do you get that?”
“I know!” he shouted, in a way that sounded like he was about to explode. It was a tone only ever reserved for me, to paralyze me from pushing it one hair further. He opened the cabinet and pulled a small lockbox from one of the drawers. It was like he couldn’t even see me anymore.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Charlie’s on his way here,” he said, brushing past me. “He can give you a ride.” My father stomped down the driveway, and I knew in that moment I was jealous. I was jealous of how much he cared about Jenny. I was jealous of the poor little dead girl.
CHARLIE WAS ALL too happy to see me when he pulled into the driveway ten minutes later and all too eager to give me a ride home. It was obvious he wished he had children of his own, even a bitter adult child. There was too much going on, and we both struggled to find small talk that would be appropriate given the circumstances.
“Why are you with him?” I asked.
“I love him.”
“Doesn’t seem worth it. He’s embarrassed by you. He keeps you hidden up in Vermont like a mistress.”
“He’s not embarrassed by me. He’s embarrassed of himself.”
“Well, I think we’d all be better off if he just got over himself and moved to Vermont with you. Maybe he wouldn’t be such an asshole.”
“You should let him know,” Charlie said, and smiled. “He doesn’t believe me.”
I pointed Charlie toward my apartment, and he pulled into the shared driveway.
“Are you going to be OK?” he asked. “I could come up for a little bit.”
I enjoyed Charlie almost too much. I wanted to talk to him more. I wanted him to make me feel better about everything. I wanted to travel back in time and have him come to my school plays. I wanted him to put me on his shoulders and run through the park with me. I felt like a crazy orphan kid who attaches to any adult who walks through the door.
“Maybe another time,” I said as I opened the door. “It’s been a long night.”
“I understand.”
“Plus, I need you to go back and make sure my father doesn’t murder anyone,” I joked before realizing it was in horrible taste.
“I’ll take good care of him, sweetheart.”
ONCE CHARLIE PULLED AWAY, I let the fake-daddy euphoria leave with him. I raced upstairs and into my apartment. I wasted no time, dropping to my knees and yanking open the bottom drawer of the desk.
It looked different right off the bat. My life was a mess, but that drawer was always organized. In darker times, I would pull each letter out, read them chronologically, trying to figure out where things went wrong. Then, with meticulous precision, I would place them back inside, in the same order, from largest to smallest. I would place my passport and diploma on top, souvenirs from the time.
My passport was in my pocket, its absence justified. Underneath my diploma sat the neat stack of letters, but I knew right away something was wrong. Three were missing.