I haul Tiffany into the bathroom. Even if she’s tied up, I’m not leaving her with Mae. I open the front door, and Jesse’s there, and the police follow, and for once, there’s no need to explain. Like Jesse, the police had already begun to suspect Tiffany’s “kidnapping” story. Come morning, they would have been questioning her again. I just bumped up the timeline.
Mae regains consciousness at the hospital. By the time we leave, the police have found Owen, hiding in a motel twenty miles away. I was right about the argument. He hadn’t planned to stab me. He only bought the knife to scare me. The plan had been to knock me out, “kidnap” Tiffany and blame Jesse and me for it. That’s why the police had been called about Jesse having bomb-making materials—so they’d search and find evidence that he’d helped abduct Tiffany. Except Owen planted the evidence in his locker—easy for a custodian to do—and the police hadn’t checked that. They hadn’t even believed Tiffany had been kidnapped. That’s when Owen had enough. After school, he came home and told her he was done. They fought, and he took off.
Owen and Tiffany had been dating for months. They’d been hiding their relationship until she graduated, so he wouldn’t lose his job. Then I came along, and they found something new to bond over.
As for Vicki, she’d known nothing of Tiffany’s involvement. To her, Owen was just trying to get me out of town, and she’d supplied the tech.
And the three seniors who’d hassled Jesse and me? They had nothing to do with any of it. They were just part of life—everyday assholes with no goal larger than stirring up trouble.
In light of Tiffany’s testimony, the investigation into the shooting will be reopened. Will that prove, beyond a doubt, that Luka was innocent? No. Nothing can.
With Tiffany’s prior statement invalidated—and her confession on my phone—we only lose proof that Luka was involved in the shooting. The police will make a statement. Yes, that means they shot an innocent teenage boy, but under the circumstances, even I can’t blame them. They were expecting a kid with a gun. Luka was a kid with a gun. He failed to put it down fast enough—confused or surprised or just slow to react. A tragic mistake.
The blame, ultimately, lies with Tiffany. She set the shooting in motion. She is responsible for my brother’s death, as certainly as if she shot him herself. I will make sure she goes to jail for it. I will take the stand against her. I will sit in that courtroom every day of her trial. She will pay for what she did to Luka. To all of the victims.
My brother can never be truly vindicated. Some people will still believe he intended to join Isaac and Harley in the North Hampton shooting. I accept that. What matters is that I have my answers, and I know they’re the truth because I know my brother.
Three weeks later, Jesse is leading me someplace. I have no idea where. I’m blindfolded. It doesn’t smell good—I can say that much. It stinks of moldy carpet and body odor and rancid butter and an industrial-strength cleaner that still can’t get rid of the rest.
When he finally removes my blindfold…
“A movie theater?” I say, looking around.
I’m standing at the front of an auditorium. An empty one—not surprising given that it’s ten o’clock on a Saturday morning.
“Private screening,” he says.
“Of what?”
He waves to someone in a projection booth. The lights dim. The screen jiggles to life, showing an image of an empty room. Then a guy walks in.
“Oh my God!” I say. “Is that Duncan? From All-Time Five? Well, I mean, he was with ATF, until he left the group to—”
Jesse lifts a finger to his mouth. Duncan turns to the camera and says, “Hey, Skye,” and I squeal. An honest-to-God tween-girl squeal that has Jesse choking on a laugh as I slug him in the arm with, “It’s Duncan! He said my name!”
On the screen, Duncan continues. “Jesse tells me you guys were supposed to go to our concert three years ago, on your first date. I’m sorry you missed it, but I hear you two finally reconnected, which is awesome. And since you didn’t make the concert, he’s bringing it to you.”
The screen goes dark, and then it lights up again, the first strains of music drowned out by the screaming of the crowd.
The screaming swells as the band walks onto the stage. I grab Jesse’s arm. “It’s the concert. And Duncan. How did you get him to do that?”
“Seems his solo career isn’t doing so hot. I hired him. Pretty cheap, actually—”
I slap my hand over his mouth. “Ack, no!”
He tugs my hand away. “Sorry. Uh, I…I contacted him and told him our story, and he happily agreed. Refused to accept payment. He wanted to do it for you.”
I grin. “Much better.” Then I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him, and I keep kissing him until the music begins and I can’t help glancing at the screen. Jesse chuckles and pulls away, saying, “More of that later. This is for you.”
“For us. But you do realize I remember every word to every song, right? I’m going to scream them all, at the top of my lungs.”
“Good.” He takes my hand, squeezing it as he turns me to face the screen. “I’ve been waiting for that, for a very long time.”
I’m hanging a photo in our living room. Our new living room. It’s been barely a month since that night with Tiffany, but when Mae puts her mind to something, it happens. Fast.
She’s bought a house. A four-bedroom one just a few blocks from Jesse. Gran and Mom arrived yesterday. They’re moving in, and Mae has hired a full-time caregiver to help.
Yes, I’m staying in Riverside. This is my home, and I’m taking it back.
Mae might have gone about it the wrong way, but ultimately, she was right—I needed to face this. It was the only way to find myself again.
Mom and I are hanging an old photo of Gran and Grandpa over the fireplace. Gran stands in the middle of the room, directing us to shift it up, down, left, right…With each new move, Mom rolls her eyes at me.
Finally, I say, “There, perfect.”
Gran motions for us to lift the picture up a bit. I ignore her and pound in the nail while Mom holds the photo. When we’re done, Mom rumples my hair, like she used to, and gives me a quick hug. Before she pulls away, she whispers, “We’ll be okay, baby.”
I think we will be. On the sofa is a college brochure Mom picked up after announcing her intention to take a few courses, in hopes of honing her rusty graphic design skills. That’s a good sign. Really good. I know, though, that finding out the truth about Luka won’t fix her depression. There is no insta-cure. There’s a continuum between sickness and wellness, and my hope—all of our hopes—is that this will push her closer to the “well” end.
Mom had depression, but the shooting nearly destroyed her. I’m not sure if I truly realized that. I think there was always a part of me that wanted to tug her sleeve and say, “You’ve still got one kid, Mom. Don’t forget about me.” And, yes, maybe I resented her a little, when she couldn’t be there for me.
I understand better now, after what I’ve been through. I understand how she blamed herself for what happened with Luka. Dad certainly blamed her. So did others, as I heard at RivCol. Luka’s mom was “crazy.” Either he inherited some gene or her neglect pushed him to vent his frustration by joining a school shooting.
Now, like me, she knows we didn’t miss something in Luka. We didn’t fail him. As important as that is to me, it means more to her. It is the lifting of a dark veil, and when I look at her now, I see my mom again. She even woke me up this morning with one of her god-awful songs.
After the photo is hung, I realize Mae is holding a book and a shoe box. She hands the book to Mom and the shoe box to me. I open it. Inside…
My breath catches when I see what’s inside.
“Luka’s sketches,” I whisper.
Mae nods. “I took them off your bedroom walls after you left. I knew you’d want them again someday. I hoped you would, anyway.”
I hug her. She doesn’t expect that, and it’s kinda like hugging a statue, but she doesn’t resist. When I pull back, she plants an awkward kiss on my forehead.
I hear a noise and look over to see Mom crying. My gut seizes, as if in the course of three seconds, she’s plunged into the pit of depression again. Then Gran sits beside her and puts an arm around her shoulders, and together they open the book Mae gave her. It’s our family photo album.
Mom looks up at Mae and says, “I thought this was gone forever.”
“Never,” Mae says.
I slip out then. I walk to my new room, and I sit on the bed, and I go through Luka’s sketches, and I cry. I can do that now.
Cry. Grieve. Mourn.
It hurts so much, and there are days when I almost want to go back to thinking Luka was a monster, so I don’t have to feel this. But that only lasts a moment. I have my brother again, and that’s what I wanted, more than anything.
I tack up a sketch of the two of us, dressed as goofy superheroes.
Make me a hero, Skye.
I kiss my finger and tap it to his forehead. You are, Luka. To me, you always were. Now you always will be.