I leave her then. But the question doesn’t leave me, no matter what I do. No matter how many times I try to tell myself it doesn’t matter anymore. The truth is that it guides me as I walk back to the Mazda. When I pull out of the cemetery, I should turn right. That would take me to the cabin. Back to where it will all end. But that’s not where the wheels take me. Not right away. Instead, I head in the opposite direction, driving until I reach the short line of office buildings. My truck is gone, but I’m back. This isn’t part of the plan. But, like an addict, I can’t stop myself.
The tires howl as I bank into the parking lot. There are four or five cars in the lot, but that doesn’t matter. I barrel into a spot and get out. Without slowing, I push through the entrance. A woman sits behind a sliding window. I ignore her and walk straight back.
“Sir,” she calls after me.
I throw open the first door I pass. The room is empty, so I go to the next. In that one, two men sit across from each other. One looks on the verge of tears. I keep going and find her in the fourth office I check. Marci, her name was . . . is Marci. She sits across from a man who stares at me with the eyes of some hunted herd animal. The years have changed her but the eyes that widen at my sudden entrance are the same ones that I looked into as a teenager.
This moment has played through my thoughts for over a decade. I dreamed of storming into this woman’s presence. Demanding that she answer this one question that has poisoned my life.
Yet, as I stand there, with those eyes locked on to me, I realize something is horribly wrong. I expected those eyes to flash a heartbreaking recognition. Instead, Marci Simmons stares back at me with shock, and nothing else.
For a second, I can’t move. I hear the woman from the front desk. She is yelling. Talking about the police. The man in the chair cowers. Marci, to her credit, slowly rises. Her hands come up, palms out.
“Sir,” she says in a soothing tone that sounds nothing like I remember. “I need you to step back into the waiting room and have a seat. I’m in the middle of an appointment right now. When I’m done, I’ll come out and speak with you.”
It is hard for me to accept the moment. I look at this woman, and she has changed, but not as much as I have. Her unkempt long hair may be a little grayer. She wears her glasses instead of leaving them dangling from a chain. But she is, otherwise, frighteningly unaltered. I have an out-of-body experience. I seem to float outside myself. I see the tightness of my jaw. The deep lines of my face. Gone are the easy smile of my youth and the wide-eyed innocence I can’t even remember having. It is almost as though I can see right through myself, as though I wear the years like camouflage, hiding so much that I might as well not even exist. Maybe I wish I didn’t. Wish I never had.
Yet here I am. Right back to the beginning, in a way. That’s when I realize that time definitely stood still, just not for her. Or for anyone else. Just me. I have been trapped in this endless circle for so long, numb to the pain of biting my own tail.
“Was he evil?”
The question slips out before I know that I am going to ask it. Her head tilts, just slightly. I wait, needing the answer now that the question has been asked. When she speaks, her tone has changed. There is a quiver at the end of her words. For the first time I think that maybe she does remember. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know what you’re . . .”
In that moment, my resolve cracks. Although I need to know, it just doesn’t matter now. The wheel is rolling. The answer is imminent. There’s no getting out of the way. I’m just afraid, but I am done being a coward. I take a step back, looking over my shoulder at the doorway.
“I’m Liam . . . Brennan. You came to my house . . . when I was thirteen. You couldn’t have done anything,” I say, my voice cracking. I can’t make eye contact. “There’s nothing you could have done.”
“I remember you,” she says, barely above a breath.
I back away. She follows.
“Wait.”
But I can’t. I won’t. I’m out of the office and through the lobby. I push open the outer door. When I see the Mazda, the weakness that brought me here dries up to nothing. I am a husk. A shell. I have one purpose now. One path. And I just need to take it.
“Liam,” she calls out behind me. “Liam Brennan. I remember. Something happened back then, didn’t it? I tried. I did. I went to the police when I heard. I told them about that day. I told them that they needed to do something. But . . . Liam!”
I get into the rental car. The engine ignites, wanting to move. She stands across the hood from me. I see her mouth moving, expressing her regret, and all I feel is guilt for coming to this place. For seeing her again and allowing myself to believe that anything could have been different than it was.