Before Michael could ask a question, he heard a car door close outside. Then another.
He stepped over to the window, the one that looked out onto the street. Felicity came up beside him, bouncing from one foot to the other as Michael peeked through the blinds. He saw a Cottonsville police cruiser and two uniformed officers climbing out, their badges glistening in the sun. Then another car pulled up behind them. Detective Griffin emerged, her face determined, her stride brisk.
And then Angela got out of the car as well. . . .
“Felicity? Do you want to do me a favor? Will you go downstairs and wait for the police officers to come inside?”
“Are they with my mom?” she asked.
“I don’t think so. But she might be here soon. Can you go downstairs and do that? I’m going to talk to my sister a little longer, and then we’ll be down too. Tell them that if they ask. Tell them we’re okay in here; no one’s seriously hurt. Okay?”
The girl didn’t say anything else but simply walked out of the room, her hand to her bandage. He heard her soft footsteps on the stairs, and he hoped for more time with Lynn before the weight of everything that had happened fell on them.
When she was gone, Lynn lifted her head, removing her hands from in front of her face. “I thought I’d killed her, Michael.”
“Who?”
“Felicity. When we had the accident and hit the tree, I thought she was dead. I thought I had done it again. I saw the blood.” She buried her head in her hands. “I’m sorry, Michael. It all went sideways so fast.”
Michael came over and sat on the edge of the bed. He reached out and patted his sister on the arm. “Lynn, what do you mean you thought you’d done it again? Why are you saying that?”
Her words came out in a tumble, like boulders sliding down a hill. “I didn’t tell Mom and Dad. I didn’t tell the minister or the therapist they sent us to. You made my burden yours, for all these years.”
“It’s not your burden,” Michael said. “I was supposed to be watching you both. I was older. I should have been there instead of wandering away, lost in my head. Daydreaming. I hate that I did that, that I let my attention waver.”
Lynn remained silent. She stared at Michael and then turned away, her eyes trailing over the walls and up to the ceiling.
“What’s the matter, Lynn?” he asked. “Why are you not saying anything?”
“It’s not your fault, Michael. Robyn . . . It’s not your fault. You didn’t kill her.”
“I know that. She fell. It was an accident. But I could have, should have, prevented it. I should have been there to try.”
She still kept her head turned away.
“Lynn? Talk to me.”
She said something under her breath. Michael didn’t understand, so he leaned closer.
“What are you saying, Lynn?”
“It’s not your fault, Michael.” She turned to face him. “It’s me, Michael. It’s me. I killed Robyn. I killed her that day.”