3:58 p.m.
It’s not my fault. I blame Billy. He told me it’d be alright, that Adelynn was old enough to walk home alone. “It’s just one afternoon,” he’d said.
The sun was still above the trees; it was cloudier than today. It feels like it was two years ago, not two days. Is that a sign of aging? Mom said time would seem different when I was older, and I should cherish my hours now. What if Laura’s death made everyone lose emotional time—was that a thing?
The knock on my door is no surprise. Still, it jolts me. I’ve become jumpy. Suddenly, being thin is a curse; I’m no longer able to defend myself. With my litheness comes weakness. If I’d been with Adelynn, I probably couldn’t have stopped her from running to the pond. And if I’d been with Laura, I wouldn’t have been able to save her. Or so I told myself so I could sleep last night. I had nightmares of freezing next to them. I’ll think different thoughts before bed tonight.
A second knock—more insistent.
I hesitate for a moment. Mom told me a cop wanted to talk to me, but it could be anyone.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
I glance through the peephole. A badge is up against it, blurry and gold. Though the sign of authority releases hiked, tense shoulders, my hand vibrates as I turn the knob. I welcome the uniformed man in—wary in my fragility—and apologize for the mess we both know isn’t there; Mom always did that, so it seemed like the right thing to do. He settles himself into my dad’s chair and kicks his feet up, propping them on the just-polished cherry table.
When I offer him a drink, he jokes that he wants whiskey. He gets a soda in the can. Turning my back to him for even a moment frays my nerves again. So when I go back into the living room, I perch on the edge of our least comfortable chair. “Comfort makes you complacent,” my workaholic dad says. He says it for a different reason, but it seems true.
I’ve done nothing wrong. Still, if 21 Jump Street has taught me anything, it’s not to let my guard down. And if 21 Jump Street, Dad, and my instincts agree, I know better than to ignore them all.
Officer Barbour—according to his smudged nameplate—frowns at his soda can; he actually expected whiskey, it seems.
“What questions do you have for me, sir? It’s not like I did anything wrong. I wasn’t even there.” That’s the whole reason Adelynn found her, isn’t it? My voice stutters a little as if I’m guilty of something, which I guess I am: I’m a horrible babysitter.
Officer Barbour stretches and yawns. With his orange hair and middle that’s straining the buttons of his shirt, he reminds me of Tigress—Tiggy for short. My beautiful, tubby tabby was an indoor-outdoor cat. Three years, two months, and five days ago, she didn’t come home for dinner. I still cry because I miss her. I swear I hear her collar jingle now and again.
“Where were you on the afternoon of November 25th?” he asks and coughs with the gulp of carbonation he just drank.
“I was at school until 3:15. I stayed a little late to chat with friends. Then, Billy took me to Preck Hill.” I wince. Everyone knows what happens on Preck Hill. The cop’s face screws up when I say it, and his eyes tilt downwards. Ew. Crossing my arms over my loose sweater, I continue. “I got home in time for dinner around 5:30. I know I was supposed to walk Adelynn home. She’s only six. I know. But Billy said she could handle it. I agreed. I know how stupid it was now; I know how stupid I was.” I almost say that Billy pressured me to have sex while we were at Preck Hill again, and I almost say that my mother should’ve noticed the hickies he was always giving me. If she had, I would be grounded and only allowed to take Adelynn home before coming straight home myself. Instead, I add, “We had pot roast and casserole a lot last week.”
Officer Barbour is mentally taking notes of everything I say and do. I know because his face twitches the way Mom’s does when she keeps track of my verbal slip-ups and mixed-up stories: a notepad with no pencils or paper.
“Hm, alright. That’s what Billy said too. We just wanted to make sure everyone was on the same page. A few pieces aren’t adding up, is all.” Officer Barbour chugs his soda with a frown, and blood drains from my face. Why wou—he knows what happened three years ago. “Thanks so much for the hospitality. We may be in touch, just stay in town for the time being. Okay?” He chuckles at the idea of a teenager leaving town during school. “Thanks again.” Standing, he strolls by me out of the house. The yellow lamp beside him seems to dim.
Struck still, I’m no longer afraid of him; I’m afraid of what conclusions he may be drawing.