GUS

THE NEWS HAS set this tomb on fire.

That’s how it feels, sitting on the couch beside Mom, watching the television recycle the story of our lives.

The screen pans to a decade-old picture of Mom and me at the Samsboro pumpkin patch. We took second place in the competition for smearing a collage of Roald Dahl characters along the sides of a pumpkin.

I don’t know how they dredged that picture up. It feels wrong, because I’m in the wheelchair there, which is probably why they chose it. It feels even wronger because Tamara wasn’t with us. Once again she’s cut out of our family, severed from our lives so Mom can take on the role of the tragic widow.

Even though she took work off today, Tamara’s been outside tearing up earth since she woke me. Every few minutes, soil patters against the siding like gunfire.

An IFA spokesman details the circumstances of the case. They reference strong DNA evidence, but they don’t share details. They compare James Ellis’s case to a dozen others. There’s talk of conducting new interviews and rebooting the investigation by as early as tomorrow. There’s talk, there’s talk, too much to comprehend. Images a-million.

“This is all wrong. He did it. Gary Spence did it. He confessed. He did it!” Mom repeats this like a mantra, baring her teeth, getting steadily louder. “He’s guilty.”

The words bother her. I’m more worried about the images. Dad’s face was a comfort, but these constant flashes of him, of Mom, of me, of the murderer, of Dad, me, him, Mom make my stomach churn.

I find my feet.

“Where are you going?”

“Bathroom,” I lie.

“Gus, I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“Mom. It’s just the bathroom.”

Her eyes trail me, but she can’t see me once I’m past the door frame. I pause in the foyer. The keys are right where they were yesterday, in the bowl at the bottom of the stairs. Am I quick enough? Of course not. She’ll hear the jangle and then she’ll hear me struggling with the door and I’ll be pulled right back to that couch.

“Gus? You finished?”

I’m resigned to my fate. I steel myself to turn back—­

I hear a throat clearing, and Tamara is here, watching me through the open door. Her eyes are red. She beckons me closer.

I do my best not to drag my foot over the precipice, and she closes the door, as silently as she opened it. Away from the sickening warmth of the living room, the October morning proves chillier than expected. I can smell the leaves that have crisped and fallen across the lawn overnight. I tell myself that’s why Tamara’s spent all morning outside—she’s raking them onto the flowerbeds, anticipating the first frost.

“You know, you won’t be able to hide from this for long.” Tamara pulls a spare set of keys from her pocket. “Better make the most of it. Take my jacket.”

It’s denim, heavier than I expect when she sets it on my shoulders. I tip sideways and assume my body’s acting up, until Tamara pulls a spade from one of the pockets.

“Are you going to tell her?”

“Oh, if you think she’s not already waiting outside the bathroom door for you to come out, you haven’t been paying attention. Better get on with it, kid.”

I hug her tight.

“Well,” she tells my shoulder. “I figure you got me to the taco place all right. I figure you’re seventeen. I figure maybe I’m not cut out for responsible parenting.”

“That’s, that’s bullshit.”

I head down the ramp, but before I reach the driveway, she catches me again.

“Hold up—I put your cane in the back. Please use it today.”

I haven’t used it in years. “I don’t—”

“Please,” she insists. “So I can tell her I did something right. And come back by dark. I’ve got to make some kind of show of being responsible, hey?”

I pull myself into the truck and do up my seat belt. I place my feet near the pedals. My slippers look like moccasins. No one but me cares what I’m wearing.

When I look back, Tamara’s on the porch, putting herself between me and the tomb. I don’t know how I’ll ever thank her. I don’t run over the grass, but I do hit the curb when I switch into drive. I’m still in our subdivision when I realize I left my phone on my nightstand. I’m not going back for it.

Maybe I’ll get into a terrible accident today, but it’s hard to care. It’s all been one big accident from the beginning.