This Is How It Ends
Page 40“That and the ballistics tests that showed she hadn’t fired a weapon.”
“Right.”
We stood there quietly, looking at our hours of work, until finally I said, “We have to take this all down, don’t we?” I waved toward the string and tape.
She nodded. “For all we know Nat could be missing a piece of clothing or something else she needs. Or decide tomorrow that she really does want to come up here.”
I took out my phone. “Is it weird if I take a picture?”
“Yes.”
I snapped a few from different angles, then slipped the phone back into my pocket. I pulled down the first of the strings. “So much for all that work.”
“Well, you’ll always have the photos to remember it by.”
It was near nine when we finally tucked everything away. Trip called as we were finishing up. “Do you mind double-checking to be sure we got everything?” she said, already stepping aside to talk to him. I tried not to listen or be jealous or notice the way she looked in her faded jeans.
I scanned the floor, looking for stray scraps of string or tape or anything else we might have left behind. Not that anyone would notice it amid the mess the cops had made, their small numbered cards still propped around the room and stuck on walls. I squatted down to look at them more closely, curious about how the police had numbered and laid them out. It wasn’t every day you got to hang out at a real-life crime scene. I heard the jingle of change as everything in my jacket pocket spilled out onto the carpet.
“Shit.” I stopped a quarter from rolling away, scooping up a small cluster of nickels and pennies that had landed by my shoe. Then I knelt forward to grab a dime that had rolled toward the sofa and landed by the pleated skirt. In the beam of the flashlight, I noticed something else, mostly hidden behind the tweedy fabric.
I felt my breath catch as I carefully pushed aside the sofa’s skirt to get a clear view. I nudged the object gently, and it spun a fraction, the shiny silver top coming out from under the sofa.
It was a lighter. With a silver skull and crossbones, one side of the skull worn away where his hand always gripped it.
I’d seen him light his cigarettes with it every weekend for three years. There was no question.
Behind me I could hear Sarah ending her conversation. Without giving it a second thought I pulled my T-shirt down and used it to carefully grip the lighter without having it touch my skin. I slid it into my pocket and stood.
“What were you doing down there?”
“I dropped some money.”
We locked up and walked back to the car. It was quiet in the woods, and I imagined the way it must have sounded to Mr. Johnson up the road the night it happened, sirens screeching. I’d have hauled myself out of bed and gone down there too.
Sarah and I talked about physics and Nat and school stuff most of the ride home. When I dropped her off, she paused for a second before getting out.
“Thanks, Riley. For not making it weird.”
“That wasn’t weird?” I said. “How am I going to top taking you to the scene of a murder? Damn, you’re a tough customer, McKenzie.”
She smiled. “You know what I mean.”
I did. Her. Me.
“See you at school,” she said.
I nodded, waved, and watched her walk up the path and slip inside her house. But I was thinking of Moose’s lighter and the thing that stayed seared in my mind. How it had lain. Half-hidden by the sofa. On top of a blood spatter—not under.
CHAPTER 23
I DROVE HOME, READY TO flop into bed with a book that had nothing to do with school or murder. The house was dark when I drove up, which was odd. My mom should have been getting ready for work. My heart was pounding as I trotted up the walk, knowing something wasn’t right.
As soon as I stepped through the door, I knew why. It was cold inside. My stomach sank as I flipped the light switch, already knowing what would happen: nothing.
The power was off. Which was what happened when you spent the bill money on SATs.
“Riley?” I heard her call from upstairs.
“Oh, shit,” I muttered. “Yeah, it’s me.”
The beam of a flashlight bobbed on the wall as my mom came out of her bedroom and picked her way carefully downstairs. She stood at the bottom. “I tried to call you.”
“You did?” I pulled out my phone. Three messages. I’d had it off up at the trailer. “Sorry,” I said. “It was on mute from school. I guess I forgot to turn it on.”
“The power’s off,” she said. “Do you know what happened?”
I nodded and took a deep breath. “I spent the money,” I said. “I’m sorry. I just . . . I was hoping they wouldn’t get to us so quickly.”
“What did you spend it on, Riley?” she said. She didn’t yell, but I could tell she was angry. I’d never done something like this before. It wasn’t how we operated, both of us knowing that the only way to stay afloat was by working together.
“The SATs,” I said quietly. “I registered to take them.”
When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, “Why don’t you build a fire, Riley.” She squeezed my shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”
“How?”
“We can go without electricity for a day or so. It’ll be like camping.” She smiled.
“But we won’t be able to pay it until—”
She interrupted, “I’ll get the money.”
I almost asked where, but I suddenly understood, feeling completely disgusted. Disgusting, actually, since I was the one making her do it. “Mom—” But I couldn’t say any of it. About how wrong it was to ask him for help, especially for money. Because we didn’t talk about that, and this was my fault. I was the one who’d put her in that position.
“It’s okay, Riley,” was all she said.
I watched her sneakers—less ripped up than mine only because she wore nurse shoes half her waking hours—turn and walk toward the stairs.
I did what she said, crumpling page after page of newspaper until flames lit the room. My eyes were dry by the time she came back down.