chapter twenty-six-1

It had been a few hours since I'd arrived at the police station and finally I was through with all of Detective Marsh's questions. I'd scheduled an appointment to meet with a forensic nurse after school in a couple of days about the scars between my ribs. A forensics expert took the cardboard box I'd brought in with me to be tested, and Detective Marsh sent someone to the house for the pocketknife I told him I'd taped under the driver's seat in Emily's car. Before, when it was still in my bedroom and Emily was arrested, I'd been afraid the police would search my room and find it, but the search warrant had been limited to only her bedroom and car, and the family areas of the house. When Elizabeth Monner's body was unearthed in our backyard, they didn't include the car in the search warrant, since it had already been combed through after Griffin's murder. It was nearing nine o'clock at night when I came out into the station's lobby and found my mother sitting on one of the couches, distractedly watching a rerun of a comedy show from the nineties, still dressed in her scrubs with cartoon kittens and paw prints over its teal fabric. When she heard my boots squeaking against the tiles, she clenched the purse strap tighter over her shoulder and stood up. "Clara—" "Can we just talk about this at home?" I glanced around the police station, at the receptionist still on her computer a few feet away, pretending like she couldn't hear us. "Please?" She hesitated, fingers tightening around her purse, but nodded. "Okay." It was quiet during the twenty minute car ride, except for the humming of the engine that droned in my ears and the radio station that immediately turned on when Mom started the car and neither one of us went to turn off. She glanced over at me occasionally, when she flipped on her turn signal or switched lanes, but other than to ask me if I was warm enough in the first few minutes, she said nothing else. It wasn't until we got home and she hesitated behind me after we walked through the front door, dropping her keys in the dish with a series of jingling clanks that felt deafening in the otherwise quiet house, that I realized she knew. Not just that I'd found a cardboard box filled with evidence incriminating her other daughter, but about him. Maybe she'd heard it at work earlier that day, a teenager telling a parent that their vet's daughter had accused a murdered boy of raping her at a party she'd snuck out to attend or something. But she, along with the rest of Shiloh it seemed, knew about what had happened with Griffin Tomlin. I remembered Wilson telling me that people don't always react in the right ways when they're caught off guard. I couldn't handle that anymore. "I'm tired," I told her, feeling as if I had interrupted her even though she hadn't said anything. "I'm going to go up to my room." "Clara." Her voice was firmer than I'd expected it to be. It was a tone I hadn't heard her use since before Emily was arrested, and it was enough for me to pause on the first step of the staircase. "We have to talk about this. Look at me, please." I slowly turned to face her, still standing on the step, and something wavered in her expression as she looked at me. I could hear it when she swallowed. "Are the rumors in town true about Griffin Tomlin?" I felt parts of him on me, touching my sides or the muscles in my neck, fingernails scratching at the lower half of my stomach as he tried to undo my jeans. The ripping sound of the zipper being yanked away from the button almost similar to a gunshot firing in my ears. Before, it had been something I'd had completely to myself, but now it was out there, for anyone to imagine or disregard. "Clara?" "Would you believe me if they were?" I murmured. The muscles in her chin dimpled as it trembled, and she took in a shaky breath. "Oh, honey," she whispered, her voice choked, and I felt parts of me slipping, falling, crashing to the ground before my fingers could grasp them again, regain control, and steady myself. "Yes. Yes, I would—and I do, I do believe you. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I should've seen it." I shook my head. "Mom, it's not your fault. I should've seen it and maybe none of this would be happening right now. Everything would be fine and we wouldn't be—" "But I'm your mother. I'm supposed to protect you from these things, and I couldn't even tell you had a crush on the neighbor boy. If I wasn't so focused on how perfect I wanted things to be, then maybe I would have seen them for what they really were." "But it wasn't like I wanted you to. Half the time, I don't even know why I keep stuff a secret, I just do," I told her, my breath hiccuping between the words. "Still, I'm your mother and I should've known, even if you didn't want me to. I'm sorry." She let out a shuddering exhale, wiping her fingers under her eyes. "I should call your father. He needs to know about this too." She glanced at me, her face softening as she took in my reluctant expression, and she gave me a watery smile. "Tomorrow. I will call him tomorrow. Tonight, let's just go to bed." I shrugged, desperate not to be alone again, and my mom felt like the only person I still had left. "Or we could watch a movie?" When she blinked, surprised at this, I added, "Or something." She shook her head. "No, let's watch a movie. I'll go pop some popcorn and you pick something out, okay?" She leaned over and wrapped her arms around me, tightly. Her perfume reminded me of when I was younger, when we hugged more. "I love you, sweetie, no matter what." "I love you too, Mom." Everyone's gazes shifted toward me as I walked down the school hallway to my locker. A part of me tried to convince myself that it was because I was back at school the day after everyone had found out about what happened with me and Griffin, but I knew it was also because I looked different. And not just because suddenly I was the girl who'd accused a dead boy of raping her, but because the loose-fitting sweaters and leggings I usually wore were replaced with distressed skinny jeans and a sleeveless top with a neckline that revealed a hint of cleavage. My boots were switched out for small heels I'd found in the back of my closet, along with the other clothing I hadn't worn since last February. I was even wearing makeup, and had sprayed perfume on my wrists. I hadn't taken anything from Emily's closet when I was getting dressed that morning, like I would've before, even after she was arrested. Now I refused to touch anything that belonged to her, wanting to separate myself from it, her. Slice away the parts of her like a medical procedure, until she was completely detached. And I wanted to abandon Griffin, the ocean-blue eyes I still felt lingering on my exposed skin as if he were still here. I wanted to pry his fingers from me and leave them like the bones they were becoming in his grave. He didn't get to choose what I wore anymore. "Oh man," someone chuckled from behind me, his back turned. "You dress like that and you call it rape?"