chapter thirty-1

before I had to borrow one of Emily's black dresses for his funeral. Most of what I owned now were oversized sweatshirts and leggings. But what I wore didn't really matter anymore since he was gone. He would be in a funeral home or in a hearse or in a church or in a cemetery, and that was it. Those were all the places he would ever go now until he was buried. And I never could admit it to anyone, but I was so relieved there was going to be a permanent barrier of six feet of ground between me and him. The local news channels spent every moment on air devoted to the coverage of the mystery that had started to plague the small, mostly rural community of Shiloh, New York. They repeated the facts that had been released to the public several days ago—that the police had found evidence of blunt force trauma to his head but chlorinated water in his lungs, so he'd most likely drowned after being dumped in the pool, and they'd also speculated he knew his attacker. After the fifth time one of the anchors regurgitated the information, my mother grabbed the remote and turned the television off. She shook her head, sniffled loudly, and then looked through the gaps between our curtains to the Tomlin household, which looked almost desolate, foil-wrapped packages overflowing from the trash cans. She tried calling Mrs. Tomlin every day, but each time she was forced to leave a voicemail asking her to please call her back anytime, even in the middle of the night if she needed. But Mrs. Tomlin never called her back, day or night. I wore a pair of black leggings under the dress to his funeral, even though it was hot that day. Hot enough that humidity clung under my arms and made my thighs stick to the pews—but there was still a part of me that felt I needed to be covered, even though his eyes would never see whatever I exposed again. It didn't feel completely real, that he was simply gone. It didn't feel as if I had actually seen that curly black hair or his ocean-blue eyes for the last time. I would never have to glimpse him from across the backyard at another block party, lounging on a lawn chair, trying to balance a full paper plate of mayonnaise-based salads and a hamburger on his lap, or feel that clench in my stomach whenever I heard his laughter or his voice, because it was gone. Everything about him was gone now and all that was left was about to be buried and abandoned in the ground. The air in the sanctuary of the church was stifling, almost as thick and apparent as the unspoken truth of his death that everyone skirted around. They talked about how he was such a good kid, always offering to mow lawns or shovel driveways in the winter, or what a great pitcher he was and how far he would've gone, maybe even to the big leagues. I overheard half a dozen stories about him, about his kindness, about his goodness, about his sweetness. I couldn't help but look down at my hands, pale and clammy in my lap, thinking that if he was really that kind, that good, that sweet, then he wouldn't be in a casket wearing the tux he'd worn to prom. Whoever had murdered him would be obvious, unmistakable from the corners of the church where they stood in the back, observing the grief they had caused, a different type of sweat collecting on their temples. It would be clear. You would look in their direction accidentally, trying to find the restrooms or one of the Tomlins, and just know once your gaze fell on them. So obvious you would be left wondering how no one else was seeing it yet. I thought that they would look so ashamed, so guilt-ridden, that you couldn't help but feel an uneasy tingling in your bones that wouldn't go away until they left your sight. In fact, I didn't really even believe that whoever killed him would be at his funeral, I thought they would be so remorseful. I leaned over Emily's shoulder to read the hymnal lyrics from her program and I stood beside her as we waited our turn to exit the pew when the service was over. I watched as she embraced Mrs. Tomlin, wrapping her arms around her and whispering condolences in her ear. I listened as she tried to joke around with Brandon, giving him a light punch on the arm that nearly toppled him because he was so unsteady on his feet, but he only nodded at the things she said, sweat glimmering on his neck. She had tried to talk to Kolby Rutledge but he'd left the funeral so quickly after the service ended, face reddened and blotched, that she never got the chance to say more than his name. I was in my room, my fingers grazing against my blinds as I stood in front of the window. I was trying to decide whether to finally open them and let the glow of the mid-September setting sun infiltrate my bedroom. I told myself I didn't needed to be afraid of him anymore. He wasn't in his bedroom, fingers peeling back his own blinds so he could look across the street and into my room, watching as I undressed or did my homework. Now I could do whatever I wanted and he wouldn't be there, lingering somewhere beyond the pavement of the street separating us. But a part of me still hesitated as I tugged on the string, the cord wrapped around my fingers. I thought of Brandon Tomlin, spending his evenings in his basement playing video games or leaving for his job at the local movie theater. He could look into my window, I thought. So I left my blinds alone and went back to my bed and my history textbook, thinking of two facts at the same time. The first being that Sir Edmund Hillary was born in 1919 in Auckland, New Zealand. The second being that Griffin Tomlin was truly gone. I heard footsteps outside of my bedroom door, the doorknob starting to twist. I thought it might have been my father since Mom had gone to bed already, having loaded the dishes into the dishwasher, then kissing me on the forehead and telling me, I'm so grateful for you, sweetheart. Her words had caused my stomach to twist as she walked away. Her eyes had been reddish the entire day, and she'd still sometimes randomly reached for a tissue even after we'd got home from the funeral, as if a part of her was still there, watching Mrs. Tomlin hug every attendee and swallow back the emotions threatening to overtake her. When I realized it was Emily as she poked her head through the crack of the opening door, I blinked in slight surprise. She'd vanished into her bedroom soon after we'd got back from the church that afternoon, saying she needed to take a nap. My mother brushed back her hair with an understanding sigh before Emily removed her heels and went upstairs, disappearing into her room, and remained there until now, apparently. She was still wearing the dress she'd worn to the funeral. "Hey," she whispered. My rib bones went rigid because I was sure she was going to ask me how I felt about his death, if I was okay, if it stung to see all those people weeping for a boy I wasn't sure even deserved their grief. Did he deserve to be mourned because of who he was to everyone else? Did he deserve it because he was murdered? Emily tilted her head to the side, smiling softly at me as her temple touched the doorframe, and murmured the words that started it all, that started the shattering of the illusion of her. "Can I show you something?" There was a yellow cotton tank top, a pair of high-waisted shorts, and a bra with underwear in the large freezer bag she held out to me gingerly, like it was a small animal or something. She looked at me expectantly as I took in the bag with folded clothing. I shot her a look. "Why I am I looking at this? You know I've got a history test coming up next week, right?" She looked at me weird. "You really don't see it?" "See what?" I looked down dramatically at the freezer bag of clothing and flipped it over in my hands twice. "It's a bag of clothes. I mean, it's weird but—" I felt whatever else I was planning on saying crumbling and disintegrating in my throat when I looked down at the bag again, this time seeing red splatter marks on the thick strap of the tank top. They were on the collar too. The stains were so small, barely even noticeable on the fabric. I couldn't even make sense of what this meant, but my spine still stiffened and the air in my lungs became a hardened mass, my heart feeling as if it were a timer in my chest, ticking away, threatening to stop, because I think a part of me did know. I think a part of me knew it was his blood, ruby splatters like paint dotting and decorating the fabric, as if it were her own version of artwork.