“Things are going to come out in the trial, Kennedy. Things you need to be prepared for.”
I half-listen, not sitting, but at least standing in the kitchen. “What sort of things?”
“The sort of things that tighten up the case. Listen, it’s not just that his prints are all over the weapon. There was a large amount of gunshot residue found on him. You know what that means?”
I shake my head, but not because I don’t understand. Because I don’t believe it.
“It means they have even more evidence that he fired the gun, Kennedy. An expert will testify to that.” He sighs. “The police believe he shot…her. And then Will tried to wrestle it away from him. And then he shot him, too.”
I shake my head. It’s not possible. My brother studies and builds things. He’s funny in a self-deprecating way. Of the two of us, he’s the rule-follower. The responsible one. He goes to school, and he comes back home, and he tolerates my presence when I have nothing better to do. My brother pales at the sight of blood. He has never hurt anyone. Let alone our mother.
“That makes no sense. Come on. It was the same as every other night. There is no reason he’d get Mom’s gun just because. There has to be another reason. Maybe someone else was there, and he was protecting—”
“Kennedy, stop. Everyone at the college…” Joe runs a hand back through his dark hair, but he doesn’t continue.
“Everyone at the college what?”
Joe sighs. “Everyone at the college noticed the tension between Elliot and your mom. They weren’t getting along. There are several witnesses who heard them arguing in her office in the days leading up to…Come on, you had to notice. That’s what people will say, if called to testify.”
“No, that’s not true,” I say impulsively. But what did I really know? Did they avoid each other at meals? Walk silently to the car in the mornings, with a telling gap between them? Did I hear Elliot’s voice cutting down my mom while I was talking on the phone with Marco?
I was busy with the things I thought mattered then, with Marco, too distracted to see what was happening in my own house. Literally alive, they say, because of this. Because I snuck out to Marco’s when everything turned upside down.
“So? So what if they weren’t getting along? Is that really a motive for killing her? For killing two people?”
He frowns. “You know how Elliot was taking one of Will’s classes?”
“Yeah, I know that already,” I snap.
“Well, he was failing the class.”
I shake my head. I keep shaking it as I back away, out of the room. It seems like the very stupidest thing to do, the worst reason to kill someone. Over a grade? An argument? Had he been fighting with my mother about that? Elliot is smart. I can’t imagine him bringing home anything lower than a B—but so what if he was failing? Was that really a reason? That, enraged, he would hear Will come inside, go into the linen closet, where my mom kept the gun hidden, and take it?
But what was I expecting? A good reason? I can’t think of a single one.
“He wouldn’t,” I say from the hall.
“Except, Kennedy…” Joe trails off, not needing to say the rest.
The gun, the residue, the blood, Elliot running from the scene. I am testifying as a witness. The police have no doubts about what happened next.
I snuck out that night because my mom was going to a department holiday party with Will. She wore a black dress and a red scarf. I saw her readjusting it in the hallway mirror while she looked out the window, hearing the sound of Will’s car.
If I’m not home until after you’re asleep, good night, she’d said, swooping down for a quick kiss on my cheek.
Goodbye, Elliot, she called over my head. Had he responded? Did she frown?
I can’t recall it clearly. Instead, I had been counting the moments until she was gone so I could leave.
I assumed they wouldn’t be home until after midnight. And then I was held up by the storm, and Marco. I didn’t notice how late it had gotten, and I was worried she’d notice I was gone.
But she didn’t.
It was horrific, the simplicity. The police knew what time they’d left the party. They figured she’d only been home for a handful of minutes before everything went wrong.
I didn’t know Elliot had a motive, albeit a terrible one.
This trial is not going to be what I thought—a chance for me to offer another explanation. They already have the details, the reason, and I’m just providing the proof.
Back at home, my parents and Agent Lowell are speaking in the kitchen quietly. I’ve had it with the ambushes, the looks, the hopes that will inevitably be shattered again. It’s just a photo, taken two years ago. Sent to Abby, not to us. What was she supposed to do with it?
I try to sneak by them up the stairs, but the second step squeaks, the traitor, and the voices in the kitchen abruptly halt.
Agent Lowell pokes his head out of the kitchen and announces, “Nolan. We’ve been waiting for you.”
“I have finals next week. Kinda busy.” When the investigators for your brother’s case are in your own home, it’s hard to justify avoiding them. But this is the point I’ve reached. Invoking the lie that studying is currently more important than finding out what happened to my brother. If only they knew about my own search.
“Sit down.” It’s my father, then, emerging from the kitchen, and his voice is rough and unfamiliar. My mother, I can tell, has been crying. Her eyes are red and the skin is swollen underneath. She doesn’t look at me as she stands beside my father.
My father gestures to a chair in the dining room, and I drop my bag and sit, as instructed. Something about his voice keeps me silent. Something about the way they’re standing twists my stomach.
My mother does not sit. No one else sits. And there’s nothing in front of me, no picture to look at, or clothing to confirm, just three adults standing over me. I start to feel sick, claustrophobic.
“We’ve traced the email with the photo,” Agent Lowell begins. Then he stops, as if expecting me to continue for him.
“Nolan,” my father prompts.
I hold my hands up, confused. What do they want from me?
“Your father tells me you work most weekend mornings at the Battleground County Library.”
I don’t answer, because that is what I tell my father. But it’s a lie. I have been there maybe three times in my entire life. Enough to know the name and location. Enough to use it as an excuse. I pass it every day on the way to Freedom Battleground State Park.
“The IP address,” Agent Lowell continues, “was from the library.”
“What?” I push back the chair abruptly, facing them all.
My father repeats it, in case I haven’t heard. “The email to Abby’s college account with that photo of Liam. It was sent from there.”
My mouth drops open, and I’m shaking my head, desperately trying to process. “I’m sorry, and you all think I did this?”
My mother still won’t look at me. One freaking suspicious testimony, and two years later, I still can’t escape it.
The problem with a missing-person investigation is this: Everyone is under suspicion. If they were taken, it’s most likely by someone they know. A disappearance could be reported in order to cover something up, something worse. Some of those children on the wall are probably dead. I know that. This is what I’ve learned after being at the center of this house for two years.
But this is different. Liam was there, and then he was gone, along with the dog. Like he slipped from this dimension, like something took him from us. It’s not the same thing.
“It wasn’t me,” I say. “I don’t really go there. I don’t use the computer. I swear. Check the cameras.”
Agent Lowell shakes his head. “They don’t have cameras, which I’m assuming you realized.”
I feel sick. The library. I pass it every day, and someone else was sitting there, sending this picture….
“Mom, Dad, I was lying, okay? I don’t tutor. I don’t go there—”
My father reaches out to grab my arm, and his grip is too tight. It’s not kind. He’s angry. “Where did you get this picture?” he says, his voice sounding hoarse and raw.
“I didn’t,” I say, yanking my arm back.
Even Agent Lowell looks alarmed by the change in my father’s behavior.
My mother looks from him to the agent to me. There are so many levels of worry going on right now. We were all together when Liam disappeared. They should vouch for me. They know. They know.
“It’s a mistake,” I tell them. “We were all together. During the search. We looked for Liam together.”
“Listen,” Agent Lowell says, “we’re not implying anyone did anything. Only that you might know more than you’ve let on. If you sent this picture to Abby to get our attention, Nolan, you have it. Even if you didn’t take the photo, did someone send it to you, after the fact?”