Mom said, “But the police, they must have more reasons to think Toni … to think…” She started to cry, her hands shaking as she tried to wipe away the tears.
“No, I mean, they said other stuff, like about scratches and DNA, but that’s just because we were in the bushes and we touched Nicole, to help her, but we didn’t do anything to her.” I was babbling, talking desperately, my voice pleading through my own sobs. “Please, Mom, you have to believe me.”
My dad reached over and grabbed my hand. “We believe you, honey.” He looked at my mom. “It’s going to be okay, Pam. She didn’t do anything wrong.”
She nodded but she was staring at my outstretched arm, her face haunted, almost scared, and I knew she was remembering the scratches from that night.
I said, “Mom, you believe me, right?”
She met my eyes, blinked a couple of times. “Your father’s right. It’s going to be okay. If you didn’t do anything, there’s nothing to be worried about.” She stood up. “I have to go to bed.”
The next months passed by slowly. I thought of Ryan all the time and wrote him epic letters that I couldn’t send or pass to him. Amy came by to see me a couple of times, then stopped. Her mom didn’t want her coming over, said that Amy associating with me was making them look bad. Amy said, “I’m really sorry, Toni. I totally don’t think you and Ryan did it, but…” I told her I understood, but I felt marooned at home, with parents who were still struggling with their own grief, missing my sister, missing my boyfriend. I’d lost my job—not being able to work nights made it impossible. Mike had told me I shouldn’t worry about it. “When you’re cleared, you can come back, okay?” I loved that he said it, but as far as I knew the police weren’t pursuing any leads.
Three months after our bail hearing there was a preliminary hearing, then a month later the judge decided there was enough evidence for a trial and gave us a date for the end of February 1998, over a year away. It felt like an eternity. I met with my lawyer often, and I knew Ryan was meeting with his. My parents had put up sureties of a hundred thousand so I could get bail and said Ryan’s family had been able to do it too—their house had almost been paid for—which made me feel bad when I thought of his mom always working late at the hospital. I overheard my parents fighting about money, but they’d stop talking when I entered the room. I started working with my dad again, and that was the only time I felt somewhat normal, taking my anger out with the tools. But then I’d see Dad space out in the middle of a project, his face suddenly stricken, like he’d been stabbed, and I knew he was thinking about Nicole, and that his only living child had been arrested for her murder.
The worst was when I’d catch Mom or Dad watching me. I’d see a hint of something in their faces, like they were gauging me, and I’d know that they were wondering if I had done it. One night, late, Mom stumbled away to their room smelling like wine and Dad stayed in the living room. I sat by him on the couch. He glanced over, gave me a tired smile.
I took a breath, then said, “You still believe me, right, Dad?”
He looked confused for a moment, then held my hand and gave it a squeeze. “Of course. I know you’d never want to hurt Nicole.” It bothered me that he’d said I wouldn’t want to hurt her, not that I wouldn’t hurt her, but I was scared to ask anything more and dropped the subject. At our trial, he’d see.
*