She sat back. I tried to reach for her but she shook me off. “Why? Why would you do that?”
“He was drowning Crystal in the toilet.” I told her what had happened that night when our dad came home, how it had ended with my shooting him in the bathroom. How we’d covered it up.
“I had no choice.” I searched her face. She had to believe me. She had to understand.
Skylar was pale, her dark eyes huge, but she just looked worried and shocked. “Are you going to go to jail?”
“No, they’ll probably just have a few questions.”
“You have to get a lawyer.” Skylar’s voice broke like she was fighting back tears. “I don’t want you to go to prison.”
“It’s going to be okay.” I grabbed her hand.
“How can you say that?” She was crying now. “Crystal’s dead and now you’re going to jail. I won’t have anyone.”
“They don’t have any proof.” I thought of the hole in the wall, the garbage we hid, all the things we may have missed.
“I need you.”
I pulled her in for a hug. She rested her head on my shoulders, even though she was inches taller, and I stroked her hair like when she was a little girl.
“Skylar, it’s going to be okay. I promise.”
“If you go to jail, it will be like Crystal died for nothing! She wanted to do something good with her life. She wanted to make it right.”
“Some things can’t be made right.”
“This is my fault,” she said, pulling away and standing up. “They wouldn’t know where you were if you hadn’t come to Cash Creek looking for me.” Tears were streaming down her face. “I screwed up everything.”
I stood, held her hands. “This is not your fault.”
She pulled free, grabbed her coat by the door, and ran out of the room. I chased after her. “Where are you going?”
“I need to go for a walk.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“I want to be alone.” She slammed the door, leaving me in the suddenly quiet apartment, crowded with my thoughts, fear pressing in.
“It’s my fault,” I whispered to the closed door.
*
I called Dallas back and we talked late into the night. The next morning a police officer called while Skylar was still sleeping. He asked that we come into the Vancouver police station that afternoon to talk about an important matter.
I knocked on Skylar’s door, told her I had to go to the station. She didn’t answer.
The police took us into separate rooms.
The officer who was going to interview me introduced himself as Corporal Parker from the Littlefield detachment. He was a younger man, maybe in his mid-thirties, with black hair slicked back with gel, and his navy-blue suit perfectly pressed—the seam still crisp down his pants leg. He had polished shoes, a shiny watch, and a serious expression.
“First I want to let you know that you are free to leave anytime. You don’t have to talk to us and you’re not under arrest, but we need to clear up some things and we’re hoping you can help us. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
“A couple of days ago a body was found in Littlefield. We’re still waiting for dental records to make a final ID, but a wallet in his pocket identified him as Roger Campbell, who was reported missing eighteen years ago.”
His wallet. We’d been so careful but we never thought to check his pockets. I thought of his old leather wallet, how it had worn smooth.
“Do you recognize that name?”
I could tell by the look in his eyes that he already knew who we were. If I lied now, he wouldn’t believe anything else. “He’s my father.”
He nodded, his mouth pulling into a grim line. “I’m sorry to tell you that it looks like he was murdered.” He explained that an excavator had dug Dad up in the old pig field—and that he’d been shot in the head. I didn’t want to fake tears, so I tried to just look stunned, shocked by the events. It wasn’t that hard to do.
“What do you know about his disappearance?” the officer said.
“We thought he’d left us.”
He held my gaze for a minute. “During the investigation in Cash Creek, an unregistered .22-caliber rifle was found among some other items that we believed belonged to you, camping equipment, clothes. Brian Luxton denied any knowledge of the gun and it was sent to Ballistics to check for matches.”
The rifle. The assholes had kept it. Heat infused my face.
He was staring at me, waiting for me to say something, but I kept quiet, trying to think what this meant. What should I do? Should I ask for a lawyer?
“Nothing turned up, but when we found your father’s body we ran another match. The same caliber of bullet was found lodged in his head,” he said.
I stayed mute.
“We’ve talked to your old neighbors. We’ve read the police reports. We know your father abused you girls. We also know that your sister, Courtney, was involved with a married man and that your father told his friend he was going to beat the crap out of her. We know something went down that night, Jamie.”