His mom scanned the room like she detected something different.
“Yeah, Mom?” Ben said. She was making him nervous, the way she kept staring at the pale indentations in the rug. Ben hadn’t placed the bureau back exactly right. He wondered if she could see the seam where he’d made the cut in the rug. She’d have to be crawling on the floor to see it, Ben told himself.
Still.
“Mr. Falso said you were talking about the Cillo sisters, next door,” she said finally.
“Not the ones down the street? You mean the ones right next door? I want to make sure we’re talking about the same Cillo sisters,” Ben said.
“This is not a time for sarcasm,” his dad said.
“The ones I’ve known my whole life? Those are the ones you mean, right?”
“Ben,” his mom whispered.
“Because they’re the ones who are dead. You know that, right?”
“You’re upset. But that does not give you the right to be disrespectful to your mother.”
“I want to make sure we’re talking about the same girls.”
His mom sank to the edge of the bed and trailed her hand along the crumpled sheet, smoothing it.
His father planted his legs wide. “This conversation is not about what your mother and I did or did not do right in your mind. This is about what you told Mr. Falso.”
“Aren’t I supposed to talk with Mr. Falso about stuff? Isn’t it his job to listen?”
His dad folded and refolded his soft hands. “We know you think Frank Cillo is to blame for Francesca and Mira’s accident.”
Ben’s eyes popped.
“We understand why you are looking for answers,” his dad said. “But you’re going down the wrong path.”
“A bad path,” his mom said.
His dad raised his palm in the air toward his mom, a now-slow-down move meant to gain Ben’s trust. “Why don’t you tell us in your words what you think Mr. Cillo did.”
Ben squirmed. This was worse than he’d imagined. Mr. Falso had mixed things up. Or maybe Ben was the one who came to the conclusion? What exactly had Mr. Falso said?
He picked a spot on the rug and stared at it. “If he told you, why do I need to tell you?”
His parents stood together. “Honey, Mr. Falso is concerned that you aren’t thinking clearly. He said you think Mr. Cillo drove the girls to take their own lives because he was abusing them. That’s a very strong accusation. How did you come to this conclusion?”
“How did I come to this conclusion?” Ben yelled, aghast.
“You must have some evidence,” his dad said.
“What, like I saw him?” Ben said, shifting on the floor.
“For starters!” his dad shouted.
“Paul!” his mother said, looking at the window.
“What, are you afraid he can hear us? The window’s closed, Mom.”
“Why don’t you try to treat your mother with more respect?” his father said.
Ben scrambled to his feet. “Why don’t you say what you really mean? That I’m making things between you and Mr. Cillo even more awkward. That you don’t want any more ugliness between you and a man who might have twiddled his daughters so much they went crazy and decided it was better to die than live in that house!” Ben pointed out the window.
“That is not what this is about!” his mother said. “We simply asked you what evidence you had to make the accusation. And you still haven’t answered us.”
Ben stuck his palms over his eyelids and dragged his hands down over his face. He wanted to say Mr. Falso told me, but even if they did believe him, that wasn’t exactly the truth, was it?
“She told me,” he said softly.
His mother approached him. “She who, Ben?”
“Yes, she who, Ben? Because if you think we’re asking too many questions, you can’t imagine what it will be like when you get grilled by the police, most of whom are related to or indebted to Frank Cillo,” his dad said.
His mother looked over her shoulder in horror. “Paul! This is not what we agreed to.”
“Yeah, Dad,” Ben said. “Why are you so afraid of Mr. Cillo anyway?”
For a second, Ben thought his father might slap him. Instead, he turned his back to them and placed his hands behind his head, elbows pointing out at both sides. “Who told you they were being abused?” he said quietly.
“Mira told me.” Ben closed his eyes, not to shut out the horror on their faces, but to envision the words, her words, their sweet girly curlicues belying their meaning. She makes excuses, says he can’t help himself. Only I know better. He couldn’t repeat Mira’s words: he’d have to show them the note, and then he’d have to show them all of the notes. He had looked up “signs and symptoms of sexual abuse,” and it was like he was reading about the Cillo girls in those last few months of their lives. He threw open the desk drawer, grabbing a sheaf of computer printouts. “Gradual and/or sudden withdrawal or isolation? Check! Change or loss of appetite? They had clothes hanging off their bodies! Check! Speaking of which, wearing many layers of clothing? Check! Francesca looked like a bag lady at the end!”
“What is that?” his dad said.
His mom grabbed the piece of paper from Ben’s hand. “Signs and symptoms of child sexual abuse.”
“Cruelty to pets? Everyone says Mira killed her kitten! That’s a big fat check!” Ben said.
“The Cillos are a tight family with connections all over this town. Why wouldn’t Mira tell anyone but you?” his dad said.
Ben snatched the paper back and read, line by line. “Sexual predators use dominance, fear, manipulation…”
“Ben,” his mom said softly.
“Seductive behavior? Uh, skip that one. Unhealthy/odd attachment to an older person? That would be Daddy! Check!” Ben cried.
“Those girls loved their father,” his mom said.
“Brainwashing!” Ben screamed, pointing at the page. “Look, it says right here: sexual predators brainwash their victims into thinking they’re doing it because they’re special, and they love them!”
“Ben,” his dad said.
“Anxiety, mood swings, eating disorders—”
“Ben,” his mom said.
“Sudden changes in behavior! Excessive paranoia? Delinquent behavior? Always acting like you have something to prove! This one time, at the quarry—”
“You could be describing yourself!” his mom shouted.
Ben swung around. “What?”
His dad stepped forward. “You gave Steven Pignataro a concussion. Mr. Falso said you seemed afraid he was going to drop you at Little Q.”
“Acting like you have something to prove,” his mom whispered.
“What are you saying? Are you saying I’m projecting what happened to me?” Ben smeared the back of his hand across his eyes. He hadn’t realized he was crying.
“Now, Ben. We’re not saying that. That chapter is over.” Her face contracted and hardened. “Closed.”
“What your mother is saying is that those descriptions could apply to anyone going through some kind of trauma.” His dad’s shoulders jerked. He looked as though he might run from the room. “Your mother and I are making an appointment for you to see someone tomorrow. In the meantime, there are medicines you can take to help you sleep and make you feel less anxious.”