“Becca, it’s okay.” I laid a hand on her non-injured arm. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Tell me who it is. He can’t hurt you any—”
“What are you talking about?” She wrenched her arm away. “Of course he can. He made what happened to Lucia look like an accident. He could do the same to you or me just as easily.” Her voice was ragged from tears and desperation. “Do you think I haven’t been hearing it my whole life, practically? ‘Accidents happen.’ But what happened to Lucia was no accident. I can’t prove it, but I know.”
“Then tell me. Tell me so I can fix it.”
“You can’t.”
“I can, Becca.”
I heard a bell ring, and beneath the breezeway, students began to file from their classrooms, switching from first period to second. I hoped Becca didn’t notice.
“I can’t bring Lucia back to life, Becca,” I whispered urgently. “But I can maybe bring her some peace, and help you live the life you deserve. But only if you help me. Please.”
She wasn’t looking at me. She was staring off at the fountain, fingering the horse pendant around her neck.
“He had to have spooked that horse on purpose, then rode after Lucia and killed her when she was far enough away from the group that they couldn’t see.” Becca’s tears spilled down her cheeks and onto her white uniform blouse. She made no move to wipe them. “She was a good rider, the best of us, but her horse was scared of snakes—all horses are, but hers especially—and if someone left something across the trail that looked like a snake—” She shuddered. “That’s how I think he did it. Then all he had to do was follow her . . . and . . .”
“Why, Becca?” I asked. “Why would he do that to Lucia?”
She nodded, aware of the tears now. She’d lifted a tissue from the pack I’d given her to dab at her eyes and blow her nose. “That’s why it’s my fault. It was so stupid. It just slipped out. She saw that I had a candy bar, and she wanted to know where I’d gotten it, because we weren’t supposed to have candy in school, and like an idiot I said he’d given it to me. And then she said she wanted candy, too, and that she was going to ask him for some. And then I realized what I’d done, because of course he’d told me horrible things would happen if I told anyone. So I got scared, because I didn’t want him to do to her what he’d done to me, even if afterwards he did give me candy. So I told her that she couldn’t say anything to anyone about it, not even him, and she wanted to know why, and so—”
“You told her.”
“Y-yes.”
I should have been used to it by now. It was so tragically ubiquitous, you’d think it would fail to surprise me.
But even now, sitting in one of the warmest, sunniest, most peaceful places on earth, touted all over the Internet for its beauty and highly meditative benefits, as I listened to the laughter of my stepnieces and the sound of hymns playing inside the basilica, I felt suddenly cold.
This must have been what it was like for Jesse, living in the valley of the shadow of death. Cold, dark, and no sunlight ever to warm him. I fought an urge to reach for my cell phone and call him, just to hear his voice. I couldn’t do that in front of Becca. She had no one to call.
“So Lucia said she was going to tell on him?”
“Yes,” Becca said, looking as wretched as it was possible for a human being to look. “She was like that, you know. She always took charge of things. Not really bossy, but . . . well, kind of.”
I thought of how Lucia’s hands had felt around my throat. Bossy was one word for it.
Becca’s eyes were overflowing. “I was so stupid. I remember feeling relieved. I remember thinking, ‘Well, Lucia will tell, and then everything will be all right.’ But instead—” She broke off.
She didn’t need to go on. I knew what had happened instead.
I reached out to lay a hand on her fingers, which were nervously shredding the tissue in her lap. “What was his name, Becca?”
She shook herself, seeming to come out of whatever dark shadow that she’d temporarily slipped into. “Wh-what?”
“His name. The man who . . . gave you the candy.”
“Oh.” She had to think about it. She thought for a long time, watching a couple of butterflies flit by. “Jimmy, I think. That’s what everyone called him. Jimmy.” She said the name apologetically, like it was a vulgarity she felt sorry for having been forced to utter in front of me.
“Do you remember his last name?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t . . . I can’t . . . He was tall. I remember that. But I can barely remember anything else about him.”
She did, but she wouldn’t allow herself to. She’d have blocked it out, along with his name, the way we all try to block out our worst childhood memories.
“That’s all right, Becca. Did you tell anyone—anyone besides Lucia—about him?”
Her eyes widened. “No, of course not. Not after . . . not after what happened to Lucia. I didn’t . . . I couldn’t . . .”