“I’ve never known anyone who’s died before. I thought he was just missing. Or maybe he ran away from his awful wife or something.” She wrapped her arms around herself as the lies fell from her mouth, just like she’d rehearsed. “Where was he?” she asked. “Was he at his home?”
He shook his head. “The river. About twenty miles downstream from downtown, in a very rural area. It looked like he’d been trapped between a couple rocks beneath the water for a while. He was battered. It was bad.”
“Accident?” Ivy could barely get the words out.
Daniel shrugged. “Could be. We haven’t released word that we’ve found him yet. They’re rushing an autopsy. It will get out, though. Soon, everyone will know he’s been found. I just hope we have the results by then. There’ll be questions. Lots of them.”
“Daniel.”
“What?”
“Daniel. Danny. Pull over.”
But before he could stop the car, Ivy opened the door and heaved red velvet cake all over the road.
It was the last time she’d ever have it.
Mattie
Saturday, July 4
Mattie wasn’t better. He didn’t feel better, at least. His head pounded whenever he moved, but he wasn’t sure if it was in his head or real or anything else, really.
(He didn’t know if he’d ever be better.)
But he was good enough that he no longer had the fuzziness of painkillers. Nor did he have the solace of the hospital bed, and while Ivy had visited him at home a couple of times, things had been different with them since the kiss. Part of him actually wanted to kiss her again, but he couldn’t let himself do it.
Still, he missed her. And he owed her this.
Now, all he had left were his promises. His promises to himself. And that was why he was driving the car today. He didn’t want to ever see his bike again.
He stopped by Ivy’s house first. Rolled the Audi out of the long driveway and over to her mailbox. It hadn’t been a long note, but when she realized what he was doing, she’d understand.
Ivy, he’d written.
I like you. And I really, really wish things were different. Because maybe I’d be writing this note to ask you to dinner or the movies or something. But they’re not different. And I hope you understand.
You mean a lot to me.
Mattie
He had slipped it into a white envelope and left it in her mailbox. He hoped she read it before her mom or her brother. He hoped it would be enough.
And then he had driven away. He had more to reckon with.
There were the texts from Derrick, who hadn’t even cared that Mattie was in the hospital. It was a barrage, really, of Confess now and I know what you did and Fess up. There had been at least three a day, and today he’d woken up to one: You aren’t being honest.
Mattie had stopped answering. He wasn’t sure what to say. Derrick knew. Mattie could feel it, in the very bottom of his stomach, where all of his bad feelings collected into a fetid pile and rotted. He could feel it, when he moved the wrong way—a sharp, frightening pain that almost doubled him over.
Mattie drove carefully, safely. Nothing could stop him. Nothing would stop him. He prayed, over and over, that this would all disappear by the time he got to the police station. He closed his eyes at red lights and made promises and deals in his mind. But then he’d open them and the light would turn green, and he would be a moment closer to the police station.
He neared his destination, but there was a sawhorse in the road.
It was closed. The road was closed.
And up ahead, a ton of people amassed in front of city hall, which was next to the police station. They were all looking toward the building and whispering to each other, like they were waiting for something. What was going on? A Fourth of July parade, maybe?
For a moment, Mattie wanted to turn back. He wanted to turn his back on his promise to himself. He didn’t need to come clean. He didn’t need any of it.
The street was lined with cars, anyway. He’d have to backtrack a couple blocks to find a space. There was absolutely nowhere to park nearby.
Ahead, a green Suburban vacated its spot. It left enough space that Mattie wouldn’t even need to parallel park (something he wasn’t very good at).
Mattie swallowed hard and pulled into the vacant spot. He opened the door and set his feet on the ground: one, and then another.
And then he began taking his last steps as a free man. They’d arrest him on the spot. That was how it worked with confessions (as far as he knew).
He trudged toward the police station, but the doors were almost completely blocked with officers, all looking to the steps of city hall, along with nearly everyone else.
“What’s going on?” Mattie asked a woman who was standing with a tall man, whispering.
“Didn’t you see it on television?” she asked. “They found Dr. Stratford’s body. The autopsy results were rushed, and they’re delivering them today.”
Mattie’s body went rigid. The police found the professor. They found his body.