The End of Our Story

Behind her, two cops clomp into the kitchen: a tall black woman with close-cropped hair and a pudgy white balding man. It takes me a second to recognize them. They were standing at the back of the church during Wilson’s funeral.

“You doing okay, Wil?” The female detective gives me a brief nod.

“Uh, sure, Detective Porter.” Wil’s fist curls next to mine. He slides the knife onto the counter, behind us. “What’s going on?”

“Answer me, Wil,” Henney demands. “Why aren’t you in school?” She doesn’t look at me.

“We just needed a break, Mom. I’m sorry.” Wil’s glance shudders between the two detectives, uncertain, like a moth caught between two searing bulbs.

“Mrs. Hines, this is my fault,” I say, pushing the words past my cottony tongue. “Wil seemed stressed, and I thought—”

“Wil.” Henney closes her eyes. “I can’t deal with this now, you understand?”

“I know, Mom. I’m really sorry. This was stupid.” He looks at the balding detective. “Seriously, Detective Yancey. What are you guys doing here?”

The balding detective hooks his fingers around his belt loops and hikes up his pants. “We have a little more information on the suspect’s history. Wanted to ask you about a few details, see if everything fits.”

“No. No. He should be in school.” Henney turns to stand next to Wil. She holds on tight, like she’s about to fall. “I’m happy to answer your questions, but Wil should get back.”

“Besides, we’ve gone through this already, right?” Wil says. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

I wish he would talk to me.

I can’t help it: The thought bobs to the surface before I can stop it. It’s a selfish thought, but it’s real. I wish he could tell me what happened that night. I want to be the person who lightens him, who carries his thoughts. He is so heavy with the weight of it all. But I wonder if he will ever let me share that weight. Wil has always been one to carry his burdens silently, without complaint. The kind of guy his dad used to call a man’s man. I blink and remember the morning I helped him pack his father’s things. I remember his pained expression, the cracks in the skin around his eyes like he might come unstitched if he spoke a single word about that night.

Detective Porter is smiling at me. I look away.

“This shouldn’t take long,” she says.

“I don’t get it.” Wil’s voice is too loud for this room, for these people. “We’ve told you everything, and it’s like it’s not good enough or something.”

“How do you mean, son?” Yancey cocks his head to one side.

Wil cringes. “We shouldn’t have to talk about it over and over again. That’s fucked up, man.”

“Wil,” Henney hisses.

My breath catches in my throat.

Detective Yancey is chuckling, muttering something about how he’s heard worse.

“I’m serious!” Wil shakes off Henney’s hand. “Every time you come over, every time we have to tell the story again, it—it messes with your head. I—my mom can’t sleep, she has nightmares.” His skin is the color of fog. I watch the grays pulse, move, like there’s a wind inside him that won’t be still.

“I should go,” I say. “I should get back.” My words are a whisper in the middle of a hurricane.

“We’re trying to find him, Wil.” Detective Porter says evenly. “You have my word on that.”

“Try harder. Try someplace else. Leave us alone. We’re done.” He storms out of the kitchen. Henney follows, calling after him, and the kitchen door slams. I’m left alone in this old gray kitchen with two cops and the Wilson ghosts.

Detective Yancey clears his throat. “We’ll give them a second.”

“Um, I’m Bridget,” I tell the detectives. “Bridge.” I prop my hands on the counter behind me, but they slide off. I can hear Henney and Wil in the side yard, muffled sadness and anger. I swallow the lump in my throat.

“You two go to the same school?” Porter asks. She gives me a reassuring smile.

“We grew up together,” I whisper.

“So you know the family pretty well.” Yancey’s voice is talking-about-the-weather light, but something in me knows better.

I don’t know what Wil has told them about who Wilson was and what he did. I don’t know if cops go after the killers of violent men the same way. I don’t even know if they should. “Yeah. It’s been hard for them.” I’m dizzy, unsteady on my feet. My skin is hot and damp where Wil’s lips were. I don’t want to cry in front of these cops. But it’s too much, all of it, and I can’t stop the silent tears.

“Sure, sure,” says Yancey. “This is tough.” He gives Porter the same look Micah gives me when Mom cries in front of us: helplessness mixed with discomfort.

“I should get back to school.” I sniff, wiping my eyes with my T-shirt. I glance through the kitchen door window. In the yard, Wil is holding his mother in a way that makes my bones ache for them. I want the cops to leave them in peace. Maybe peace is what they need, more than justice or a trial or casseroles.

“I’d be happy to drive you,” Detective Porter offers.

“No! No. I’ll walk. Thanks.” I slip past the cops and hurry down the hall. I can feel the detectives’ eyes on me as I push through the front door and start across the lawn, my stride longer than usual. When I hit Atlantic, I run. Away from the sick, sour death air that has invaded that house and snuck into my lungs. Away from the nagging feeling deep in my gut that peace, real, deep, still-water peace, is something Wil may never find again.





BRIDGE


Spring, Senior Year


I slow to a walk on Atlantic, my skull pulsing with the beginnings of a migraine. Every step is harder. There is an invisible string between Wil and me, and that string is pulling me back to him, back to that house. I hate that I left him there with the cops and the ghosts and the grief he can’t share with me, or won’t.

“Smile, sweetheart,” yells a man in a chicken suit on the other side of the street, spinning a LUNCH SPECIALS sign, even though it’s only 10:45. “It can’t be all that bad.” The sky is gray, the kind of day that looks cold until you step into it. The storefronts and cracked sidewalks and neon signs sag under a cloudy sky.

“You have no idea, asshole,” I yell back, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.

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