Mason stood up. He did not speak. He turned and walked out of the house.
Ben slammed the door so hard that a new crack spread up the window.
Sam put her glasses back on. She asked Ben, “Where is the confession?”
“On the safe by the letters.”
“Thank you.” Sam did not go to the office.
She walked into the living room.
Charlie hesitated. She didn’t know whether or not to follow Sam. What could she say to her sister that could possibly make either of them feel better? The man who had shot Sam in the head, who had buried her alive, had just walked out their back door with nothing but a threat to make him do the right thing.
Ben turned the latch on the deadbolt.
Charlie asked him, “Are you all right?”
He took off his glasses, wiped the blood from the lenses. “I’ve never been in a real fight before. Not where I managed to hit anybody.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you were upset. I’m sorry that I lied. I’m sorry that you had to read about what happened instead of me telling you myself.”
“There’s nothing in the confession about what Zachariah did to you.” Ben slid his glasses back on. “Rusty told me.”
Charlie was speechless. Rusty had never betrayed a confidence.
Ben said, “Last weekend. He didn’t tell me Mason was involved, but he told me everything else. He said that the worst sin he had ever committed against anybody in his life was making you keep it a secret.”
Charlie rubbed her arms, unable to fight off a sudden chill.
Ben said, “What happened to you—I’m sorry, but I don’t care.”
Charlie felt his disregard as an almost physical pain.
“I said that wrong.” Ben tried to explain, “I’m sorry it happened, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t care that you lied. I don’t care, Chuck.”
“It’s why—” Charlie looked down at the floor. Fittingly, Mason Huckabee had left a trail of blood on his way out of the house.
“It’s why what?” Ben was standing in front of her. He tilted up her chin. “Chuck, just say it. Holding it in is killing you.”
He already knew. He knew everything. And still, she struggled to give voice to her own failures. “The miscarriages. They were because of what happened.”
Ben rested his hands on her shoulders. He waited for her to look him in the eye, then said, “When I was nine years old, Terri kicked me in the nuts, and I peed blood for a week.”
Charlie started to speak, but he shook his head, telling her not to.
“When I was fifteen, I got punched in the junk by a jock. I was just hanging with my nerd herd, minding my own business, and he punched my balls so hard I thought they went up my asshole.”
Ben pressed his finger to her lips so she could not interrupt.
“I keep my cell phone in my front pocket. I know I’m not supposed to because it scrambles your sperm, but I do it anyway. And I can’t wear boxers. You know I hate the way they bunch up. And I masturbated a lot. I mean, some now, but when I was a kid, I was Olympic-ready. I was the only member of the Starfleet Club in my school, and I collected comic books, and I played triangle in the band. No girl would look at me. Not even the ones with acne. I jerked myself off so much that my mom took me to the doctor because she was worried I would get blisters.”
“Ben.”
“Chuck, listen to me. I dressed up as red shirt ensign from Star Trek for my senior prom. There wasn’t a theme. I was the only guy who wasn’t in a tux. I thought I was being ironic.”
Charlie finally smiled.
“Obviously, I was not meant to procreate. I have no idea why I ended up with someone as hot as you, or why we couldn’t—” He didn’t say the words. “It’s just the card we drew, babe. We don’t know if it’s something that happened to me or something that happened to you or plain old natural selection, but that’s the way it is, and I am telling you that I don’t care.”
Charlie cleared her throat. “Kaylee could give you children.”
“Kaylee gave me gonorrhea.”
Charlie should have felt wounded, but the first emotion that registered was concern. Ben was allergic to penicillin. “Did you have to go to the hospital?”
“I spent the last ten days going to Ducktown so no one here would find out.”
Now she felt the wound. “So, this was recent.”
“The last time was almost two months ago. I thought I was just having trouble peeing.”
“You didn’t think that was a sign that you should go to the doctor?”
“Eventually, obviously,” he said. “But that’s why I didn’t—the other night. I tested clean, but it didn’t feel right to not tell you. And I was there to check on you because I was worried. I didn’t need a file. There was no plea deal that went south.”
Charlie did not care about the lie. “How long did it last?”
“It didn’t last. It was four times, and it was fun at first, but then it was just sad. She’s so young. She thinks Kate Mulgrew got her start on Orange Is the New Black.”
“Wow,” Charlie said, trying to make a joke so she didn’t cry. “How did she manage to get through law school?”
Ben tried to joke, too. “You were right about being on top. It’s a lot of work.”
Charlie felt nauseated. “Thanks for the image.”
“Try never being able to sneeze again.”
Charlie chewed the inside of her cheek. She should have never told him the details. She sure as hell wished she had not heard his.
He said, “I’m going to go pack up that stuff for Sam.”
Charlie nodded, but she didn’t want him to go, not even down the hall.
He kissed her forehead. She leaned into him, smelling his sweat and the wrong detergent he was using on his shirts.
He said, “I’ll be in your dad’s office.”
Charlie watched his goofy, loping gait as he walked away.
He hadn’t left the house.
That had to be something.
Charlie didn’t immediately go to Sam. She turned around. She looked into the kitchen. The door was hanging open. She could feel the breeze coming through. She tried to adjust her memory to that moment when she had opened the door, expecting to find Rusty, instead seeing two men, one in black, one wearing a Bon Jovi T-shirt.
One with a shotgun.
One with a revolver.
Zachariah Culpepper.
Mason Huckabee.
The man who had been too late to stop Charlie’s rapist was the same man she’d had frenzied sex with in the parking lot of Shady Ray’s.
The same man who had shot her sister in the head.
Who had buried Sam in a shallow grave.
Who had beaten Zachariah Culpepper, but not before he had torn Charlie into a million tiny pieces.
“Charlie?” Sam called.
She was sitting in the straight-back chair when Charlie entered the living room. Sam was not throwing things or fretting or doing that slow boil that she did when she was ready to go off. Instead, she had been studying something in her notepad.
Sam said, “Quite a day.”
Charlie laughed at the understatement. “How did you figure it out so fast?”
“I’m your big sister. I’m smarter than you are.”
Charlie could offer no evidence to the contrary. “Do you think Mason will go to the police station like you said?”