She didn’t look up. “And then what will happen?”
“There will be more media coverage. There will be negotiations between the state’s attorney—the lawyer on our side—and the defense attorney. There may be a plea deal of some kind. Maybe the person who did it will plead guilty. Maybe not. And so there may be a court case. A trial. If so, there will be yet more media attention and interest. Newspaper stories. Television stories. It will seem to be opening old wounds, but in reality it will be healing them. It will be giving us justice.”
“Whoever killed her will go to jail?”
“Yes. Whoever killed her will go to jail.”
Paige said nothing more. She kept her attention on the long list of pizzas and salads. I couldn’t tell if she found this likely sequence at all comforting. I know I didn’t—though it would still be a while before I would understand why.
I WANTED TO tell someone—at least a part of me did.
But the bigger part of me couldn’t bring myself to admit it. To speak the truth aloud. To share what I thought I had seen. What I thought I remembered.
Some days I managed to convince myself that I was simply imagining the worst because I knew what I was capable of in my sleep. You have no idea how many hours I spent online researching the probabilities, especially as I grew older and more research became available on the Internet.
But over time, the reality grew inescapable. The truth.
Yes, sleepwalkers usually recall very little. Unfortunately, I always recalled more than most.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BEFORE MY MOTHER’S body was found, the mystery surrounding her story had revolved around her disappearance. After an exuberant dog and a determined photographer had discovered her corpse, the mystery focused instead upon the cause of her death and whether she might actually have been murdered. But when the state police could find no clues—there were still neither suspects nor motives, the toxicology report revealed nothing, and no one seemed to worry that my father and Paige and I were in danger—even that puzzle failed to hold anyone’s interest. Once again the media and the detectives moved on. The last of the leaves died and fell, and the autumn rains commenced. The drought became a mere meteorological footnote. We no longer spotted the great well-drilling trucks as they rumbled along our shady, narrow roads or discussed whether the ski resorts would have sufficient water in their holding ponds to make snow. My sister would be back on the slopes right on time.
By the third week in October, once more my father and Paige and I had settled into a routine. At least it looked like a routine on the surface: I would get the two of them off to work and school respectively, keep house, and make dinner. I would cart Paige wherever she needed to go. I would visit my friends in Vermont or call my friends at Amherst. I still hadn’t decided whether I was going to return to college in the spring, but the deadline was nearing: I had until November 1. If my father was aware of the date, he never mentioned it; looking back, I like to believe that he presumed all along that I was returning, because the alternative—that he expected me to remain indefinitely in Bartlett—makes him seem selfish and a little dislikable. He was neither; he simply wasn’t coping, I told myself. He was grieving. That was it.
And, of course, I would visit my secret vice, a cop twelve years my senior, at least every second or third day. On a Friday or a Saturday, depending upon his work schedule, I would even spend the night in his apartment. Never once had there been any sleep sex. But Gavin insisted it would happen someday, and he worried that I didn’t comprehend what I was signing up for. I assured him I would be fine. I was falling in love.
About a week before Halloween, I was almost finished with the application for Paige’s ski camp in Chile and her visa to visit the country. Our father had signed the permission forms and written the check for the down payment. A little after nine o’clock in the evening, I put my head into her bedroom and told her that I had two quick questions to wrap it up. She was lying on her back in bed in her pajamas and playing with her Game Boy.
“I’m not sure I feel like going anymore,” she told me.
I was shocked; she’d given me no hint that she was having second thoughts as we’d driven day after day to the college swimming pool. “Why not?”
“I just don’t want to.” She still wasn’t looking at me; she was focused entirely on her video game.
“You have to have a reason.”
“I have to go to school. I have to breathe”—and here she made an exaggerated gasping sound—“but I don’t have to go to Chile.”
I sat down in her desk chair. “Why did you change your mind?”
“I just did.”