“I will,” I whisper. “I’ll know.”
I collapse onto a nearby step stool. Ben drops to his knees in front of me, one hand on both of my thighs, as if he can hold me here, hold us together, keep me from drifting away.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks.
“Come with me. Tell the police about the video. Help me identify who was there.”
“I can’t. Even if Coach didn’t cut me from the team next year, how would I ever face the guys again?”
“How can you face them now?” I ask. “After what you saw them do?”
“Kate, I only want one thing. Us. Somewhere bigger. Somewhere better. We’re so close. We can have it. Together. All we have to do is get through this.”
“By lying?”
“By not saying anything. Please,” he begs.
“I can’t do that.”
Ben’s eyes fill up as I say this. “So what? I go with you to the police or you’re gonna break up with me?”
I shake my head, and a sob escapes my lips. I reach out and place my hand on his cheek. “No, Ben. I’m breaking up with you now. If you come to the police with me, then maybe we can find a way to be friends.”
He swipes at the tears rolling down his face. “But I love you, Kate.”
“Not enough,” I choke. “Not enough.”
He calls after me as I struggle down the drive on shaking legs. Learning how to walk away uses a different set of muscles, new ones that I haven’t yet developed. The task is slow and arduous. I force myself forward. I don’t look back.
I keep hoping he’ll run after me, but he doesn’t, and I realize that everything is past tense now.
This is how an era ends.
Iowa was once an ocean.
I was once the girl you loved.
As I crank the key in my old truck, I hear a roar to equal the engine and turn in time to see Ben ram his shoulder full force into the first of Adele’s shelving units. It teeters for a moment, then topples over onto the one behind it, sending a spray of bottles and cans, bags and blister packs in every direction. A domino effect levels the stockpile in a matter of seconds.
Sometimes, change happens over eons. Other times, in the blink of an eye.
I pull away from the curb. My final glimpse is of Ben, holding his head in his hands, weeping in the middle of the wreckage.
When I get home, Dad is out puttying and painting the trim around the front door. I’m crying so hard that I trip on one of the stairs that leads up to the porch from the driveway. Dad hurries to help me up, sitting next to me and pulling me against his shoulder.
“Hey there,” he whispers. “What’s the matter, Katie?”
I hold him tight and sob into his flannel work shirt. I want to tell him everything, to explain, somehow, that I will never be the same.
Instead, I sob the only words that I can find over and over:
I hurt my friend.
I hurt my friend.
I hurt my friend.
forty-two
THE DETECTIVE IS a woman.
I don’t know why this surprises me, but it does. She asks us if we want some water while Will turns on his laptop. I nod, and she leaves the room for a moment, returning with two white Styrofoam cups filled from the drinking fountain in the hall.
She notices me eyeing the camera mounted on the ceiling in the corner of the room. “Just a procedural thing,” she explains. “We tape all of our interviews.”
Yesterday, when I got home from Ben’s, I told Mom and Dad everything. We showed them the video. I told Dad that I knew he didn’t want us to get involved and started to explain why I had to. He stopped me with a raised hand, closed Will’s laptop, and picked up the phone to call Deputy Jennings.
I texted Ben this morning on the way to the station. I told him what time we’d be here and asked him to join us. Will and the detective start and stop their way through the video, pausing it every so often as he points out people, and she writes down their names. My phone vibrates in my hand, and I glance down at the screen, swiping open the message with my thumb to reveal Ben’s response: I love you. Please don’t go.
My eyes fill up and I hear the video come to an end.
“Any idea who this guy is?” the detective asks Will, pointing at the screen. As my brother turns to look at me, she follows suit.
“His name is Ben Cody,” I say.
“You sure?” she asks. “Just the back of his head.”
“He has a scar behind his ear.” I point it out on the screen.
The detective squints as she leans in. The closer you look, the more you see.
“Oh yeah,” she says, writing down his name. “Must know him pretty well to catch that.”
“We’ve been friends since the day I gave it to him.”
“When was that?” she asks with a smile.
“We were five.” I can’t keep the tears out of my voice. The detective looks up at me, then pulls a tissue out of a box on the table and hands it over.
“You’re doing the right thing,” she says.