“Do the police want to talk to me?”
She scrunched up her mouth like she’d eaten a lemon. “Why would the police want to do that?” Maybe Dad hadn’t told her.
“Because of what I saw. Last night. In her yard.”
“No. I don’t think that’s a good idea.” And then she gave me her end-of-discussion look and started scrubbing the already clean countertops. And as she scrubbed at a particularly elusive but nearly invisible spot, her scrubbing slowed. The circles grew smaller. She looked out the back window and seemed to be thinking of something unrelated to water spots.
She dropped her cloth and turned slowly to face me as I rummaged through the pantry. “Delaney?”
“Hmm?” I responded, mouth full of pretzel.
“Don’t tell anyone about last night.”
“Why?” I said, spewing crumbs, but Mom didn’t seem to notice.
“Just . . . don’t.” And then she left her rag on the counter and the crumbs on the floor and stood at the front window, watching the scene unfold down the street.
Dad came home way before dinner in a very un-Dad-like move. There was a lot of whispering and slamming of cabinets while I attempted to teach myself the last two weeks of precalculus. It wasn’t going well.
There was a knock at my door and both my parents came in and sat on my bed. I spun my desk chair around. “We want to talk about last night, honey.” Mom looked to Dad for reinforcement.
“Okay.”
“What were you doing at Mrs. Merkowitz’s house?”
“Nothing. I just saw something, so I went to see what it was.” And my brain itched and my fingers twitched and I just had to be there.
Mom and Dad exchanged a bit of mental telepathy. I could guess what they were saying. At two in the morning? In her pajamas?
“Your father says . . .” Mom cleared her throat. “Your father says you were staring at the house. At the windows.”
“I don’t . . . I wasn’t . . .”
“Is there something you want to tell us, Delaney?” Dad ran his fingers through his hair, but it didn’t move. It was solidified in gel. “It’s okay. You can tell us anything. We won’t be mad.”
“I saw something. I already told you.” I didn’t know what else they were trying to get me to say.
“Look.” Mom threw her hands in the air. “Did you open her windows?”
“Did I what?”
“Her windows. They were open. They were all unlocked, but only her bedroom windows were open. And you were there. So did you do it?”
“No!” I pushed my chair back, grinding it into the wood of my desk. “Why would I do that?”
“Maybe she doesn’t remember,” Dad whispered.
“I’m not deaf.”
He turned to me. “Maybe you don’t remember. And that’s okay. We don’t blame you. It’s not your fault. You’ve been having hallucinations.”
“And really,” Mom interjected, “she was going to die anyway.” Like that made killing her acceptable.
“I didn’t do it,” I repeated.
“Okay, honey, okay. You’re going to be okay. You’re safe. We’ll make sure of it.”
When they left my room, the tears came. From anger. From frustration. From rage. I didn’t do it. I would’ve remembered opening the windows. I would’ve remembered killing someone. I would know. I would.
And then I remembered the last time someone tried to keep me safe. They bound my wrists to the bed. I felt nauseous. I stumbled down the steps with one arm over my stomach and ran out the front door without grabbing my coat. “Delaney, wait,” Dad called, but I was already gone.
My head was down so I didn’t see what I ran into three feet out the door. “Nice to see you, too.” I winced from the blast of cold air. “Hey, you okay?” I looked up at Decker. “Oh, shit, not okay.” He pulled me across our yards into his house, which had the same layout as mine but was all hardwoods and exposure instead of carpeting and warmth.
We stood just inside the front door. Decker had his hands rammed deep in the pockets of his jeans, which was the only thing I was looking at because I was too mortified to look at his face. Like Decker, I wasn’t much of a crier.
“Okay,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “This might make you mad, but I’m going to do it.” I watched as he shuffled forward, opened his arms, and pulled me into his chest. He held me tentatively, like he knew he was breaking my no-hugging rule, but then I kind of collapsed into him and his arms tightened around my back.
“They think I’m crazy,” I whispered into his chest. “They don’t trust me.”
“They’re just scared,” he said. I heard him both through his chest and from his mouth. And then I heard his steady heartbeat quicken. “I was scared,” he added.
I closed my eyes and felt the last of my tears slide down my face. I took comfort in Decker’s arms and his chest and his scent, the leather from his coat and the spicy soap he’d used since he was twelve. When I didn’t respond, Decker cleared his throat and said, “You’re not going to puke on me, are you?”
I pulled back and looked at him. My face was two inches, maybe three, from his own. I could just lift myself onto my toes and I’d be kissing him. I could just pull his face down to my own and his lips would be on mine. He could’ve done the same thing. He could’ve lowered his head two, maybe three, inches and been kissing me. He could’ve put his hand under my chin and tilted my head upward and brought his lips to mine. But he didn’t. So I lowered my head and stepped back out of his embrace.
I looked out the side window and saw Decker’s mom pull into the driveway.
I let out a deep breath and reached for the doorknob. “Hey, Decker. Thanks for getting me out of the lake.”
He grimaced. “You mean thanks for making you fall in, right?”
“Yeah, you’re right. You were a total jerk that day. But you didn’t leave me, so I forgive you.”
“I did leave you,” he whispered.
“But you came back.” I stepped out into the cold, and Decker just watched me go, his lips pressed together, his hands back in the pockets of his jeans. I pulled the door shut behind me.
“Hi, Delaney,” Decker’s mom called as I stomped across our yards. I waved but kept moving. “How are you feeling?” she asked, louder this time. She shut the car door and leaned against it, pulling her wool coat tight around her suit.
I turned to face her, but kept walking backward toward my house. “Great. Good. I’m fine.” Then I spun around and walked up my front steps.
I prepared myself for another round of confrontation at home, but my parents acted like nothing happened. Mom got the lasagna ready, and Dad read the paper. At the dinner table, I listened to Dad regurgitate numbers and Mom divulge the neighborhood gossip (Martha Garner’s unwed daughter was pregnant and her son called his engagement off—a tragedy on both fronts). Nobody mentioned the fact that they thought I hallucinated a shadow and couldn’t remember opening windows at two in the morning and most likely led to the premature (but only slightly) death of our neighbor.
I thought they had reconsidered our conversation until Mom came up the stairs with a steaming cup of hot chocolate. I closed my math textbook and stuck my calculator in the top desk drawer.
“Thanks,” I said.
She put the mug on a cork coaster and placed another pill beside it. “To help you sleep,” she said. And then she stood there and watched me. She rubbed her hands on the sides of her khaki pants and said, “And to make sure you’re rested for exams Monday.” Clever Mom.
I placed the pill in my mouth and sipped the hot chocolate. I smiled at her until she left my room.