threaten as my phone sounds out. Sniffling, I pull myself together.
Cody’s called. Multiple times.
My sister’s called but she didn’t leave a voicemail.
No one else. So I don’t think she’s gotten home yet. She hasn’t made the discovery or called the cops. In the mindset of supporting my story, I should turn off my phone. And so that’s what I do right now. I hold down the button on the side until the screen turns black, shutting out the world and hiding. Just for one night.
And what about tomorrow? It’s Cody’s voice that questions me. The guilt of it squeezes like a vise around my chest.
I can’t tell him anything. Not any part of the truth. I can lie to the police all day, I can turn an interrogation into a children’s story. But Cody? He’ll see through it all, and I can’t confess to him.
The one person I want to talk to is the one who’s gotten away with murder—the one I need to make sure I don’t lose my mom too.
I help my mother brush her hair when she’s finally out of the bathroom and lying down on the bed. I brush her hair like she used to do for me.
When her chest falls and rises steadily, and I know she’s sleeping, I stand on weak legs. I clean it all up, tossing the clothes at the bottom of the tub, and rinsing them down.
I let them soak before tossing them out. There’s no reason to keep them, but if somehow they’re found, they’ll at least be clean of residue.
When I get back into the room, well after midnight with new clothes from the 24/7 Walmart two towns over, there’s a faint knock on the wall.
Knock, knock, knock knock knock … knock, knock.
Like a child. Like I used to do with my sister in the house and my father when he went up to the old barn.
As I get closer to it, the sequence comes again.
Knock, knock, knock knock knock …
I hesitantly reach out my hand and respond: knock, knock.
Marcus
I woke up to the soft cries of the boy who was huddled in the corner opposite of mine in the cell.
I know what that means and I swallow the jagged rock lodged in my throat that seems to block my voice.
It took a long time for either of us to speak. We’ve been here for … at least a week together, but he was here longer. I don’t know how long and I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to remind him of the first time.
I can trace every outline of my ribs. It tickles slightly when I do it and yesterday I did it so much the skin on my right side feels raw and still tingles when anything brushes against it. Sleep takes up most of the day and night. It’s easier to sleep now than it was before. The first few days I was terrified they’d come if I closed my eyes, but now I know they barely come at all. Unless we do something against the rules, they stay upstairs and forget about us. That’s what I pray for, for them to forget about us, even if that means we don’t eat for days.
The soft sound of his throat clearing comes with a hollow look. There’s a darkness around his eyes; I’m certain mine must mirror his.
“Do you think they’re gone?” he whispers and I nod although I don’t make the nod too obvious. They have cameras to keep an eye on us and they don’t like us talking. They let the dogs in if we talk. I don’t want to see the dogs. He knows that. I’m certain he does.
It’s so quiet that I can hear when his head thuds against the wall. Looking in his direction, his eyes are closed and he looks as tired as I feel. But more than that, he’s terrified.
“How did you get here?” I ask just to say something to distract him from his own mind, but I hate the unspoken follow-up question that begs to be asked.
“I was walking home from school,” he says and as he answers his pointer finger draws on the cement. From the other side of the cell, I can’t see what he’s tracing.
“Where do you go to school?”
“I don’t know the name but my teacher is Miss Harrow. She teaches the kindergarteners.”
He’s younger than me. I almost ask him how old he is and what his name is, but the door