Blindness(89)

Trevor rented a car from the airport, and I can tell he’s a little nervous about leaving it here unattended. “I’ll just follow you guys,” he says, mumbling to himself as he walks away. I know he’s loath to leave Cody and me alone, but I’m so grateful for these few minutes I have with him.

We get in the truck, and I buckle my belt and reach over to touch his leg, right where I saw his scar. I lay my hand flat on it, letting it fall heavy onto him, and he looks at it, sucking in his bottom lip, before he puts his hand on top and strings his fingers through mine, locking us together. He brings my hand up to his mouth and kisses the palm.

“I’m so sorry, Charlie,” he says, and I know he is. Cody may be the only other person on earth who can understand what I’m feeling right now. We both lost our fathers—our idols, the molds for these adults we’ve become.

I take a deep breath and hold it in, closing my eyes and searching for my bravery.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I admit, my throat shaking with my fear.

“You can. And I’ll be right here,” Cody says, squeezing my hand tightly.

Trevor’s honking behind us now, his arm rested along the wheel, and his face disgusted. I scoot a few inches away from Cody so Trevor sees the distance between us from his view through our back window, but I keep his hand in mine, my grip tight.

The drive to the precinct is short, and we’re inside asking the front security officer for Brian. I’m a little surprised when he rounds the corner—his hair is white, and his belly is fat. I haven’t seen him in a little over three years, but he seems a decade older. His smile warms the closer he gets to me, and I can’t help but feel a little joy in seeing him.

“Kiddo,” he says, his usual toothpick hanging from the corner of his mouth, dusting the bottom of his thick mustache.

I fold into his arms naturally, hugging him tightly and holding on.

“You can do this,” he whispers in my ear, and I squeeze him a little tighter, not sure that I can.

“I hope so,” I say, my throat closing as my nerves creep up on me.

I pull away from him, but keep my arm wrapped around his back while I stand at his side. “Brian, this is Trevor and Cody…” I say, trailing off a little unnaturally, not sure what to call either of them at this point. I realize at that moment Trevor’s ring is still tucked in my pocket.

“We’re here to offer our support,” Cody says, stepping in to shake Brian’s hand. I see Trevor stiffen defensively when Cody speaks, and he’s reaching his hand in now, too.

“Yes, sir. I’m a clerk at federal court in Washington, so please let me know if there’s anything I can do…to help Charlie,” he says, trying to show off his credentials. I shrink a little, embarrassed for him when I see how amused Brian is by him. Trevor’s so out of his element in Louisville—Brian’s from a camp of guys who take care of business by shooting cans out behind old man Wheeler’s barn. But he’s nice to Trevor, smiling and thanking him for his assistance before turning to me and rolling his eyes.

I follow Brian up a flight of stairs, and we go down a narrow hall to a small room with the lights off. I know this room—I’ve been in here before. And every time, I’ve failed. I haven’t been here since high school, but the chairs are the same. The posters on the wall, with clever safety messages—all the same. And I know the protective glass in front of me is the same, too—but I let Brian explain it all again anyhow, because I like hearing it, and it calms my nerves.

Another officer comes in to get Trevor and Cody, to take them into a side office across the hall. I know the drill—there will be a team of officers in here, along with the chief, who again, is a longtime friend of Mac’s. The prosecutor’s office will send someone down, too, just to witness and make notes, shoring up their case. From this point forward, I know I have to be careful of my words—and I have to be sure…of everything!

The men walk in slowly. I start at their feet—I always do. Jeans, slacks, sweats, all on top of white tennis shoes. Dirty sweatshirts, jerseys, and sometimes an over-sized button down—it all feels the same, like I’m replaying this scenario, over and over. I suck in my top lip and breathe in the stale air, which almost makes me gag.

I move to their faces; I’ll know if this entire trip is pointless in seconds. I start at the left and work my way through them all. The first one is almost comical, his cheeks round and rosy—I can tell they just grabbed him off the streets or from the local pub. Number two is about 30 years too old, and the guy next to him is about 15 years too young.

He’s next.

I can almost sense it before I get to him, like I’m purposely avoiding looking, like I’m saving him for last. I swear he can see me through the glass, his eyes forward and lacking focus, but directed at me. He looks f*cking high off his ass, just like he did the night he shot Mac. The right side of his face is covered in pockmarks, and his lips are pink and puffy. His blonde hair is shaved—it was longer then—but I can see the earring, the same small silver hoop he wore that night. There’s a cross tattoo on the left side of his neck and marks all over his arms. His T-shirt drapes on his skinny body, and his jeans are sagging below his butt, held up by a belt that he has to tie.

My fingers are digging into the wood grain of the table, and I want to bust through the glass and choke the life from him, feel him slip away at my hands, make him pay for taking my father away from me.