Everything We Didn't Say(96)

“What are you talking about?” With one hard heave, Sullivan thrusts me away from him so he can look into my eyes. “Who’s dead?”

But I don’t even have to answer. I can see the moment the truth clicks into place. “Oh my God,” Sullivan says, and slams back against the side of the truck, one hand in his hair.

“Who did this?” I ask, thinking for one unreal moment that he knows, that he’ll tell me and make sense of this tragedy and ensure that everything will be okay. But Sullivan is already shaking his head. Another thought takes stubborn hold. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you all day. Not since the pancake breakfast. I called and called. I texted… What have you been doing?”

It’s like he doesn’t hear me. Now both hands are in his hair and he’s bent over, angling toward the ground as if soon I will be the one who’ll have to lift him out of the dirt.

“Get up!” I shout, because I’m scared and in shock and all at once very, very angry. “Get up!”

Sullivan stands and looks at me as if I’m crazy. Maybe I am.

“Where were you?” I want to shake him. I’m thinking, If you would’ve been there, everything might have been different. I know that’s not fair, but I’m past logic, and all my rage is suddenly directed at the man I love.

“With my brothers,” he says numbly. “All day. I couldn’t leave them, not knowing that today…”

Was the day. We knew that. It was really all we knew, but history had shown us a pattern of small infractions—kid stuff—and we had been lulled into a false sense of security. Or maybe we were so caught up in each other we couldn’t see the warning signs. In my wildest dreams I could have never imagined this.

“What did you do, Sullivan?”

“Nothing, June. I swear to you.”

I step toward him and lay my hand over his heart. He softens.

“We drank,” he admits, and up close I can see his eyes are glassy and bloodshot. “We shot trap. Jonathan was with us for a lot of the day.”

“And then what happened?”

“Some of us went to the Pattersons’ party.”

You? The question is in my eyes; I don’t even have to voice it.

Sullivan gives his head an almost imperceptible shake. “When it got dark, I drove with Wyatt to the Murphys’ farm. I didn’t want to let him out of my sight.”

My pulse cartwheels.

“Wyatt shot out the floodlight.”

I can’t help it, my hand bunches Sullivan’s T-shirt as I hold on for dear life.

“Cal must’ve heard the shot because he came running outside. He went for his truck. I think he was going to grab his gun.” Sullivan inhales hard, steadies himself. “So we drove away. I don’t know if Cal got a make and model on the truck, or even if he called the police. No one showed up at the farm, anyway. I convinced Wyatt to lay low for the rest of the night because if Cal saw us, he had us dead to rights.”

“Did Wyatt go back? Sterling? Dalton?” Each name spills off my tongue, barely a whisper.

“I don’t know. I’ve been driving around, trying to figure out how to tell you, how to make this all right. I was thinking about going to the police station and confessing to what we had done.”

“Shooting out a light?” My head feels gritty, my thoughts wrapped in knots. “I don’t get it.”

“That was just the beginning. The plan was to go back later and set the roadside stand on fire.”

I should be stunned. Horrified, even. But in light of everything I’ve seen, the image of the quaint roadside stand ablaze is almost frivolous. It could be rebuilt. Insurance money would have probably allowed the Murphys to design something even bigger and better. But nothing can fix their bodies broken on the ground.

“They figured they could get away with it if it happened on the Fourth. An errant firework, a drunk drive-by…” Sullivan trails off, and I carefully peel my fingers from his shirt. Step back.

“They’re dead,” I tell him again, unnecessarily. The haunted look in his eyes assures me he knows. “Somebody shot them. I was there.”

“Oh, June.” Sullivan raises a hand and touches my cheek, running the tip of his finger along my jawline before I turn my head away.

“Did you…?” I ask, hating myself for having to voice something so vile.

“Of course not.”

“Do you know who did?”

“No.”

His voice is steady when he says it, but there’s something closed off in his gaze. I don’t know if I believe him. And yet, what choice do I have?

A peal of thunder cracks the night, and a swift wind lifts my hair off the back of my neck to whip it around my shoulders. The temperature drops a couple of degrees as the storm finally reaches the place where we’re standing. I’m shaking uncontrollably, and when Sullivan crosses the space between us and gathers me in his arms, I let him.

“We were here,” I tell him. “That’s our story. We met up at our farm: you, me, and Jonathan. We watched the fireworks from the bed of Jonathan’s truck. And then you went home. I went inside to shower. And Jonathan heard the gunshots.”

“He’s there now?” Sullivan asks, and I can tell that he’s crying.