The Break(85)

I’m not.

Gabe’s mother is there, her back against the hallway’s chintzy wallpaper, just out of sight. I hear her shuffle before I turn to see her.

I take in a quick breath. I don’t say anything. We just stare at each other.

“What are you doing here?” I ask when I can find my voice.

“Waiting for you, June,” she says. Her knotty, pale hands are woven together like she’s praying.

I want to leave, to race down the staircase or run past her and catch the elevator, but I’m still too drunk for this night—my limbs don’t feel sharp enough to cooperate with my escape ideas.

She moves toward me—just a step at first.

“I have nothing to say to you,” I snap. I figure I’ll try to move past her to the elevator. She’s not saying anything, and even though she’s the tiniest thing, the hallway is narrow enough that her standing there makes it too awkward for me to just brush past. So I stay; I wait. I almost consider apologizing for what I said in the apartment about how unhelpful she is with her crying, but then she says, “June, let me tell you what you’re going to do,” and I laugh, I can’t help it—it’s so absurd.

“I’m not doing anything you say,” I spit out, and now I’ve pissed her off again. Her lip curls, and she comes even closer. This time she extends her pointer finger. “I’ve known girls like you,” she says.

“Girls like me?” I repeat, and now I’m pissed, too. “You’ve never known anyone like me, Elena,” I say. I stand up taller, dwarfing her, but she keeps coming toward me, and then she says, “Oh, trust me, June, little actress girls like you are a dime a dozen.”

“Leave me alone,” I say, backing up, because now I do feel like a little girl again, powerless beneath her stare.



“Oh, see, that’s where you’re wrong,” she says, her voice so eerily dark. “You’re going to leave them alone. You’re not going to see Rowan, Gabe, or Lila ever again. I see the way you look at them, like you want to be a part of them. I watch you, June. I don’t know if you’re in love with my son or in love with Rowan or in love with the entire idea of being a part of their broken little family.” She considers me, her red-rimmed eyes roving my face. “What is it, June? Was your family broken, too? Daddy left? Mom drank too much? I can see it in you,” she says.

I stagger back toward the staircase, my hips against it. “Leave me alone, you bitch,” I say, because I can’t think of a single thing more creative to hurl at her. I step toward Elena so I can get out of here. “Get out of my way,” I snarl.

She doesn’t.

“If I ever see you back here—” she says.

“You’ll what?” I ask. “I’m not leaving them.”

“You’ll ruin them,” she says. I shake my head and start to say that I won’t, but she’s coming at me. “Stay away from them,” she practically shouts.

“Make me,” I spit back, and she lunges.

It shocks me. Her hands are on my shoulders, digging in. “Get off of me,” I hiss, and I’m trying to squirm away, but she just squeezes harder. I turn around as fast as I can and I’m almost sure she’s letting go of me, but then I realize she’s lost her footing, and the second she regains it she’s upon me again, and I don’t want to hurt her but I need to get her off me, and then I’m shoving her away and her elbow catches me in my ribs and we twist and turn and I go back, my spine against the railing, and then over and over and I’m backward and she’s beneath me and then there’s the sound of bone against the railing and I’m falling backward, curving over the rail of the staircase, my head down, down, down, time slowing all around me, the cold tile of the basement blurring, coming up to meet me, until I can feel the very first bone go crack.





FORTY-EIGHT


Rowan. Friday night. November 11th.


Outside my apartment building in the cold air, the detective stares at Harrison, Gabe, and me like we’ve all done it to June, like we’re the reason she’s on a stretcher about to be loaded into a body bag. He must know it was one of us who killed her, because who else? But then he says, “Gabe, have you spoken with your mother since Tuesday night?” He holds up a hand. “And before you lie to me again, I know June came to see you on the night she was most likely attacked right inside your apartment building.” He turns to Harrison then, too. “Cozy little group you all are,” he said. “We saw you all on the security camera, you know.” Back to Gabe. “Your mother, Elena, comes in around seven, and then out in a huff a bit before eleven. There’s blood on your mother’s coat; it’s obvious even from the security footage. Can’t wait to get my hands on that coat, to test the DNA. Is she a violent woman, your mother?”

Gabe’s brown eyes widen. “What?” he asks.

“Your mother?” the detective repeats. “Has she ever been violent with anyone?”

Gabe goes ashen. More people surround us now, a crowd of onlookers, drawn to the tragedy like to a magnet; they seem to press up against us, watching, waiting, seeing us. The diners from the restaurants hold hands and to-go bags, huddling on the corner in heavy coats and solemn faces.

I reach out my hand and squeeze Gabe’s.