The Break(92)

“Oh God,” Louisa says. “She told me things about Sean, how intensely protective he was of her . . . but . . .” Louisa looks down at her hands. The detective stares at her face like he’s trying to read something important there, but Louisa doesn’t say any more.

“June is nearly catatonic,” Mulvahey says. “She’s concussed and severely dehydrated, though the paramedics seem convinced she’ll make a full recovery. She may come to in the hospital and be able to tell us what happened, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she didn’t remember anything about what happened in that basement. We see it all the time.”

Sylvie nods along to the detective. “All the time,” she chimes in, looking almost reverent, and maybe she is: maybe there’s beauty in the flawed way the mind protects us.

“The wounds found on June are consistent with an attack,” the detective goes on, “and Sean received a single stab wound, likely inflicted by June in self-defense. Forensics is down there now, but it looks like June got ahold of Sean’s knife and used it once to stab him in the abdomen. He bled out, and she was too traumatized, concussed, and injured to crawl and get help. Rowan, I’d like to take you down there now to ID the body.”

The last thing I want is to see Sean dead. “I’ll do it,” I mumble.

“When June is well enough, she’ll be questioned,” the detective says.

“We shouldn’t push her,” Harrison says, an air of authority about him, clearly not afraid of the detective. “She’s obviously beyond traumatized.”

Sylvie’s nodding again. Trauma: her bread and butter.



“He could have killed her,” Harrison says. “And I feel terrible. I should have stayed with her that night rather than leave my girlfriend all alone in that building waiting for her deranged roommate to pick her up.” His face folds like he’s an actor in a play. Louisa’s staring hard at him. I’ve never heard him use the word girlfriend to describe June.

Gabe’s eyes cut to Harrison, and I can’t read his face. Harrison goes on: “I’ll be the one to take care of her. I’ll be the one who gets her back on her feet. I owe her that, at least.”

No one else says anything, and the air is too quiet between us.

“I’ll identify Sean’s body now, if you’re ready,” I tell the detective. “And then I’d like to be the one to ride with June to the hospital.”

“I’ll go with her,” Harrison says. “It should be me.”

I open my mouth to argue that that’s not right, but Gabe is already at my side, pulling me toward our building. “Let’s get this over with,” he says.





FIFTY-THREE


Rowan. Friday night. November 11th.


Down the steps Gabe and I go, following the detective. Cops bump into us on the stairs, apologizing when they see Lila against me. In the billiards room, the stench is enough to make me sick, and Mulvahey tells me the only reason it isn’t diabolically worse is because it’s been so cold down here. My eyes blur at the bright lights, crime scene tape, and the big sheets of plastic fluttering just like you see in the movies. A forensics team moves through the room like wild animals at a kill. There’s a knife in a plastic bag, and the overhead lights catch the blade and send the reflection somewhere past my retinas and deep into my brain to all my tragedies. I flash back to the knife that was used to kill my dad lying there on the bedroom floor and I think of my mother, pulling me close. I think of Lila, and what I wouldn’t do for her, and finally I can move again, across the floor, past the knife, past the pool table until I see him: huddled in the corner, slumped over himself, next to a bucket and cleaning supplies. Sean.

The forensics team slides to the side so we can move closer. Detective Mulvahey is right behind me as I stare at Sean. His round face is just as I remember it, his hazel eyes still open. I shake my head—I can hardly believe he’s lying there like that, or that he hurt June.

“It’s Sean,” I say, shaking, unable to take my eyes off him. He looks so young, like a scared little boy. Gabe’s hand is on my back, and him being there steadies me like it used to. “I’m positive,” I say, my voice stronger.





FIFTY-FOUR


Rowan. Friday night. November 11th.


Up we go into the night air. I adjust Lila’s knit cap over her ears, my fingers trembling from seeing Sean. I’m heading toward the ambulance, but they’re shutting the doors.

“No!” I cry out, picking up my pace. I can see Harrison in the ambulance, his eyes holding mine until the ambulance doors slam shut. Louisa is still outside on the street, looking stricken as Sylvie rubs her back and says something I can’t make out.

The ambulance’s engine revs and something inside of me becomes animalistic. I’m sprinting now, shoving through the crowd, pounding on the back of the ambulance. But it starts pulling away. “Wait!” I cry out. And then that same paramedic I spoke with spots me in the rearview mirror. He stops the ambulance and gets out of the driver’s door. “Get in,” he says gruffly. Gabe catches up to me. The paramedic makes his way to the back of the ambulance and starts to work the handle. He swings open the doors, and I see Harrison too close to June’s gurney, the paramedics off to the side. June seems to be more awake than before, and she looks agitated, but it’s hard to tell because the oxygen mask is over her face. Gabe climbs into the back of the ambulance first, and then he reaches out a hand and pulls Lila and me up.