Every Single Secret(54)

He was quiet.

“They took all us girls in the brown house to see a child psychologist in Macon. They brought us in, one by one, to talk to her. She asked questions about Chantal and our life at home. At the ranch and the house. She asked about Mr. Al. About . . .”

“What?”

I cleared my throat. “Apparently, the night of the camping trip, the night Chantal wandered off, he and a couple of the older girls had left their tents to go smoke weed in the woods. Chantal found them. They made her leave, and on her way back to the campsite, she lost her way.” I touched my forehead. A sharp pain had begun to stab me right behind my left eye.

“That’s terrible.”

I inhaled. “She pushed, the psychologist. She kept asking me questions. What kind of father was Mr. Al, what did he do with us at the ranch? Did he spend time alone with us? Did he find ways to get us away from Mrs. Bobbie?” I shook my head. “I was a kid, and surprisingly still pretty innocent. I didn’t understand what they were getting at. And to tell the truth, I don’t think they had anything on him other than the whole weed-smoking business. But . . .”

“They fired him.”

I nodded. “He went to prison.”

“Good God. Seriously?”

“The judge was up for reelection and needed someone to prove she was tough on drug crime.”

He waited.

“Mr. Al was an idiot for doing what he did, yes, but he loved us girls. And he was always kind to me. But everything good he did got lost in the chaos of Chantal’s accident. He was the convenient scapegoat, the one who prevented the ranch from having to deal with any major repercussions. I don’t know specifically how it all went down, but I do know that’s what happened. Believe it or not, in that whole world of child-welfare services, there’s a lot of money at stake. Plenty of winking and nodding and looking the other way. At least, there was back then.”

“Did you ever look him up? Try to find out what happened?”

I shook my head. “Even if I could find him, I don’t think I could face him. Not after what I did. It was my fault he went away.”

“It was his fucking fault he smoked weed with a bunch of minors,” Heath said flatly.

“Mrs. Bobbie left the ranch,” I went on. “And we were all redistributed—Omega, Shellie, Tré, and me. My new house was fine. Nice parents, sweet girls, and I was safe. Reasonably happy, I guess. And no one ever found out that Chantal’s death was my fault.”

He touched my face. Then he kissed me, tenderly. And as he did, I began to cry. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t stop myself. I’d finally ventured down that dark hall, pushed open the door, and told someone. The relief was enormous.

“Daphne,” he said. “Look at me.”

I did.

He held my face. “You were a child. A little girl. You couldn’t have known she was taking medication for epilepsy. And you were probably confused by the questioning about Mr. Al. Did you even understand what marijuana was?”

“I knew it was more than cigarettes that they were smoking outside the clubhouse, and I had the feeling that if Mrs. Bobbie had found out what was happening, she would have killed them. But it felt wonderful too—like a happy secret they all shared together. And I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to belong.”

I shifted on the bed. Our legs were entwined now.

“The child psychologist said if I knew anything at all about how Chantal had died and didn’t tell, I was an accessory to the crime. I didn’t know what she meant exactly, just that it sounded like Mr. Al had committed a crime, and it was possible that they could put me in jail too. I was scared. But I should’ve done the right thing. I should’ve told the truth.”

“They would’ve put you in jail. Or some hellhole of a detention. You did the smart thing.”

I sighed. “Maybe. Maybe not, I can’t know for sure. I never actually talked to a lawyer, but my understanding is, if they ruled the death a homicide, the DA could have prosecuted me as an adult. Some of these guys are known for taking a really preemptive approach with juvenile offenders. Maybe the worst they could’ve come up with was criminal negligence, but still, prison was a possibility. The fact that everybody knew I hated her. That certainly would’ve been used against me.”

“Okay, Daphne, so let’s say you wished Chantal was dead. Somewhere in your eleven-year-old brain, you understood the law of the jungle was in play—that it was either you or Chantal. So, yes, you struck first, but that doesn’t make you a criminal, it makes you a survivor.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. It definitely makes me a liar.”

“Not anymore. You just told me everything.”

I swallowed, feeling something delicately reaching a balance between us. Then he smiled.

“Daphne.” He lifted his eyes to meet mine. “I want to be involved in this. I want to be with you. Everywhere you are. That’s why I am alive. The only reason.”

“You really mean that, don’t you?” I whispered.

He nodded. “And we will be safe together, no matter what we meant to do or not do. No matter what we’ve done. We will be always us.”

I bit my lip.

“Say it.”

“Always us.”

He pressed his lean body against mine, and I felt his lips on mine, his tongue in my mouth. I closed my eyes. The room was warm and dark, and I let myself relax against him. I imagined the protective armor I’d always worn falling off me, joints breaking, pieces of metal clanking to the ground. I felt the distance between us evaporating, its dense black form shrinking until there was nothing left. I watched it go—sensed it going, rather—without a shred of remorse. It was easy to let Heath come close now. An easy, beautiful, shining thing to lie next to him and be fully known.