Letters to Nowhere(80)

When I pulled up to Tony’s house, a tall, half–bald man was climbing out of a Lexus in the driveway. He pulled out a key and unlocked the door, so I had to assume this was Tony’s dad, the plastic surgeon.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I’m here to see Tony,” I said.

His face brightened. “Oh! Great.”

Uh oh, sorry, Tony’s dad. I’m not his girlfriend. He likes boys. “I can wait here. Just tell him Karen’s here?”

He ushered me into foyer despite my protest. “Tony! You have company.”

Tony came charging down a staircase, carting a red duffle bag. “Hey, Karen, got those CDs you wanted.”

“Great.” I took the bag from his hand and it felt like it actually had CDs in it.

“You kids still listen to CDs?” Tony’s dad asked.

I flashed him my judges smile in preparation for next Monday’s training camp. “School project.”

“Have you had lunch?” Tony’s dad asked me. “I was just going to make some sandwiches.”

Tony shook his head. “She’s got to go, Dad.”

“Yep,” I said, then I turned to Tony. “Thanks so much. I’ll give them right back.”

“I can pick them up tomorrow,” he said opening the door for me. “See you later, Karen. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks, Tony.”

I didn’t think it was possible to keep putting one foot in front of the other, knowing the true weight of what was in that bag, but somehow I did.

My heart never slowed all the way home and all the way upstairs to my room and while I locked the door and sifted through dozens of CDs before pulling out a large dark brown folder. I sat at my desk and opened the folder. The front cover had a piece of paper stapled to it with their names and the exact location of the accident.

My fingers shook as I removed a paper clip and held a stack of photos in my hands. The first image was of the car, our black Toyota. And it wasn’t shattered to pieces like it had been in my head. The windshield was gone completely. The top of the car was crushed and the driver’s side caved in. I flipped to the next picture and gasped when I saw my father lying in the grass, his face and head bloody, paramedics all around. The next image was my mother in the grass, and she had blood all over her leg and her side.

Tears dripped onto the folder. It was so horrible and unfathomable to see them dead. Actually dead. They were pronounced dead on the scene. I remembered the police officer who had come to Blair’s house that night saying those exact words. I laid the images side by side and stared at them for what felt like forever, and the tears that continued to fall were nothing but relief. There were no pieces, no limbs strewn in the grass. They were whole people. Whole people who had died a horrible and probably painful death, but holy crap had it looked so much worse in my head.

And God, I missed them. So much.

I felt dizzy with this new sensation of lightness. I had to put my forehead down on the desk for a minute. Sweat pooled on the metal surface as I breathed in and out. When I was finally able to raise my head again, I stuck the photos back under the paper clip and removed a stack of papers. My eyes scanned the page on top—a printed e–mail.


Henry,




I agree with you a hundred percent that discretion is key in this situation. Jason Campbell was a good friend and he helped our detective team put many deserving individuals in prison. As I told you last night at the hospital, the elevated blood alcohol levels of the Campbells could be kept out of the media, assuming we were able to determine there are no other victims. At this time, the police department has been unable to find any other faults or damage other than to the Campbells and their vehicle, therefore we will be able to honor the request and not release the autopsy results to the media.




If you could notify the child’s grandmother and head of Jason Campbell’s law firm to let them know of the decision that would be very helpful, as I have received similar messages from each of them.




Thank you,

Kennedy Nelson

St. Louis Police Chief




Chief Nelson,




I’m just following up on our conversation last night. I can’t stress enough how important discretion is in this situation for Karen Campbell and for the members of the community who knew the Campbells. Please let me know as soon as possible if the department has found any cause for releasing the accident details to media outlets.




Thank you,

Henry Bentley




There was nothing in the entire world that could have prepared me for reading those pages. Nothing. No training. No drills. No life experience. So many feelings began to boil over and I had no idea what to do with them. It was too much.

And in that instant I hated everybody in this entire folder—Chief Nelson, Coach Bentley, and most of all, my parents. I hated them with an intensity I’d never felt before. My feet moved on their own, dragging me out of the room, away from that folder and into the garage.

How could they be so careless? How could they be so irresponsible? I didn’t want any part of them touching any part of me.

I yanked open a box and threw a trophy across the garage. It hit the door with a loud clank and broke. There were two framed photos in the bottom of the box, both with me and my mom. I threw them as hard as I could into the big garage door, smashing the glass into a million pieces. I felt the first surge of relief since I’d started reading that e–mail.