The Leaving(76)

Sashor sat at a metal table.

“What are you doing here?” Lucas stepped into the room.

“I felt bad about our last chat,” Sashor said. “And I wanted to see you before you, well . . .”

Lucas took the chair across from him; it shrieked across the floor when he moved it. “Do you think I did it?”

“No.” Sashor folded his hands on the table in front of him; a thick silver band on his right ring finger. “But what I think really doesn’t matter. Do you think you did it?”

“No.” Lucas smiled. “But what I think doesn’t really seem to matter, either. This theory that I killed him and we escaped? It makes no sense. Was his corpse driving that van? Or wait, no, it was his ghost, I bet.”

“I think they’re still working out the details of that theory.” Sashor shrugged. “I get the sense they thought an arrest might shake something loose.”

“A patsy!”

“That’s a word for it,” Sashor said. “But in the meantime, I was talking to Chambers. He told me they analyzed the photos they found—the hot air balloon and carousel and all. And they found other prints from those sets, some photos of you all doing those things. Those things really happened.”

Lucas had seen some of the pictures; a detective had brought them by the holding cell that morning and Lucas—at that point the only one left in there—had asked for time with them, to study them, to see if they’d help make sense of things in a more satisfying way. But hadn’t been allowed. “I’m not even sure I care.”

“Better to come back with a happy memory than a traumatic one, though.” Sashor released his folded hands in a sudden burst.

“So I rode a carousel by the beach one day. So there are pictures of me riding a bike and holding a soccer ball and blowing out ten candles on a cake. So what?”

“Well, at least now you know it wasn’t all bad.”

“These people. Or John Norton, if you believe that theory. He doesn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt.”

Sashor sat back in his chair, then had to swipe his dreads out from behind him. “How are things with you and Scarlett?”

How best to say it?

“I was mostly remembering good things—only feeling good ones; she was remembering bad.”

Sashor smiled. “Sounds like me and most women I’ve dated.”

“When one of your girlfriends did the ‘Thriller’ dance in her underwear,” Lucas said. “Was that good or bad?”

“Ah, you assume it was her in the underwear.”

“Now I’m sorry I asked.”

Sashor smiled. “I have some serious moves.”

“I’m sure,” Lucas said. “Apparently Scarlett kissed Adam? Or at least Kristen said she remembered that happening. Under hypnosis.”

“Does Scarlett remember?”

“No,” Lucas said. “Anyway, it’s a relief that we don’t have to try to make something between us work now. It’s like being freed from inheriting a legacy I wasn’t even sure I wanted.”

“Fair enough.” Sashor nodded. “So listen, I came here to tell you what Chambers and I have been doing; and he’ll join us in a minute, like he said. What we’ve done is gone back to find other kids who were at the school shooting, kids who were only four, who were at the open house, to see how many of them remember the shooting.”

Lucas sat up straighter, leaned forward. “And . . . ?”

“And they all remember it. I could only find a sample, but it’s a significant number of kids, significant enough to give me pause.”

“Go on.” Lucas wanted the information to come faster, wished he could speed-read Sashor’s thoughts.

“It’s been bothering me from the beginning, that you could remember certain things from early childhood but not this huge event. And we were thinking, well, maybe you were there but didn’t see anything specifically horrible so it didn’t register. But there are at least a few other kids who can ID some of you from photos we showed them of you when you were young. They say you were there. All of you. They all remember the shooter, the principal, screaming, blood, awful stuff. You saw awful stuff.”

Lucas felt a darkening in his mind, spotted the distant glow of an idea.

“And the six of you were taken from school,” Sashor said. “Not from a playground. Not from home.”

This time a different kind of click-hiss and snap, like an image appearing on photo paper in rippling water in the darkroom of his mind. He said, “Erasing the shooting was the whole point to begin with?”





AVERY



School had been a disaster. Matt Rogoff had asked her how her spring break had been and she’d asked him if he ever read the news. Emma had signed Avery up for auditions and then snatched the pen away when Avery went to cross her name out. Sam had said “hey” and acted too-cool-for-school. The halls had been plastered with signs for the junior prom; she’d voted in favor of “A Time to Remember” as the theme months ago and now cringed. Alongside those signs were flyers about the shooting anniversary memorial next week. Worst of all, a note appeared in her locker: Welcome back, you evil cow.

She’d had no choice but to duck out before facing the prospect of Mr. Knopf prattling on en fran?ais for forty-five minutes.