We Told Six Lies(74)

I have to call my mother. I have to know why I hurt my own brother. And I can’t get to Molly without a vehicle or knowing where the house is.

And so I crouch behind our neighbor’s fence across the street, dial our home phone, and cringe when my mom answers.

I can hear it in her voice right away.

She knows what I did at the station.

Hell, cops are probably in the house with her.

“Mom,” I say, “I know what happened.”

“Cobain? Cobain, where are you? Why did you take that man’s gun? Don’t do anything with it, okay? Tell me where you are.”

“I know what I did to Holt,” I say.

My mom doesn’t respond. I listen for someone to tell her to keep talking, but I don’t hear anything. What’s more, I don’t see anyone, either.

“Cobain, what are you talking about?”

“I know he wasn’t there,” I yell, and then remember that I’m too close to the house to chance being so loud. I duck behind some bushes and see my mother standing in the window. My heart clenches at the sight of her. I want her to hug me so badly. To tell me everything will be okay. I wonder how it felt to watch her only son fight someone who wasn’t there. To listen to conversations held with ghosts. How painful must it have been?

My mom covers her mouth with her hand.

“I know I kept him in my head because I couldn’t handle the truth.”

My mom’s head drops. “It was so hard. Pretending. Trying to play along. Your doctor told us we should, but it was so hard, baby. We didn’t know if you’d ever remember the truth of what happened. And then Holt finally started going away, and we thought…we could just move past it. Then you met Molly, and he came back.” My mom pauses. “Cobain, where are you? You need to come home. You’ve got to talk to these people and—”

Green trees.

Blue water.

White dog.

Black crow.

In the distance, a cabin.

Pressure.

And then—

A gunshot.

“I killed him, didn’t I?” I say. “I killed him at that house in the woods. I remember the house. I remember the water.”

“Killed him? You?”

The surprise in my mom’s voice raises goose bumps along my arms.

“Oh, Cobain, you didn’t kill your brother. You didn’t even try to hurt him. You were just playing around like you always did, and he got upset. He jumped on top of you and…he started to…” My mom’s voice breaks. “His hands were around your throat, and we couldn’t get him off you, and so your daddy…he had his gun with him and…”

My mom cries again, and I put the pieces together.

My father’s unrelenting hope in me. His unwavering belief that he had to kill one son to protect the other. And that I was worth the sacrifice.

“It was Dad,” I say.

“What?” my mom gasps. “No. No one killed Holt, Cobain. He’s still alive.”

Her words slam into me. Nearly take me to the ground.

Holt is alive.

Holt is out there.

“We had to put him in a facility to help him,” my mom continues. “We didn’t have a choice. He was never… It was hurting all of us.”

“Mom,” I say, so quietly I almost can’t hear my own voice. “When is the last time you saw him?”

Mom vanishes from the window, and it takes a moment for her to answer, her words swimming in tears. “It’s hard to visit him. It’s just so hard. I have to keep myself busy so I don’t—”

She breaks off in a sob, and I nearly drop the phone.

“Mom, where is the lake house we used to go to?

“Aunt Nancy’s house?” she asks. “Cobain, where are you? You need to come—”

“Where is the house, Mom?”

“I…I can’t…” She thinks to herself. “Woodling Road? No, Woodbine. In Reading. Is that where—”

I hang up and race toward the house, keeping low.

I know what lies inside that garage.

I roll open the door as quietly as possible, moving faster than I ever have, and see a black truck inside.

Holt’s truck.

No, my truck.

I jump inside, find the keys in the ignition, and barrel from the garage and onto the road. Only five minutes pass before I see and hear the red lights behind me. It doesn’t matter. They’ll never find the place before I do. A drive that should take twenty minutes or more takes only ten. Houses whip by through my windows, giving way to trees arching over an ever-thinning road.

Two lanes narrow to one.

Pavement morphs into dirt.

A cloud kicks up from my tires as I jam my foot down to the floor, and the officer behind me gives chase. That cop will soon turn into two. Or three. Or a dozen. I have to lose him before that happens.

I wait until it’s almost too late to make the turn and then hit the brake and slide to the left until my tires catch. Then I’m off.

The officer has to stop and back up, but he’s on me again. His lights flash, his siren wails, and I realize with a sinking feeling that I might not outrun him. That I haven’t been here in years and may miss the turns myself.

But, no, as I get closer, I’m recognizing things.