Authors: Abby Wilder
"The baby."
"You haven't forgiven me," he said.
"I told you I have."
"Well, you're not acting like it. You're barely speaking to me."
"Has it occurred to you that this isn't about you?" I said, annoyed. Then I sighed deeply. "Melinda had the baby."
"Really?" Ruben seemed genuinely pleased. "So you've got a baby brother now?"
I shook my head. "A sister. And guess what they named her?" I couldn't help but smile.
Ruben shrugged.
"Blue," I said.
"Seriously?" he asked.
I nodded as Ruben smiled and reached over to place his hand on my leg, squeezing it gently. "See?" he said. "I told you it was a beautiful word."
He didn't say any more as we drove back to the house. Flynn's car was gone and Mum was packing our things into those horrible boxes. Ruben followed me inside but she looked through him at me with bleary eyes. "You can start packing up your room. Just get what you need for the next few days and we can sort the rest later on."
I walked into my room and flopped down on the bed. Ruben sat beside me as the sun fell behind us and the room grew darker.
"You love me, don't you?" he whispered into the dim light.
I didn't answer. It seemed too soon, and it the wake of Mum's recent announcement, it seemed hypocritical.
"You killed someone and you lied about it," I said quietly, knowing that I had already forgiven him.
"It was a mistake, an accident, you've got to believe me. Please Lennon, please say you believe me. I don't think I could bear it if you didn't. You're all I've got."
Instead of answering, I reached over and took his face between my hands, staring at him intently until he lowered his lips and they touched mine. It was our first true kiss, not a dream kiss, not a chaste peck, and the passion with which he kissed me was just as intense as in my dreams. I felt the familiar sensation of floating above my body, rather than being grounded in its reality, its heaviness. His hands floated down my back, hovering, barely touching. I pressed closer and his fumbling became more urgent. A low moan escaped his lips as I pressed my mouth into his neck and his hands found their way across my chest.
"No," I murmured into his ear as he became more urgent, more desperate.
"Please," he begged, and twisted his body so he leaned over me. "I need you. I need to know you believe me, that you love me, that you need me as much as I need you." He hooked his leg over mine and the lightness of my body disappeared. I felt trapped, scared and enthralled at the same time. My heartbeat thundered in my chest as panic trembled through me uncontrollably.
"No," I said, pushing him away. I had to force the word out. My throat was tight and words were hard to form. In the faint light, Ruben's eyes flashed darkly, and we sat, eyes locked on each other until the storm clouds faded and he pulled me close and rested his head on top of mine. His body quivered, but I didn't know what from.
"I believe you," I said. "But I can't do this, not now."
"I'll wait," he said hoarsely. He pressed his lips to my hair and the heat from his breath danced over my scalp. "I've got forever."
I didn't know if I was relieved by his words, or terrified.
Ruben – the previous year
I couldn't get it out of my head. Each time I managed to drift to sleep, I was taken back inside the car while it swerved over the road. And when the sickening thud reverberated through the vehicle, I would wake, my heart pounding, my stomach twisting with dread, and stumble to the bathroom where I was left waiting for the bile that never came.
I thought I saw a hand, nothing else. Fingers stretched out on the grass as though they were reaching for me. Thin fingers. Small fingers. Fingers covered in blood.
Sleep was pointless. I got out of bed and stood at the window. The rain was relentless. It fell from the sky in a blanket which hid the world. I could just make out the statue of the boy in the fountain. He smiled and stretched his hand towards me, and the bile rose at the back of my throat again. I ran to the bathroom once more, only to be left staring at my reflection in the mirror. My hair was wet, slicked with sweat. My skin was pale. I closed my eyes against the monster I saw and told myself I had imagined it. But there was that voice inside my head that wouldn't shut up, one that kept telling me I hadn't imagined it at all.
I wanted to forget. I wanted to lie down and wake up a different person. A good person. A decent person. Not a person who left another human being dying in a ditch. No, not dying, dead. She was dead. The thought startled me. She? Was it a girl? Did my eyes notice something my mind had blocked? Did I see a wisp of long hair? Or was it simply the delicate slope of her fingers?
I told myself that no one would know, that I didn't even know for sure. For all I knew, my mind was playing tricks on me. I told myself all this but the dread didn't lift. It sat heavy on my chest.
Judah knew.
I toyed with the thought of coming clean, waking Mum up and confessing what I had done, what I had seen. We would drive up and down that stretch of road countless times, finding nothing, and all my fears would be relieved. But if we did find something, it would be something I could never escape from. It would be something that could ruin my life. And I couldn't risk that.
My room was too small. I opened the window, immune to the rain and wind that blew in, and lay on my bed. From the faint light coming through the open window, I could just make out the intricate patterns carved into the ceiling. I followed the curves with my eyes, but her hand kept flashing across my mind. The grass turned black. Her skin paled. The blood thickened and deepened until it was too vivid to look at against the colourless skin.
I needed to get out of there. The air was too thick, too hard to breathe. I crept down the stairs and ran all the way to the abandoned house. I ran as fast as I could and arrived at the one room that was sheltered from the rain with my lungs screaming for air and my head pounding. But I couldn't draw in enough breath. The air was thinner, but it was too thin. I choked and her hand flashed across my mind again. Running my fingers through my hair, I tugged on the ends until the pain allowed me to breathe. I needed to get the image out of my mind. I ripped the drawing of Cara from the wall and began to scribble on the back. I didn't know what I was drawing. It was as though my fingers moved against my will. It started with a nail, chipped and broken. A thin line of blood trailing down the index finger. Skin so pale. Fingers so frail, stretching towards me. I drew until the image was gone from my mind and trapped on the paper, smudged where drops of rain had fallen from my hair. And when I couldn't look at it any longer, I turned it back over and pinned Cara's smiling face back to the wall.
I'm not sure how long I stayed out there. Minutes. Hours. But I woke in my own bed the next morning, still dressed, my hair and clothes still damp. For a moment, the briefest of moments, I forgot. Then, when I looked in the mirror, it all came flooding back. My knees buckled and I clutched the sink. It was a nightmare, I told myself. But I knew it wasn't, no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise.
I stayed in my bedroom that day, claiming illness when Mum came and knocked on my door. There were no phone calls—apart from countless missed calls from Cara, which I ignored—no reports of an accident and I began to believe the hand that lay in the grass existed only in my mind. But every time I closed my eyes it was there, haunting me.
Mum and Dad were at the breakfast table when I entered the kitchen the next morning. Mum scooped grapefruit out of its skin. Dad was reading the paper. He must have arrived home sometime during the night. Everything was normal. Neither of them looked at me suspiciously. 'Killer' was not tattooed on my forehead. It was just a dream, I told myself again.
"Is your brother up?" Dad asked, peering over the top of the paper.
I cleared my throat. I was afraid that when I spoke it would come tumbling from me, my conscience would overtake my mouth and I wouldn't be able to help my confession from pouring out. I heard it in my head. It was feeble and weak. I think I killed someone. But when I finally spoke, my voice was calm and clear and without a trace of guilt. "Not sure."
Dad flicked his paper impatiently. "Go check."
I trudged up the stairs and had just held my hand up to knock, when the phone rang. Mum's voice, still bleary from the night before, greeted the caller. But before I could hear what was said, the door opened and Judah strode out.
"Morning," I said, looking up and hoping to see something other than hatred. Judah grunted. "Look, about the other night," I started, but Judah was already halfway down the stairs.
Mum had just hung up the phone when I sat back at the table. Judah wouldn't look at me. Dad had his head shoved inside the paper. Mum was nursing a headache. Life was as it always had been. I was the only thing that was different and I wondered why they couldn't see it. Maybe it really had been just a bad dream.
"Well, that was Debbie Deacon," Mum said. She sat down at the table slowly and stared at the empty coffee cup.
Dad looked up and reached over to cover her hand. "Everything okay, love?"
She shook her head. "Lana Armistead is dead."
"How awful," Dad muttered, distracted, then he asked, "Is she okay?" at the same time Judah asked, "How?"
"Debbie said that she snuck out to go to that fireworks display down at the lake and she must have tried to walk home. Her father was working late and she was supposed to be home looking after Sara. They found her lying in a ditch late yesterday afternoon. Hit and run." Mum brought the coffee cup to her lips, forgetting that it was empty. She shook her head. "It doesn't seem real. Things like this don't happen in Puruwai."
My heart stopped beating. I looked down at the pancakes on my plate, feeling the bile threaten at the base of my throat again. The searing heat from Judah's glare burned.
"Do they know who did it?" Dad asked.
Mum shook her head. "They don't know anything yet." She got up from the table and pushed the buttons on the coffee machine. "That poor, poor, family. As if they haven't had enough to deal with. You'll have to call Cara."
For a moment I thought she was talking to me, but she was looking at Judah.
"She's dead?" Judah asked. He looked over at me and a cold sweat prickled over my skin. I kept my eyes glued to my pancakes. The coffee machine groaned in the background.
"I can't believe there is scum out there that would hit a little girl and simply drive off," Mum said. "It would have been a tourist. No local would ever consider doing such a thing."
My throat felt as if it were closing. Sweat beaded on my forehead. I got up from the table abruptly, my chair scraping loudly across the tiled floor.
By this time the coffee machine had finished its moaning, and Mum brought a fresh, steaming cup to her lips. "You've barely touched your breakfast," she said, looking at my untouched plate. She walked over, placed her hand on my forehead and frowned.
I reeled away from her touch. "I'm fine."
Mum pressed her hand to my forehead again and I did my best to stand still and smile, even though all I wanted to do was leave. "You feel clammy and you look a little pale."
I was surprised to hear myself laugh. "You worry too much. I'm fine. I just need to get to school."
"Yes, of course you do, dear." She took a sip of coffee and shook her head again. "I'll arrange for flowers to be sent over to the Armisteads today. That poor, poor family," she said again. "Apparently no one noticed she wasn't at home until late yesterday afternoon. They started a search party, but someone walking along Stone's Throw Road discovered her body before the search party even started looking. I'm surprised Cara didn't call you boys to help. You didn't hear from her yesterday?"
I thought of all the missed calls on my cell and shook my head. "I had my phone off," I muttered.
Judah sat at the table, staring at the pancakes left untouched on his plate. His breathing was shallow. If he didn't pull himself together, Mum would know something was wrong. Dad, of course, wouldn't notice.
"You coming?" I asked. He didn't reply, but stood and swung his bag over his shoulder robotically.
"You boys don't want me to drive you?" Mum asked.
I shook my head and didn't bother to point out that she would be likely to blow the bag this early in the morning. I would need to keep things as normal as possible if I were to avoid suspicion. "We'll take my car." I didn't want to be seen driving Judah's.
"Well, drive safe. That maniac might still be out there." She handed us our lunches and kissed us on the forehead, frowning again when her lips pressed against my skin. "Makes me grateful you two are safe. Did you see the girl at the party? Was she with Cara?"
"She wasn't supposed to be there," I blurted out quickly. "I mean, I found her. She was drunk. I thought Cara took her home."
"Such a pity," Mum said, shaking her head. "I can't imagine what it would feel like to lose a child. It would break me. Be safe, my boys."
As soon as we were inside the car, Judah spoke. "It was her, wasn't it?"
"No," I said. "It was a sheep. I saw a sheep." I hoped if I said it enough it would become true.
"We hit her. We killed her."
"No, we didn't!" I yelled. Then I shook my head, clearing it of the image of the hand stretching towards me that I thought I had banished. Lana's hand. "I told you it was a sheep."
"So it was just a coincidence that the same night you hit something, Lana was killed by a hit and run driver? We need to go to the police."
"No," I said, ignoring the panic that was threatening in my gut.
"No? You killed Cara's little sister!"
It surprised me how calm I was. Lana was dead, I knew that, but I couldn't do anything to fix it. It was too late. No amount of confession would bring her back. There was no point in two lives being ruined. "You don't know that."
"Well, let's just say that you didn't hit her, that it was a sheep, like you said, if we go to the police and give our statement, then at least we would have done everything we could. And if it was a sheep, like you said, the evidence will point to that. You will be cleared."
I wrapped my fingers around the steering wheel and looked over at Judah briefly. "You know they'll never believe me. Besides, I've checked the car and there's no damage. If we had hit Lana there would be damage. It was a sheep."
"Lana wasn't a big girl, probably weighed less than a sheep. And what about DNA?"
I kept my eyes glued to the road. He knew we didn't hit a sheep, and he knew I knew it too. "This isn't a crime show, Judah. If you're really worried, clean it. You always keep that car freakishly clean. Did you hear from Cara yesterday?"
He nodded. "Seven missed calls."
"Why didn't you answer?"
Judah just glared at me, then said. "If I don't say anything I'm just as guilty as you."
"You can't."
"How can I not?"
"It was your car, Judah. You've already been charged with driving while intoxicated. Who do you think they'll assume the driver was?"
"You wouldn't," he said, looking at me warily. Then he added, "What about the headlights? What if someone saw?"
I had already gone over it in my mind. I had pulled apart every fact that could catch me. "They were too far away to see anything." I pulled into the school carpark. The police were already there and their cars lined the front entrance to the school.
"Are you sure about that?" Judah asked.