Page 38 of Absolution

I sigh deeply. “Are you gonna question that too? Does that make me more or less suspicious?”

He waves his large hands in the air. “You are not suspected of anything. Not anymore. Ray’s death has been ruled an accident, so the investigation is closed. I just don’t understand all the lies. You said you were married, you said you didn’t know who the father was.”

I chew on my lower lip and think on the answer for a while. “Life has taught me to be careful, Officer Tremblay. I have a hard time letting people in.”

“There’s a difference between people and people, Miss Jackson. And lying to the police is never wise.” I flinch when I feel his hand on mine, calloused, gigantic on my tiny, claw-like hand. “You have something beautiful there,” he nods at Cece, “and whoever he is, he’s gone. You are finally free.”

I look at Cecilia, then out the window. Am I? Then why doesn’t it feel that way? I know what he says is true. I just don’t know why it doesn’t feel like a relief, but… empty.

Our things are packed, some toiletries, and a few clothes Mrs. Anderson kindly brought for us. The sheets have already been removed from our beds. Cece is playing on the floor with some borrowed toys and we are waiting for the doctor to release us.

There’s a knock on the door but it isn’t the doctor. It’s Officer Tremblay. He holds a bag in his hand and drops it on the bed as he remains standing. Cecilia looks up and regards him curiously, then she seems to decide he isn’t what she was looking for and continues with the doll and the plastic yellow truck. Tremblay pats her head and shuffles his feet, looking awkward, uncertain.

“I heard they’re letting you go,” he finally states.

I smile briefly and nod.

“I brought your journals. I thought you might want them. They’re all there.” He gestures to the bag.

I clear my throat. “Thank you.” I don’t know if I even care about them. They’re just words on paper. Sad words on crumpled paper. I know what they say. I was there.

“You… You should find someone to talk to. You’ve been through a lot.”

I scoff bitterly. Maybe Chloe, maybe not. There’s nothing I can tell anyone.

“So… where are you going to go, Miss Jackson?”

I look out the window, at the falling snow; the dusky day is grey, sad and suddenly I long intensely for warm yellow sand and bright days by the sea. “I hate the cold,” I whisper.

“I’m sorry?”

Startled to find I still have a visitor, I realize he asked me a question. I look back out again. “Home,” I croak.

Then I clear my throat.

“Home. We’re going home.”

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