Page 48 of Marked

Mom’s right, the toilet is running. After lifting the lid of the tank, I find the problem and untangle the thin chain. Problem solved. “See. The little thingy.” I turn around with a wide smile, but Zack’s not behind me. He’s pushed the door to my old bedroom open to step inside, and my mother’s voice carries out from inside.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice issharp, coming through the answering machine still attached to the phone I had in my room as a teenager.

I lean against the doorframe of my bedroom. She hasn’t touched it since I moved out after college. And she never let me change it during high school. After Quinn was gone, she wanted everything in the house to stay still. Unchanging.

The therapist she dragged me to suggested the familiarity might be good in order to get my memory back. And Mom did anything the doctors told her would help me.

Even while going through the worst event of her life, and dealing with guilt, and pain, and horror, she was always there, carrying around a safety net beneath me. If I fell, Mom was there to catch me.

Sometimes, realizing how horrible it was for her makes my own guilt worse. But I can’t tell her that. I won’t be the cause of any more of her pain.

“Mrs. Turner. After your daughter’s death, you managed to pay off all of your debts. It totaled well above three-hundred thousand dollars,” the caller on the other end of the line says.

“Well,” my mom scoffs. “The community came together to help me. There were donations.”

“Yes, I found that in my research. But the donations weren’t enough to pay–”

“Why can’t you leave us alone? My daughter was murdered for Christ’s sake! And you want to dig it all up again? Just leave us alone!” my mother yells and slams the phone down.

I bring my gaze to Zack, who’s watching me.

“I fixed the toilet.” I turn away from the room. He follows me out, shutting my door quietly and crossing the small hallway to Quinn’s room.

“Zack, wait.” I try to stop him, but he’s already inside.

I step in behind him.

My heart aches at the scene.

She’s done nothing in here.

The bedding Quinn slept on is still on the unmade bed. A rocking chair is the only addition to the room.

“Mom sits in here sometimes,” I say, lightly pushing the rocking chair until it starts to move. It creaks as it sways.

“She’s kept it clean.” Zack wipes a finger over the dresser.

“Harley?” Mom drops my name behind me like a hammer through the wood flooring. “Honey, what are you doing in Quinn’s room?” She hurries inside and steps in front of Zack, who is standing next to Quinn’s desk. Her journal sits opened to the last page she was writing on.

“Who was on the phone?” I ask. She’s distracted with us being in this holy place, she might actually give me the truth.

“A reporter. Please. please, get out.” She spreads her arms and shoos us from the room.

Once in the hallway she pulls the door closed, leans her forehead against it, and closes her eyes. We’ve tainted the room for her.

“What reporter?”

She spins around, pressing her back to the door, as though to protect the precious space from us.

“You know how they get this time of year.” Her pale blue eyes land on me.

I nod. “I do. I’m sorry, Mom.”

She takes a deep breath and pushes on a brave front. I’ve seen her do this so many times over the years, it’s not really necessary anymore.

“Did you fix the toilet?” She moves to the bathroom and leans in. “Thank you, hun.”

“No problem. It was just the chain. Do you want me to show you again?” I offer, but she shakes her head.

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