Page 62 of Murder

As I follow behind him, watching his broad shoulders and the sparseness of his movements, I can almost see him on a catwalk. I look down at my ankle. I can’t even keep it straight. The foot turns slightly outward, as it has on stairs since the accident.

“Barrett?”

I don’t even mean to speak. My voice just reaches out for him.

He turns, his striking brows bunched and his lips pressed flat.

“I wanted to say thank you.”

As he nods and turns to step down the last stair, my throat thickens so much I can’t breathe.

“What do you mean just Mr. and Mrs. Wesson?”

I watch my parents exchange loaded looks. My mother shifts positions at the foot of my railed bed.

“They weren’t invited here,” she says to my father. My mother sounds defensive. Angry.

Why?

“Am I not here?” My voice sounds duck-ish—the words all rubbery and cramped. Because my mouth won’t work. They think I’m too doped up to notice, but they’re wrong. I saw it yesterday when Jamie helped me to the bathroom.

I lick at it and the numbness there spreads to my chest.

“Sit back.” My father strides over, his loafers clicking on the shiny tile floor. He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes. “You know you’re not supposed to get excited, Gwen.” He steps back, giving me some space, and again, his eyes catch Mom’s.

She looks at me and her spine stiffens. “The Wessons wanted to see you, sweetheart. They flew out on their own. Jamie told us what you told her last night. About not wanting guests. So they’re going home. They’ll visit later, when they can.”

I blink a few times, and the pinkish walls behind my dad’s face shift a little. “What about Elvie?”

I look from Mom to Dad, alarmed to see his jaw tighten. “He couldn’t make it.”

“Why not?”

My mother scoots up closer to me. “He had school,” she says.

“Has spring break passed?” Tears pool in my eyes, because I realize I have no idea. I feel like an alien dropped here from Mars. One look down at my left leg, suspended in metal and casting, makes me feel like throwing up.

“It hasn’t happened quite yet,” Mom says.

My heart seems to lose its rhythm as sweat beads along my neck and hairline. “When did Elvie come?”

“He—” Dad starts.

“You were asleep,” my mother says firmly.

Again, the pinkish-tinted ceiling seems to spin.

“Did…Jamie said… Dad, Elvie came here, right?” I draw a breath. My lungs can’t seem to hold the right amount of air. My heart throbs as I struggle with my words. “He…came out those first few days,” I say. I inhale. Exhale. My ribs ache. “He sat in the waiting room. They wouldn’t let him in because…we aren’t engaged.”

“Yes.” My mother’s nod is emphatic.

My father blinks and casts his eyes down.

And I know. I know, I know, I fucking know.

“He hasn’t come…”

“Gwenna, are you coming?”

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