“Stone Lake: a very dull place to die,” I say.
Alyssa laughs. “We should go change the town sign.”
“It would be an improvement.” The actual sign reads STONE LAKE: A VERY NICE PLACE TO LIVE. It’s like our slogan was created by a dim-witted kindergartner.
Since there doesn’t seem to be much point in sticking around—especially with the influencer crowd now striking what I believe are supposed to be Sexy Crime Scene Poses on the sidewalk—we finally head back to the Dollar Tree to procure the items on my list, along with Stan’s dumb Oreos.
An hour later, Alyssa and I walk back into my house together, plastic bags dangling from our hands. As soon as I open the front door, the sharp smell of cheap whiskey hits me like a fist.
I can’t check my phone to see exactly what time it is—my arms are too weighed down with bags—but we weren’t gone that long. In my experience, when Mom has the house smelling like a distillery before five p.m., it’s never a great sign.
Did she call Stan to pick her up, or did the entire bender happen since she’s been home? She never calls me, even though she relies on me for pretty much everything else. I guess asking her kid to come scrape her off a bar floor is a line even she won’t cross.
I sigh, my breath mingling with air that is at least 50 percent whiskey fumes. I’m never getting out of this godforsaken town. Someone’s always got to be nearby to parent my parent, and Stan won’t be around forever.
It takes Alyssa’s hand on my arm for me to realize that I’m clenching my jaw so hard it hurts. “Maybe there’s an explanation,” she whispers.
“The explanation is that she’s a drunk,” I say through gritted teeth, stomping my way into the kitchen, braced for a fight.
But it’s not Mom at the kitchen table, up to her eyeballs in whiskey. It’s Stan.
“What the hell?” I don’t think I’ve ever seen Stan so much as sip a beer before. I asked him once if he was a recovering alcoholic and that’s why he didn’t drink. He just told me it was “none of your damn business,” which I took as a yes.
But whether or not there was a wagon to fall off, Stan has definitely plummeted headfirst over the edge since we left the house. He looks like he’s been bleached, his skin a sickly gray, making his lank hair and ice-blue eyes seem even paler than usual. He looks at me through a watery haze, both hands clutching a glass on the table. Beside him is a mostly empty bottle of Evan Williams.
Not all of it has gone down Stan’s throat. A good bit has made it onto the table, the floor, his shirt. That must be why the smell is so strong.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask, alarmed. My mind goes to all the worst places. She had a heart attack. She passed out and hit her head. She flipped out and burned down a Target.
At least I can rule out decomposing on the riverbank. I’m pretty sure if she’d driven her car off Wilson Bridge, the police would’ve been at least a little more animated while we were there.
Stan shrugs. “Dunno. Work, I think.”
“Is she okay?”
“Far as I know.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “Then what’s going on?” I take the glass from his hand—his fingers are limp, like there are no bones inside anymore, just lumps of wobbly flesh—and place it on the counter as Alyssa goes to the sink and pours Stan a glass of water.
“D’ja see the news?” he slurs. His eyes slide to Alyssa, and he points at her with a crooked finger. “She knows. She read it already.”
Alyssa places the water on the table in front of Stan. “What do I know?” she asks, sliding into the chair beside him. Her voice is gentle, far more than mine would be.
“About the body. By the river.”
“The remains the police found?” Alyssa asks.
Stan nods, but although we wait for him to elaborate, he doesn’t say anything more.
He takes a sip of water, then frowns at it, like he’d forgotten that we took away his whiskey.
“We actually went to the bridge,” Alyssa ventures. “But the police were nearly done by then. I’m sure they’ll figure out what happened.”
Stan snorts. “Fat chance. That lazy-ass sheriff couldn’t put together a two-piece puzzle.”
“What is your deal, Stan?” I ask. My baseline annoyance with Stan is increasing at an exponential rate. “Why do you care about the stupid body?”
His bloodshot gaze slides to me. “Doesn’t matter.”
“If you know something, you can tell the police—”
He chuckles, shaking his head, but it’s a dark laugh, filled with anger. “You don’t get it, kid. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does. Everything is the way it is, and nothing we do makes any difference.”
“Sure it does,” Alyssa says, patting his hand reassuringly. “There’s always something we can do.”
He stares at her, and something in his gaze softens. “I used to think like that, too,” he says pleadingly, like he’s trying to convince her. “I tried. I really did. But I was too late.”
“Of course you did,” Alyssa says, her voice soothing, as if Stan’s nonsense makes perfect sense to her.
I catch her eye, lowering myself into a chair across from her, and she gives me a small shrug, confirming that she’s just playing along. It’s hard to follow Stan on a good day, much less now.
He sighs heavily, which leads to a bout of wet coughing. Alyssa pulls her hand back, leaning away as politely as she can to avoid the drops of spittle spraying onto the table. Stan’s glassy eyes slide to mine.
“But now I know. None of us can change anything, and the sooner we come to terms with that, the better.”
“Sure, Stan,” I say, rolling my eyes. I’ve had enough of this. “C’mon,” I say to Alyssa. “Let’s go to your house.”
Stan turns to me with daggers in his eyes, as if I just suggested burning down our house instead of going to Alyssa’s. “For example,” he says, raising his voice. He’s speaking slowly and deliberately, the way you do when you’re trying to prove you’re not drunk, even though you know you are. “Your mom was always going to be a drunk. And you were always going to be a stupid, worthless little shit.”
“Stan!” Alyssa says, her eyes wide with horror.
I sit frozen, my insides turning to ice. I’ve always known Stan wasn’t my biggest fan, but he’s never said anything like that before.
When he looks at Alyssa, his expression becomes almost sad. “You can’t fix him, you know,” he says quietly. “He’s been broken from the beginning.”
My fists clench, my nails digging into my palms. Mom is a sloppy, silly drunk, but drunk Stan . . . he’s practically a different person.
“Come on,” I say to Alyssa. My voice comes out a hoarse scrape. “We’re done here.”
“I shoulda thrown you in the river the second you were born. Would’ve been doing you a favor,” Stan growls as I push back my chair so hard it nearly topples over. He continues to call after us as I grab Alyssa’s hand and drag her from the house. “I shoulda broken your scrawny neck and thrown you out with the trash. I shoulda—”