I thought of all the other narratives, the girl who sold the drugs, the drugs themselves, all part of my quest to find another story, another part of a story, all part of that niggling sense that there was something I didn’t know, something that was important, stoked by the caller with the sobbing voice, her assurances that she knew the truth and that Stefan was in danger. Was this all because, even after all this time, my own mind was incapable of fully accepting the one truth? And yet, I didn’t know that Stefan was part of a love triangle. Why had Stefan never said so, in so many words? Or hadn’t I given him a chance? I assumed that what I had heard was the truest thing, that Belinda was avoiding Stefan because he got too deep into drugs and she had no use for that. Even Julie wondered why I hadn’t asked the police about Belinda and Stefan’s friends, why I had never looked through the police reports.
I decided right then that I would do this. It was the last stone, but it was unturned. And then I would get on with my life, no more digging in the ashes. I would call the detective, Pete Sunday, tomorrow, and ask him to send me the files.
“I’m going to Will’s. See you in the morning,” Stefan said.
“Wait,” I said. “Did this do what you wanted it to?”
He stopped for a moment and went into the kitchen cupboard where I kept a bin with spare toiletries, rummaging until he found a disposable razor and a toothbrush, which he put in his pocket.
“Mom, I’m going to go to church tomorrow. Meet me there?”
I swallowed hard, and nodded.
“I’ll take the truck. The truck is behind you. So you can get out in the morning, Mom. I’m not going to hide.”
Andy said, “Good man.”
“I wish I hadn’t done it though,” Stefan continued.
“Son, you tried to express your truth and that’s all you can ask of yourself,” Jep said.
“But I looked fat,” Stefan said. “I looked like I had three chins.”
We all stood there flat-footed for a moment. Andy was the first one who laughed but eventually, uneasily, we all did. I mean, you’re a twenty-year-old guy. What else would you notice?
Late that night I got a text: Curt Cowrie from The American Association of Mental Health Nurses （AMEN）。 Give me a call. I have an idea. Anytime is ok.
There was one more text, from the area code shared by Black Creek college and the prison nearby. It said,
Longing Esme/broken grace/passion buried/under lace.
She picked up on the first ring. “I didn’t call you,” she said.
“I called you. I have to ask you something. You said you were there that night. Were you Belinda’s girlfriend?”
There was a long, slightly liquid pause. And then, with the kind of little breath catch that a baby makes falling asleep, she said, “Why would you say that?”
“What is this truth you say you know?”
“You can’t call me anymore. I can’t talk to you anymore. Bad things will happen. I’m sorry.”
She hung up.
The phone pinged again. I glanced down, no text. But a few moments later, a voice mail showed up. Was anyone asleep tonight? I put the phone on speaker, then decided against it and pressed the phone to my ear.
“Thea, this is Jill McCormack calling. This isn’t over, Thea. But I’ve decided that there won’t be any more protestors near your house. Good night.”
Good night.
I lay back down and must have slept. When I woke up again, still feeling awful, flu-like, what I could see from my window looked like one of those lurid sunrises that make false promises for the beauty of the newborn day.
But it wasn’t sunrise. I knew that when I heard Molly whimpering and growling and saw the rolling lights of the fire trucks and heard the banging at the front door. I ran down to open it and saw that the rosy glow came from the old Mitsubishi, which was now on fire in the driveway.
8
The fire demolished more than my sister’s vintage junker. It wiped out Stefan’s confidence too.
Heartbroken, I watched as he parked his truck and stepped onto the porch the next morning. He looked to the left and to the right, then ducked inside, glancing around him as he sprinted.
“I’m fine!” he snapped at me before I could say a word.
Jep said he wanted to install alarms and follow lights.
“Those are good ideas,” said the young police officer who came. She went outside to scold the crime-scene investigators who’d left strips of sticky paper and sticks of blue chalk on the driveway （“Didn’t your mom ever make you clean up your room?”）。 “But something like this is up close and crazy. It feels like a grudge, don’t you think? The bad thing about a grudge, it’s personal. The good thing about a grudge is that most wear out with time. I’m not going to ask if there’s anybody who has it in for you. I know your story. The best thing you can do is exercise more caution than you ordinarily do, and we’ll be watching, every night for a good long while, for anything that looks funny.”