When Jamie finally pulled into a spot in front of his motel, he turned and gripped my shoulder. The drugs were still alive inside me. His touch radiated through my skin.
“Do you think I got it wrong?” His voice was strangled, eyes no longer dilated but bloodshot. “Do you think I got it in my head that Laurel was murdered, and convinced you to drop your life and come out here, and it was suicide all along? You heard her mom.”
“I don’t think we’re wrong.”
“But it makes sense. Suicide fits her emotional state and history of self-harm.”
“What about the fact that she hadn’t held a job in years, and her strange living habits, disappearing months on end?”
“Sounds like depression to me.”
“What about Tongue-Cut Sparrow? A secret sex club… Come on.”
“We didn’t find anything solid. Even if Laurel ended up there, there’s no real connection we can track.”
“But the symbol on her arm—what’s that about?”
“It could’ve been anything. A random catering burn Edie assigned meaning to in a moment of shock.”
“You’re wrong. Laurel wouldn’t have killed herself.” I’d known her. That had to be true, because at this point, I had so little left of her to hold on to. I laid my hand over Jamie’s. “Let me tell you the next part of my story. What I couldn’t say yesterday.”
He frowned. “Now?”
“Yes, right now. Let me tell you, and then you’ll understand.”
“Look, it’s not that I don’t want to hear, but you shouldn’t agree to an interview when you’re intoxicated.”
“It’s the only way I’ll do it.” As soon as I said it, I knew it was true. It was now, while the pill from Tongue-Cut Sparrow dulled my shame, or never.
Jamie stared at me for a long time. Finally, he shoved the car door open. “Fine. Then steel yourself for the majesty of the Motel 6.”
Chapter Nine
Transgressions Episode 705, interview transcript: Shay Deroy, Sept. 3, 2022 （unabridged）
SHAY DEROY: His name was Don Rockwell.
（Silence.）
I can’t describe how it feels just to say that. I’m sweating, my heart’s pounding. It feels like somehow I’ve alerted him, like he can sense me now, wherever he is.
JAMIE KNIGHT: You’re safe here.
SHAY: You can’t promise that. But I’m going to do the best I can to tell you what happened anyway. I might not get everything right. If you asked Laurel, you might get a different story. I’m saying this to be honest.
JAMIE: I understand your memory’s not perfect. Just tell me what you remember, in as much detail as possible.
SHAY: Okay.
（Exhale static.）
His name was Don Rockwell, and he was Rachel’s father, and we had no idea what he’d be like. Clem and I thought probably like Rachel, right? Cold and strange. We didn’t know anything about her mom, or if she had any siblings. Just that her dad was in town and he wanted to take us to dinner at March on the Park.
JAMIE: Wait, the Michelin-star restaurant in the city? With the waiting list?
SHAY: We were just as surprised. The Rockwells had money, clearly. Which you’d never guess from Rachel.
JAMIE: Tell me about Don.
SHAY: He sent a car for us. We got all dressed up, which for Laurel and me meant dresses and for Clem meant her best button-down. Rachel wore flip-flops, and I remember wondering if she just didn’t care, or if that was some big fuck-you. When we got to March, the host brought us up to a private room at the top of the restaurant, with windows overlooking Central Park. I’d never been anywhere like it. It was so nice it made me feel sick, like someone was going to recognize I didn’t belong and make me leave. I can still feel the butterflies in my stomach, just talking about it. Or maybe that’s the pill.