“You saw him?” he finally asks, his voice quiet and calming.
I only nod yes, and I keep my eyes focused on the small ink stain on the carpet in front of me. I don’t stop nodding, and when Cody comes in, I’m rocking myself back and forth in my chair.
“Charlie, here…drink this,” he says, pulling the lid from a bottle of water. I grasp it in both hands and start chugging—like I’m dehydrated from a walk through the desert. I finally pull my eyes from the stain to meet Cody’s, and I can see the water pooling in them. He reaches up to tuck my hair behind my ear and smiles softly, nodding.
“They got him, Cody. They actually f**king caught him,” I whisper and then turn back to watch the carpet some more.
I’m catatonic.
I haven’t moved since we got back to Caroline’s house. I know Brian gave me a million bits of information after the identification. What happens next, how long until we can expect a trial—he talked for almost an hour. I didn’t hear a single word. Instead, I just replayed the sounds of that night—the light sound of the radio in Mac’s truck, the quiet just before the gunshots, the screaming of the tires as the car sped away.
Trevor refused to stay another night at Caroline’s. He didn’t say goodbye when he left, just said he’d be at the hotel in town. Caroline attempted to make Cody and me dinner. I think she was hoping it would bring me out. She’s actually a decent cook, if you can get past the disgusting condition of the kitchen. But I wasn’t hungry.
I can hear Cody helping to clean up down the hall. I’m lying in here with my tiny pink lamp illuminating the room of a teenaged girl I can’t remember being. Cody’s shutting down everything in the front room, and I’m embarrassed that he’s winding through boxes of trash everywhere he turns. He didn’t even flinch when he walked in and saw the conditions my aunt was living in.
The door creaks as Cody slides it open, and my lips hurt as I try to smile. I’m so happy to see him, but every movement feels impossible. He pulls his shirt from his body and kicks his shoes and jeans off in the corner by my chair—by the blank space where my desk used to sit when I lived here. He turns the lamp off as he slides into bed next to me, and in seconds, his arms are around me, like a warm blanket that keeps me safe. It’s the first time he’s held me like this since we made love, and I hate that it’s here, in this house, on the night I faced the murderer.
“I’m so proud of you, Charlie,” he whispers, his breath hot against the wisps of hair along my neck.
I don’t know how to respond, so I squeeze his hands and pull his hug tighter around me. We lay in silence for almost an hour, listening to the whistle of the wind through the cracks in my window. And he never makes me talk.
“I hate him,” I finally say.
“I know you do. And that’s okay,” Cody says, brushing my hair from my face repeatedly, soothing me.
“I want him to die,” I say, and I let a tear finally hit my pillow. I feel ugly wishing that for someone, but I hate him so much. His name is Michael Croft, and he’s only three years older than me. He has a mother and a sister—all here in Louisville. He’s a big dealer downtown. Brian says they have enough on him to put him away for years, even without getting the murder conviction. But he’s pretty sure they’ll get it. They traced the gun back to him and matched a few prints.
And then there’s my testimony—me…on the stand.
I know it won’t be for months, maybe even years. But I’m terrified to face him, to stand up there and point at him in front of a room full of people. And the room will be full. Mac’s death has been the story of the town for the last three years, and there are a lot of men and women in blue who are waiting for this closure. They need it, and they need to see justice prevail.
You don’t get away with killing cops.
“Tell me about Mac,” Cody says, rolling on his back and pulling me into him, holding me close.
I shut my eyes tightly and force myself to remember my life here in this house—before. It’s a flood of memories, and some of them feel like lost pieces, parts missing their whole. We spent so many years just existing, but not really knowing each other, and I think that’s what I regret the most.
“He liked to watch me golf,” I start, the smile spreading on my face as I remember Mac cheering for me loudly, breaking all the rules of the course. “We didn’t really get along until my senior year, but that last year…he was my best friend.”
I choke on my words. Mac was stolen from me, and I wasted the time I had with him, and I’ve been beating myself up over it since the moment his heart stopped.