Chapter 5
FIVE
NEVAEH
I wake up to my house phone ringing. I sit up and, after fumbling with the phone, hit the answer button.
“Is this Nevaeh Hansen?”
“This is she. Who’s speaking?”
“Detective Roberts. I’m a colleague of your brother’s. After dispatch received your call last night, we went over to your brother’s place. Can you meet me at the station? I would like to speak with you.”
“Of course,” I say, already pulling the sheets back and throwing on an outfit without even seeing what I’m putting on.
I get to the station and Detective Roberts greets me then walks me back to a small room, gesturing for me to take a seat.
“Nevaeh, I’m going to record our conversation just in case I need to go back to it later. Is that okay?”
“Sure.”
“Can you please repeat for me what you said when you called nine-one-one yesterday at three thirty-three in the morning?”
Jeez, I didn’t realize I called so late.
It felt like it was only minutes after I found my brother dead.
I tell the detective everything that happened yesterday.
I’m not sure if it’s identical to what I said on the phone as I was out of it, but I tell him everything I know.
I have to stop a few times when I get choked up.
The detective, though, is patient with me, handing me tissues when I’m forced to stop my story because I’m crying too hard.
When I’m finally finished, the detective says, “Thank you. I can’t speak too much on the case since this is now an open investigation, but as I said on the phone, this morning after you called, we drove over to your brother’s apartment. Only, we didn’t find him.”
A cold shiver runs down my spine. “What do you mean you didn’t find him?”
“He wasn’t there.” He pulls out a couple photos. “I had them print these to show you since his home is currently under an active investigation based on your call.”
I take the photos from the detective and look at each one, the blood draining from my body.
My throat feels like it’s closing. Each one is of another part of Stephen’s home.
The living room looks spotless. My flats aren’t in the picture where they should be next to the couch.
My purse was sitting on the end table. It’s gone.
The tiled floor, where Stephen’s body lay cold and still, is clean.
No blood anywhere. It’s like I’m looking at a completely different home.
Did I imagine the whole thing?
“I-I don’t get it. He was right there.” I press my finger on the photo with the sparkling clean living room floor.
“He was right there, dead. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t alive.
Blood was pouring out of his lifeless body.
” Fresh tears burn behind my lids, and I try to blink them away.
I hate the last time I saw my brother was in that way.
Instead of imagining his smile and laughter, I’m stuck replaying what he looked like when he died.
“Nevaeh, I want to believe you, I do, but it’s all not adding up. Your brother called yesterday morning and said he had to go out of town unexpectedly. He’s using some vacation time he’s saved up.”
My head shoots up in shock. Stephen never mentioned going out of town to me. I turn the photo around so the detective can see it. “He was right here.” I jab my finger into the image. A tear flies off my cheek and makes a wet spot on the image. “You think I’m making this up?”
“No, I didn’t say that. We’re investigating. We’ve called your brother, but he isn’t answering. Unfortunately his neighborhood doesn’t have any cameras. Until we get ahold of him, we’re keeping the case open.”
I don’t even know what to say. I know what I saw. He was dead. I closed his eyelids!
As I stare at the images in front of me, I remember that I needed to tell them about my belongings. “My purse was left at his house, in the living room. My shoes too. Did you see them anywhere?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “We can go back and see if maybe you left your stuff in his room or—”
“They couldn’t have just upped and walked away,” I say, cutting him off. “They were in the living room. Inside my purse is my phone. If they took it, we can log in and track it.”
Detective Roberts gets me a laptop and I pull up the Find my iPhone website like the guy at Apple showed me how to do. But when I click on my phone, it shows it’s untraceable.
“This can’t be right. They had to have done something to my phone,” I tell him.
“I’ll add this to my list of things to look into,” he promises before he walks me to the front of the station. When we get to the door that leads to the outside, he says, “If we hear from him, we’ll tell him you’re worried and to call you.”
“And when you don’t hear from him?” I ask, because I know they won’t.
“We will get to the bottom of it,” he assures me.
I nod my understanding, completely stunned and confused about what just happened, and thank him.
I spend the rest of the day in bed. I don’t read or watch television. I don’t call anyone to tell them I don’t have my cell phone, or even eat. I just lie there, trying to recount everything that happened. It doesn’t make sense. I know what I saw, but I have no way to prove it.
Finally, I fall asleep, only to have nightmares replaying the image of my brother’s dead, lifeless body on the floor.
As I walk into the church, I realize I’ve been running on autopilot.
It’s been engrained in me for so long to get up and go to mass, I didn’t even realize I was walking through the doors until I was already in here.
I consider walking back out, until I catch sight of my parents sitting in the pew.
They’re listening to the sermon, without a worry in the world. Because they don’t know what I know.
Stephen is gone.
Where was God when I was hiding in his bathroom listening to the sounds of his murder? Where was God when I begged and pleaded with him not to take my brother?
As I stand in the back of the cathedral, listening to a priest I’ve known my entire life preach about forgiveness—oh, the irony—all I want to do is scream, “Where was this forgiveness when Stephen was alive?” But I can’t. I don’t even know if my voice could go higher than a whisper.
So instead, I stand in the back quietly, as he wraps up his sermon with a prayer, and think about my mother and everything I’ve learned.
Do I forgive her for the secrets she’s kept from her family? For judging everyone all these years while painting this picture of being the perfect Catholic wife and mother?
My answer is no.
I don’t forgive her.
I can’t.
And now that Stephen is gone, she’s going to have to live with the fact that while he was alive, she not only judged him and made him feel like an outcast, but she lied to him about who his birthfather was. He died believing she didn’t love him and that’s something she will never be able to fix.
I’ve also decided I’m done with this church. I’m done teaching at this school and running the youth group. If my mother is associated with it, I want nothing to do with it.
And while I’m at it, I’m done with God.
My heart constricts at the very thought.
God has been a part of my life since I was born.
With every decision I’ve made, he’s been who I’ve turned to.
Who my parents have taught me to turn to.
But no more. I don’t think I want to turn to the man who sat back and watched my brother get killed.
My brother may not have been perfect, but he was a good person and didn’t deserve this.
So, God and me…we’re on a break, indefinitely.
When I leave here, after I’m done confronting my mother, I’m planning to go back to the police station to see if they’ve found any new information.
They can’t possibly expect me to wait around until they realize my brother isn’t on some vacation, but was murdered.
There is a man on the loose, a murderer, who has my information and can come after me any time.
And this time, I’m not leaving until they tell me they’re going to do something about it.
With one last prayer, everyone stands to leave. I didn’t plan to speak to my mother here. But now, it seems quite fitting. What better place to confront her than in the House of God?
I watch her and my father make their way down the aisle. When she spots me, her brows furrow in confusion, and then her lips purse in disappointment. Good. That was exactly what I was hoping for. My dad stops to talk to a couple he’s friends with, while my mom makes a beeline straight for me.
"Nevaeh,” she hisses. “Where were you? You missed youth group and the service.”
“At home,” I say, refusing to give her anything more.
She can find out tomorrow, like everyone else, when I put in my two weeks’ notice.
I have no clue what I’m going to do for a job since it’s the middle of the school year, but I’ll figure it out.
Maybe I’ll do some private tutoring until August and then I’ll apply for a position at one of the public schools.
“Your eyes are all puffy.” She frowns. “Did you drink when you went out with your friend?”
Of course she would assume I look bad because I went out a few nights ago, not because there’s something wrong.
She’s more concerned about keeping up our reputation than my well-being.
I almost blurt out my eyes are puffy because I spent the last two nights crying over my brother’s—her son’s—death, but I don’t.
I plan to tell her about Stephen, but I can’t yet.
I don’t have all the information. I have no proof.
No body. Not even the police believe what I’ve told them.
“I’m not hungover,” I hiss.
“Well then, do you care to explain why you weren’t here when you should’ve been, and when you do show up, you’re dressed like that?” Her entire face contorts into a look of disgust that up until now would’ve sent me running home to change.