Chapter Twenty-Two Amanda
Chapter Twenty-Two
Amanda
I startle awake and don’t know where I am.
Then I sit up and stare groggily at my father, who has just touched my shoulder.
My eyes dart to Mom. She’s still the same.
Her face is bruised and marked with scabs and stitches.
A bandage covers the area where her head has been shaved, and she’s still in a deep coma, eyes closed.
“How are you doing?” Dad asks.
Arching my back in the uncomfortable chair, I stretch my stiff muscles and bend from side to side. “I’m okay.”
“Where’s Connor?” he asks.
“Probably went to the snack machine. He can only sit in here for so long before he gets restless.”
Dad moves to bend over Mom in the bed. He kisses her forehead, on a spot that’s unmarked by wounds. Then he whispers something I can’t make out.
Eventually, he turns to me and removes his jacket, which he hangs on the back of a chair.
“What happened with the cops?” I ask as he sits down beside me.
“Exactly what you’d expect. They asked me a lot of questions, so I called my brother when I started to feel like a suspect.”
Silence rises between us while I struggle to consider what this might mean. “Is he going to help you?”
“Of course. He’s looking after things today because . . .” Dad pauses and lays a hand on my knee. “I don’t want to worry you, but the detectives got a search warrant for our house.”
My pulse skitters. “What?”
“Arthur’s there now,” he assures me, as if that makes this news less terrifying. “Everything’s going to be fine because I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then why is everyone accusing you?” I ask desperately.
“Because some people crave drama,” he explains.
“That’s the only reason. I swear it. And when the detectives finish their investigation, they’ll come to that same conclusion because it’s the truth.
Yes, Mom and I argued, but it was bad luck that made the wave come over the rocks when it did.
” He turns to look at her in the bed. “I wish we’d never gone there. I should have just taken her to lunch.”
I look at Mom as well and can’t shake the anger I feel, which is still directed at my father.
At 8:30 p.m., I’m scrolling mindlessly through TikTok videos on my phone when a nurse enters the room.
“You three should go home and get some rest,” she says. “Your mom’s stable, but we’ll call you if we need to.”
“Thank you,” Dad says politely.
She leaves, and I turn to Dad for a decision. He checks his watch, and I suspect he’s worried that the police might still be at our house.
“Do you think it’s safe for us to go home?” I ask.
“Arthur texted an hour ago and said they’re finished, but they left a mess. And there are still reporters on our street.”
Connor shrugs. “I don’t care.”
“We could go to a hotel,” Dad suggests.
I shake my head. “No, I want to sleep in my own bed and change my clothes. And maybe Becky could bring Oscar back,” I suggest.
Dad reaches for his coat. “Why don’t you text her and ask. I’ll tell the nurse that we’ll be back in the morning. Grab your stuff, and we’ll head home.”
He moves to bend over Mom, whispers in her ear, and nuzzles her cheek. I truly hope his affection for her is genuine.
Twenty minutes later, we pull into the driveway. The house looks unfamiliar with all the lights off, because Mom always leaves a lamp on in the front room.
Dad shuts off the engine and unbuckles his seat belt. “We should prepare ourselves for the worst because the investigators had no obligation to put anything back in place after they disturbed it.”
“Do you think they went in my room?” Connor asks, disconcerted.
“I don’t know,” Dad replies.
“My Xbox better not be missing,” Connor says with ire as he gets out of the car.
We make our way up the steps, and Dad unlocks the front door. He pushes it open, and we all enter. He turns on the light, and the front hall, at least, is undisturbed.
I walk to the kitchen and family room. We turn on more lights and discover that half the books from the bookcase are spilled out, and papers are scattered on the table, which the police must have used as a surface to sort through our stuff.
None of us says a word. Connor looks around in a daze, then dashes to check his room in the basement. Heart racing, I run upstairs.
I push through my bedroom door, which has been left ajar, and lose my breath because all my dresser drawers have been yanked open.
I’m sickened to imagine policemen rummaging through my socks and underwear.
I don’t know what they thought they were looking for, until I remember my diary in my bedside table.
I move quickly to retrieve it, but it’s gone.
I stifle a cry. How could they have taken my diary? It’s private!
I scramble to remember what I’ve written lately. Mostly stuff about Jeff, which I wouldn’t want my parents to read. But if the cops go back a few weeks, they’ll find things I wrote when I was angry at Dad for ignoring my texts about Marissa, my stalker, and not being here when I needed him.
What if they use that to judge and convict him?
Why did I write those things? I don’t want to get him in trouble!
At least I didn’t write anything about what happened to Mom and how I’ve blamed Dad. I haven’t written in my diary since before the accident.
A shadow appears in the doorway, and I turn.
It’s Dad. He looks stricken. “You okay?”
“Not really,” I reply. “They took my diary.”
He nods with understanding. “They took my laptop and papers from our filing cabinet.”
I don’t know what Dad was keeping in those files, but it sounds like the police will know everything about us as a family.
“It’s not fair,” I say, fighting tears. “Mom’s in the hospital. Isn’t that enough? Why is this happening to us?”
He strides quickly toward me and pulls me into his arms. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
“No, it won’t. What if I wrote something bad about you?” I bury my face in his shoulder.
“Is that a possibility?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Maybe. I was upset when you didn’t call me the night when we went to the police station to report that girl.”
He rubs his hand in circles over my shoulder blade. “I’m sorry about that. I wish I could’ve trusted my staff to look after things at the restaurant that night.”
I take a step back and wipe at my tears. “Are they not good workers?”
“They’re fine,” he tells me. “But I’m a control freak because I don’t want to fail. I’ve wanted the restaurant to be the best in the city, and it’s become an obsession for me.”
I look at him through the blur of my tear-streaked lashes. “But how can that matter to you more than we do?”
“Because I’m an idiot. Mom thinks I should go to therapy. That was the last thing she said to me, actually, and I’m never going to forget that.”
It takes a moment for me to digest this, because my brain isn’t working like it should.
In that moment, my phone chimes, and I dig it out of my back pocket. “It’s Becky. She’s here, and she brought Oscar.”
I can’t wait to see him. I turn and dash downstairs to greet them at the front door. At the same time, Connor runs upstairs from the basement.
“They didn’t take any of my stuff,” he tells me, “but they made a mess of my closet.”
“It was already a mess, you dork,” I reply as I grab hold of his arm and drag him with me. “Becky’s here with Oscar.”
We go outside to the veranda, where the winter wind hits me like a smack in the face. I hug myself and shiver as I watch Becky get out of her car. Oscar leaps out. He runs and tugs at his leash to reach us.
“He really missed you guys,” Becky says, jogging to keep up. “He was sitting at my front door all day with his chin on his paws, looking depressed.”
Connor and I squat to greet him. Oscar bolts up the steps, and I laugh as he nuzzles my face and spins around in circles.
“My sweet boy!” I try to hug him, but he can’t sit still. His tail wags so fast his whole bottom wiggles. “Let’s go inside and get a treat!”
Becky follows and unhooks Oscar’s leash from his collar. He immediately darts to the kitchen and living room, where he stops, looks all around, and runs up the stairs.
“Where are you going?” Connor shouts after him.
We listen to the sound of his paws padding down the hall and into each room.
“He’s looking for your mom,” Becky explains somberly.
His toenails click all around the hardwood floor in her bedroom.
Connor moves to the bottom of the stairs and looks up. “We could try and smuggle him into the hospital.”
“Great idea, genius. Then we’d end up in jail too.”
Oscar trots down the stairs and tries the basement next, ignoring us as he passes. Connor follows. Only then do I notice that Becky has wandered into the family room. She inspects the piles of books on the floor and my mom’s empty desk, where her laptop used to be.
“How are you holding up?” Becky asks.
“Not great,” I reply. “All I want is for Mom to come home.”
“That’s what I want too.” She turns to me, and we embrace.
I’m not sure how long Becky holds me, or how many tears spill from my eyes, but when I step back, Oscar is at my feet, staring up at me. He looks worried, so I scratch behind his ears and drop to one knee.
“Everything’ll be okay,” I tell him. He starts to pant, maybe because he knows I’m lying. I have no idea if things will get better, and frankly, I’ve spent a lot of time imagining the worst. “I promised you a treat, didn’t I?”
He bounces on his back legs, so I rise and get the bag of freeze-dried liver treats from the pantry.
“Sit, Oscar! Good boy.” I set the treat on the floor, and he gobbles it up in a millisecond.
When I turn back around to face Becky, I see Dad standing at the far end of the kitchen island, staring at her.
“Hey,” he coolly says.
She averts her gaze, and I’m not sure if she’s angry with him for what happened to Mom or if she’s feeling guilty about what she told the police.
“Thanks for bringing Oscar back,” Dad says.
“You’re welcome.” After an awkward silence, she meets his gaze. “I should probably get going.”
My stomach pulls tight with dismay as I watch her head for the door. Dad steps aside and lets her pass, and I have no doubt that he blames her for the search warrant. He must know that she talked to them.
Becky hurries to pull on her overcoat while Dad remains in the kitchen without seeing her out. I’m not sure what to say. All I know is that this feels wrong. Becky has been good to us. She’s been an honorary aunt, while Dad has been absent for everything that has ever mattered in my life.
I can’t let Becky leave like this, so I follow her to the door. “Thanks for looking after Oscar.”
“It was no problem, sweetheart.” She pulls me fast into her arms again and whispers in my ear. “Don’t blame him. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”
She steps back, and again, I don’t know what to say.
I don’t want her to feel bad about what happened.
The truth is the truth. I understand that she didn’t want to lie to the police.
I wouldn’t want to do that either. I’m only sixteen, but I’ve watched enough true crime documentaries to know that the truth always comes out in the end.