Chapter 34
Thirty-Four
Henry
Day four after Ralph. Or five. The calendar on the wall says one thing, but my head says another.
Time got bent where the bullet went through it.
Zach knows before I do. He paces the hall and then plants himself in the doorway like a bouncer, his eyes tracking my hands, my breath, the drift of me from room to room. He won’t let me shower without staring at the curtain. He won’t let me sleep without pressing his spine to mine.
Coffee goes cold. I reheat it. Forget I did. Drink it anyway. Grounds collect like grit at the bottom.
Sirens, but not for me.
Angie screaming and then not. Jason’s arms around her.
Tabitha’s voice in my ear. Breathe, Henry. Look at me.
The gun slides heavy in my palm, useless now, but my fingers won’t unclench.
The smell. Cordite, copper, sweat, fear.
The officer’s notebook is small. He clicks the pen. Writes slow. I want him to write faster. I want him to throw the notebook in a fire and tell me none of this happened.
“Name for the record.”
“Henry Thomas Simpson.”
“Relationship to the deceased?”
The word skitters under my skin. Deceased. Like the body did that to himself. My jaw locks.
“He tried to kill my sister.” Beat. “And her boyfriend. And…Tabitha. My friend.”
She’s not my friend. I barely know her. But what else am I supposed to say?
“Walk me through it.”
That’s the part that doesn’t stop.
The walking. I walk it at two a.m., at noon, midnight.
All the fucking time.
I walk the sound the gun made and the way the air changed.
The way Ralph dropped to the ground.
The blood.
All the fucking blood.
“Did he have a weapon?”
“Did you warn him?”
I answer all the questions like a robot spitting out data.
Sleep is impossible. I drift and crash and slam awake to nothing. My heartbeat runs sprints. Sometimes I’m back there. Sometimes it’s earlier.
I make lists.
Call Brad
Reschedule the donor lunch
Clean my pistol
I cross that one out. My pistol is in police custody for now. I’ll get it back in a few days, my lawyer says.
See Aunt Melanie for help
I cross that one out too.
My family and friends fill my refrigerator with casseroles.
Dad shows up after lunch.
“You should come home,” he says. “Your mother doesn’t think you should be alone.”
I agree, not because of my mother but because my place no longer feels right to me.
I’ll renovate it. Redesign it from the ground up.
I move back into my old room.
Zach patrols. He sleeps at the foot of my bed. He sits up when an owl hoots. He growls at the shadows on the blinds. When I take him outside, he heels tighter than he ever has.
Dogs know.
Back to Boulder. More questioning.
“Did you aim to kill?”
My mouth opens and shuts.
Yes?
No?
Yes. I aimed to stop.
Stopping is death when a man is about to kill your sister.
Sleep again. A dream where the gunshot is a starting pistol and I’m supposed to run, but my legs fill with cement. A dream where the gunshot is a door slamming and Angie is on the other side and I can’t find the handle. A dream where the gunshot is a metronome and I keep missing the beat.
When I wake, Zach’s paw is on my wrist. His eyes tell me he’s still here. I rub his ears until my heart drops back into its cavity.
The foundation emails pile.
I head to the office.
Brad texts me while I’m on the way.
Turn around. If you don’t, I’ll call your mother.
He’s playing hardball.
I text back a middle finger emoji.
Night again. The nightmares.
The gun.
The blood.
Zach drops a ball in my lap. I throw it down the hall. He thunders after it. He brings it back and nudges my hand until I throw again.
Day whatever. Mom shows up with clean sheets. She changes my bed like I’m six. I let her.
I lie on top of the covers and stare at the ceiling and recite the counties of Colorado because that’s what Coach made us do on long bus rides when we were fourteen. I get to Gunnison and stall out.
The call from the Boulder police finally comes.
No charges. DA’s office concurs.
Zach wags like he understands English and due process. I nod. My throat pinches.
I’m not surprised. My family’s connections and all.
Plus, I didn’t commit a crime. I killed in defense of another.
No charges. The law says I did the right thing. But the law doesn’t crawl into my chest at two a.m. and smooth the wrinkled place where the shot lives.
Zach lifts his head.
I breathe. In. Out.