Chapter Twenty #3
"Jersey. Yeah, but he was back to see his sister's art exhibit. Which was also pretty terrible. When this abstract trend is over, I will finally be able to enjoy art again."
"I know, right?" I agreed, shaking my head. "Did Sammy have a good time there?"
"She reconnected with the Dodd sisters."
'Ew."
"Yeah. But she was happy. They were going to go out this weekend.
" Her eyes closed tight, trying to hold onto the tears.
"I haven't been able to talk to your parents about this yet, but I am breaking my lease here.
I just... I can't," she said, shaking her head, her gaze shooting toward Sammy's room. Where she'd found her body in the tub.
"I understand," I agreed, feeling the piercing sensation inside. "I will talk to my dad. He will have it handled. I will collect Sammy's things in a few days," I added, not sure how I would be able to box everything she owned and tuck it away, knowing she would never get to touch it again.
But I would do it.
I would get through it.
Because through all the grief was something else. Something that was proving a good distraction, taking the edge off, letting me focus.
Michael McDermot raped my sister.
He made it so that she didn't want to be on this earth anymore.
I was going to make sure he paid for that.
I was going to ensure that he could never do that to another woman again.
"Thanks, Reagan. I know this is a horrible time for you. I didn't want to pile more on."
"It's a bad time for you too," I reminded her, reaching out to grab her wrist, giving it a squeeze.
With that, I moved out into the hall, got down into my car, drove it to the beach, and promptly lost my shit again.
Rage and grief and helplessness mingled with a heavy dose of guilt until it bubbled up and burst over, came pouring out.
As I wiped my face later, ignoring the curious look of a couple of teenagers standing next to their car, witnessing my breakdown, I felt something else started to spread inside, something I had never experienced before, something I thought would feel hot, searing, but found cold and cutting.
Hatred.
I disliked plenty of people in my life.
But Michael McDermot was the first person I ever hated.
I was honestly pretty sure that were he to stand in front of me right then, I would have plowed into him with my car, taken from him what he took from my sister.
I'd happily spend a decade or two in prison for that.
Nervous energy pent up, making me sweaty and uncomfortable, I got out of my car, I walked down the beach, sitting down when I found a somewhat private space, staring off into the waves for hours, trying to figure out what my next move was.
I had to tell my parents.
And Luis.
They had to know that Sammy hadn't lost a long, hidden battle with depression. They had to know someone had hurt her, that she hadn't been able to handle it, had wanted the pain to stop.
Maybe they would be able to tell me what to do about Michael.
There was no actual evidence. She hadn't filed a report or gotten a rape kit run. And even if she had, she'd likely washed most of the evidence down the drain in her desire to get clean.
It wasn't like we could approach the cops and accuse him. But maybe my parents would know of some other course of action for us to take.
Of course, I hinged that thought on the surety that they would believe me when I told them.
It never even crossed my mind that they wouldn't.
In the end, though, they didn't.
"We're not saying that someone didn't... that they didn't hurt Sammy," my father said, upper lip twitching. In him, it was a sign of frustration, not upset. He was likely feeling helpless, angry that he hadn't been able to protect his little girl.
"Of course we believe that," my mother insisted. She'd been taking trips to the shrink and pharmacy since the funeral as well, her meds helping her get out of bed, function again, not zombifying her like they had with me. "We would never question that," she added, voice insistent.
"We just think you are trying to force pieces together that don't fit," my father told me, taking a deep breath.
"He was here that week! He was at that party!"
"Many people were at that party, Reagan," he insisted, voice firm, a little sharp, as it always was when he thought I was being stubborn. "And from what Charlotte said, it didn't happen the night of the party."
"No, but she would have seen Michael. She could have easily been conned into dinner with him,. You know Sammy. She would have been too polite to turn him down."
"Honey," my mom said, reaching across the table toward me, placing a hand over mine. "Have you been back to the therapist?" she asked.
"I'm not crazy!" I shrieked, yanking my hand away, pacing their too-clean kitchen, feeling like I was coming out of my skin.
"No one is accusing you of being crazy," she tried again, voice softer, like she was talking to a frightened animal. "I just think you are grieving, and you've had a shock, and you are looking for someone to blame."
"He is to blame."
"You have no evidence of that," my father cut in, voice getting sharper as I got more agitated. "I can't imagine why you would think Michael when you heard the news. He has always been kind to you girls."
"He called us ‘princess,’ Dad."
"A lot of people use that term, sweetie," my mother said, standing, coming toward me, wanting to comfort me.
I didn't want their comfort.
I wanted them to believe me.
I wanted them to see that I wasn't losing my mind, that I was right.
"Don't," I demanded, backing away from my mother when she reached for me.
"Honey, it's okay. It's going to be okay."
“It's not going to be okay. Sammy isn't here. And that bastard is the reason. And you—“
"Enough!" my father's voice boomed through the room.
I was sure it made the glass on the windows tremble.
His hand slammed down on the island, making me jolt almost violently, not used to such strong outward signs of anger from a man I'd always known as stoic and steady.
"This family has been through enough. We are not going to let you lose your mind over some asinine idea.
Let it go, Reagan. Go get the help you need.
Change your meds. Talk it out. We won't listen to this anymore.
We already lost one daughter. We aren't going to lose you in your own head. Get it together."
I'd never known my parents to be anything other than supportive.
They didn't blink when Luis decided to pursue a career in modeling.
They bought every copy in the area of the first magazine he'd been in.
They let me join Girls Scouts when I was a kid even though I hated getting dirty, and thought crafts were stupid.
They did everything in their power to connect Sammy with people in the industry when she said she wanted to pursue a career in fashion.
If we wanted something, they helped us. No questions asked. Full support offered.
I thought it was a testament to the continental shift in our lives that was the loss of Sammy. Our worlds were torn apart. We didn't know this new land. We didn't recognize ourselves on it.
I stared at my father for a long time, trying to remind myself of their pain, that I couldn't resent them for not wanting to take any more on.
"I'm leaving," I told them, tone curt as I grabbed my bag and stormed out.
I never went back.
When they called, I rushed off the phone without saying much.
I couldn't seem to feel the same way about them when they didn't believe me, when they didn't join me in my hatred, in my desire to see justice served.
Eventually, in an extension of an olive branch, or just wanting me out of their hair—I couldn't truly say which—my father had offered me Devil Tears.
I wanted to believe they just thought I needed the distraction, the fresh start.
But a larger part of me thought they didn't want to have to deal with the evidence of our disconnect anymore.
If I was in the same state, they would have to explain why their only surviving daughter was no longer at the house for parties, no longer attending charity events, no longer updating them about her life.
I didn't take Devil Tears because I genuinely wanted it at first. I took it because it offered a chance to move without looking suspect. The man they had originally put in charge had needed to move back to Jersey five years before to help his ailing mother. He'd rented out a small office and did a one-man operation. Very badly. The books hadn’t been balanced. Vendors hadn’t been paid.
He'd been relieved when they'd offered him early retirement, a pension I personally didn't think he deserved, but my parents were generous that way.
And I packed everything I had in the world, and set my sights on New Jersey.
Not to run Devil Tears, but to have an excuse to be closer to Michael. To formulate a plan. To get the justice I so badly needed for my sister.
Rebuilding, though, had given me a focus I didn't know I needed. It gave me a reason to get up and get dressed every morning. Eventually, it helped soften the sharp edges of grief as I hired people who became friends, as I tried my best to take hold of the wheel of a woefully off-course ship.
But never did I lose sight of my real mission.
Even as I found the barn, as I had it remodeled, as I had the lawn ripped up and replaced with wildflowers to help the local bee population, even as I spent a small chunk of my trust fund to get the entire place running on solar panels, as I found ways to make packaging and shipping more economical and ecological.
I got myself a place.
I made friends with Krissy.
I did community outreach by helping the local delinquents.
I built a life.
But I never, not for one minute, lost sight of the real reason I was in Navesink Bank.
I was there for Michael McDermot.
I was there to make sure he never did to anyone else what he did to my sister.
I was there to catch him if he ever tried.
If he so much as grabbed ass at a bar, I knew about it.