“I’ll leave these sweats for you.” My mother’s a bit larger than I am, but they’ll fit. My pajamas are always baggy and loose. She’ll be fine tonight in them.

Leaving them on the sink, I leave the bathroom, worn and damaged in a way that hits me the moment the cool air batters my skin. With the click of the door behind me, I lean my head back as shuddering breaths leave me.

My father’s dead. My mother’s a murderer.

And my mind can’t wrap itself around those facts. Fresh tears threaten as my phone sounds out. Sniffling, I pull myself together.

Cody’s called. Multiple times.

My sister’s called but she didn’t leave a voicemail.

No one else. So I don’t think she’s gotten home yet. She hasn’t made the discovery or called the cops. In the mindset of supporting my story, I should turn off my phone. And so that’s what I do right now. I hold down the button on the side until the screen turns black, shutting out the world and hiding. Just for one night.

And what about tomorrow? It’s Cody’s voice that questions me. The guilt of it squeezes like a vise around my chest.

I can’t tell him anything. Not any part of the truth. I can lie to the police all day, I can turn an interrogation into a children’s story. But Cody? He’ll see through it all, and I can’t confess to him.

The one person I want to talk to is the one who’s gotten away with murder—the one I need to make sure I don’t lose my mom too.

I help my mother brush her hair when she’s finally out of the bathroom and lying down on the bed. I brush her hair like she used to do for me.

When her chest falls and rises steadily, and I know she’s sleeping, I stand on weak legs. I clean it all up, tossing the clothes at the bottom of the tub, and rinsing them down.

I let them soak before tossing them out. There’s no reason to keep them, but if somehow they’re found, they’ll at least be clean of residue.

When I get back into the room, well after midnight with new clothes from the 24/7 Walmart two towns over, there’s a faint knock on the wall.

Knock, knock, knock knock knock … knock, knock.

Like a child. Like I used to do with my sister in the house and my father when he went up to the old barn.

As I get closer to it, the sequence comes again.

Knock, knock, knock knock knock …

I hesitantly reach out my hand and respond: knock, knock.

Marcus

I woke up to the soft cries of the boy who was huddled in the corner opposite of mine in the cell.

I know what that means and I swallow the jagged rock lodged in my throat that seems to block my voice.

It took a long time for either of us to speak. We’ve been here for … at least a week together, but he was here longer. I don’t know how long and I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to remind him of the first time.