Dangerous Boys

‘Then why did you go to the house?’ Weber asks, changing tack, catching me in one of my earlier lies. ‘If you were so scared, why go meet him, all alone?’

‘Because he threatened to tell,’ I say quickly, ‘He was going to tell Ethan, about the kiss – only he made it sound like something it wasn’t. I wanted to talk him out of it, I thought I could keep the secret. I didn’t want to hurt Ethan!’ I fix my eyes on his, pleading. A girl broken and bruised, with blood still drying on her skin. A victim. ‘And I didn’t know for sure he killed Ashton, not really. I had no proof, nothing real to prove any of it.’

Sheriff Weber stares back at me, almost regretful, but unmoved.

‘You still don’t.’

There’s silence. Panic blossoms in my gut, sharp and bold. He’s supposed to believe me now. He’s supposed to be on my side. Instead, I can see the gears turning behind those small-town eyes, already weighing up my story against what he’s seen, what other people might have already been whispering.

‘You didn’t tell anyone about Oliver’s harrassment, nobody who can back you up?’ he asks again, a last note of hope in his voice.

I’m shaking my head slowly, numb with resignation, when a voice comes from the doorway.

‘She told me.’

I snap my head around. It’s Annette Reznick, her slight frame wrapped in a navy wool coat. Even in the dead of night, even for this, she has a full face of makeup on: her brows arched defiantly, her lipstick bright against her lifeless skin.

She strides over and stands behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder. To anyone else, I know, it would look like a supportive gesture, but I can feel her fingers desperately digging into my skin. Holding on for dear life.

‘She told me.’ Annette speaks again. Her voice is shaking, but it rings out in the room. ‘She said she was worried about Oliver. He was acting strangely, obsessive. I should have listened, but I thought . . . it all seemed like childish rivalry to me. Oliver always wanted what Ethan had, even when they were kids, he’d steal his toys just to spite him.’

Weber looks from Annette to me and back again. ‘When was this?’ he asks, checking his notes.

‘A couple of weeks ago,’ I lie. I don’t know why Annette is supporting my lies, but I leap on her excuse like a life raft in the storm.

‘We were out of town,’ Annette adds quickly. ‘She called me, but I was running late. It all sounded like high school drama. You know kids and their relationship tangles.’ She gives a weak laugh, but it fades on her lips. ‘I didn’t realize . . . How could anyone expect this?’

She turns to look across the hall at Ethan, pale and unmoving, strung up under the tangle of breathing tubes and IV wires. In the lull, we can hear the faint beep of his heartbeat monitor, steady and too slow.

I turn back to Weber. He’s watching the two of us, trying to make sense of it. I can see he wants to push harder, but it’s not just about me any more. Annette is on my side now, and what can he say to that?

Is he really going to call a grieving mother a liar?

‘Will you be making an official statement?’ Weber presses gently. ‘We’ll need to get it on record down at the station.’

Annette nods once, briskly, wiping at her eyes. ‘Can it wait? I don’t want to leave him.’

‘Of course.’ Weber is chastened. He clears his throat, uncomfortable. ‘Now, Chloe, you were saying—’

‘Uh, excuse me, Weber?’ One of the other police officers interrupts, lurking in the doorway. ‘The guys from the fire crew were looking for you.’

He looks annoyed, but he rises to his feet. ‘We’ll talk more later,’ he tells me, almost like a warning.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I reply quietly.

The men leave, and Annette and I are left alone. A phone rings down the hallway, voices sound, muffled, and through it all, Ethan’s monitor keeps on.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Annette’s head lifts, as if she’s hearing it for the first time. She drifts across the hallway like she’s sleepwalking, and I follow, two steps behind, watching as she fusses over Ethan: smoothing back his hair, adjusting a tube, tucking the blanket carefully around his body. Finally, she stands still, trembling, her hands folded together, clutched at her chest.

‘When they called and said something had happened with the boys, I thought, “Oh God, he’s finally done it.”’

A laugh bubbles up, hysterical. She clamps a hand over her mouth, white-knuckled. Shaking.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask slowly, not taking my eyes off her.

Annette doesn’t answer. She stands, watching over Ethan, and I wonder if she’s even heard me at all. Then she turns to me and her eyes are bright, wet with tears, and a nervous flicker.

‘I knew,’ she whispers. ‘Right from the start. The very beginning. Oliver was wrong.’ She says the word like a curse, and then again. ‘Wrong.’

‘Annette?’ I reach out a hand to her and she flinches back, quickly walking over to the window. It’s dark outside, the blinds lowered, but she stares into the faded yellow fabric for a moment, collecting herself. When she turns back to me, her face is composed. Resigned.

‘He didn’t stop crying.’ Her voice is steady now, like this is a story she’s been rehearsing for years. ‘From the day he was born, he just howled and howled. Nothing I did was right. He wouldn’t sleep, he wouldn’t eat, and then when he did, he would bite down so hard, I swear, it was just to spite me.’ She swallows. ‘I know they’re just babies, they don’t even know themselves yet, but that boy . . . He never let me get a moment’s rest and, Lord, I hated him for it.’

I slowly close the door behind me, so there’s just an inch of space left. I move closer to her and sit on the edge of a chair. Waiting.

‘I didn’t know what to do,’ she continues quietly. ‘Derek was away for work all the time, and it was just me, stuck in that house with that crying . . . thing. All day and all night. I used to dream about making it stop. Pressing down with a pillow, gently. Just ending it for good.’ Annette meets my eyes, sharp. ‘Maybe it would have been better for everyone if I had.’

I inhale in a rush.

‘But I didn’t, of course.’ Her face twists. ‘And then the guilt, to even think about doing that, to my own child. What kind of mother was I?’