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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.
