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
