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We have to take a roundabout way to get to his apartment— when the football season ended, he was offered a spot in the draft, but turned it down, citing the fact that he wanted to take another year to grow as a player. Ever since, the media has been in a frenzy outside his apartment’s main gates, meaning we’ve always got to slip in through the side, through an entrance that’s technically for the maintenance crew. It’s overgrown with bushes, and despite the season, a warm snap has confused the sweet olives into releasing a few blooms. When Carson rolls down his window to swipe his access key, he frowns, and goes still.
“What is it?” I ask when a few moments pass and he hasn’t moved, save to pull his face into an ever more pensive expression.
He sits there, frozen.
“Are you okay?” I say shrilly, wondering if he’s having some sort of medical emergency.
“Fuck,” Carson says, shaking his head. He suddenly throws the car into park and grabs for his cell phone. I watch as he lifts it to his ear. “Hey, Mom? I just remembered where I was that night— where I really was. And I think that Dad might be guilty.”
THE END
