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Jules and I stand still, completely silent, so quiet that the ticking clock on the wall is obnoxiously loud in comparison as it counts down to the big reveal—whatever Lizzie’s done that Toni’s going to have to bail her out of.
The man clears his throat and, finally, forces his gaze back to Toni’s. “Could we talk in private?”
Antoinette straightens her spine. “They can hear whatever you have to say.”
The police officer takes a deep breath.
And I know.
“Ma’am, my name is Detective Immanuel Sanchez. I’m with the LAPD...” He trails off, unable to maintain eye contact.
Toni raises her hand and places it on his shoulder.
The contact lasts for only a second, but he seems to collect courage from her touch. “Ma’am,” he lifts his eyes to hers again, “I regret to inform you that the body ofElizabeth York was found at MacArthur Park in the early hours of this morning.”
All the blood in my body drops to my feet. I stand perfectly still, afraid that if I take a step, I’ll simply topple over.Lizzie…
None of us moves.
The silence that descends is pristine, broken only when the detective says, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Toni simply nods. She doesn’t cry or collapse or rage. “What happened?”
“We don’t know yet. We were hoping that you would come into the station this afternoon-”
“MacArthur Park?” Toni shakes her head. When she turns to look at us, her eyes are glazed with shock. “What was she doing there?”
“I don’t know.” Walking forward, I take her hands in mine. They are ice cold. “Toni…” But I don’t know where to begin.
Jules steps in. “We need to call her parents.”
The detective takes a step back and looks at Jules. “I thought…Ma’am,” he turns back to Toni, “are you not Elizabeth York’s next of kin.”
“She is,” Jules interjects. “In every way that matters.”
“I understand. But I’m afraid I have to contact her nearest blood relative.” Sensing that Jules is a better bet, he asks her, “Would you be able to provide me with their contact details?”
“Yes.” It’s Toni who replies. She sends Juliette a small nod. “In the Personals file.”
“I’ll get them for you.” Jules hurries upstairs, her bunny slippers padding quietly on the hardwood floors.
All eyes turn to the front door as it wooshes open. Lyla bursts in. She’s covered in sweat and grinning like a maniac. “Guess who broke her six-mile record thismorning?” She executes a near-perfect pirouette, her tiny, compact frame moving fluidly if not gracefully. “This girl.”
She comes to a sudden halt when she sees the police officer.
Nobody moves.
Nobody says anything.
Lyla looks at our faces. “Jesus, who died?” Slowly, realization dawns. She glances at Toni. I can see every emotion that flits across her face. Everyone is here, except, “Lizzie?”
***
Elizabeth used to tell a story. It wasn’t a happy story. It was most definitely a sad story, and it was about two young girls meeting in juvie and conspiring to take over the world together. Although she never outright said it, we all knew that it was about her and Toni—Lizzie only told it when she’d done something terrible and was worming for Toni’s forgiveness.
The story is horrible, the details too horrific to be lies. But there was always one part that I thought could have been fabricated. In the story, the girls get into a fight with another duo, and even though they come out as the victors, ‘Michelle’ bursts into tears the moment that they are alone again. The story ends with ‘Lucy’ slapping her across the face for it.
The lesson in that story always evaded me; it was solely intended to make Toni feel guilty aboutsomething. But I could never reconcile myself with Michelle (aka, Toni) crying, even as a teenager in juvie.
