Page 122 of The Americana Playbook

“I just saw the picture. His jersey was acuteinformal touch.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Please tell my mother that.”

Abby cackles. “My husband and I also eloped.”

“Did you?” I ask. “Was your family on board with it?”

Abby’s shoulders shift side to side as we step through the small reception area, which I realize I’ve never been in even after all this time. “I didn’t tell them for a year, even though it was well after my sister had died. I just… they’ve never been the same. But they’re happy for us. It will always be a different kind of happy though.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you lost a sister.”

“The heartbreaking thing is everyone was really on poor terms with her anyway.” Abby sighs. “I thinkshewould’ve been happy though. I married my childhood sweetheart, kind of like you.”

My cheeks round into a smile. It feels like I’ve learned something new about myself.

Abby reaches over the partition of the desk, and hands me a folder and a pen. “The first time we got married, we were eight and my sister was in kindergarten. We married right under that big oak tree. Sarah was the maid of honor.”

The pen slips from my fingers. Abby quickly retrieves it, but I stare as pieces of the puzzle finally begin to settle, painfully, together.

“Midnight was Sarah’s horse?” I spit out the question so quickly I nearly stumble over the words. I don’t know why it needs to leave my mouth so fast when I’m terrified of the answer.

Abby places the pen on top of the partition when I don’t take it. “Anyone who ever said animals don’t grieve could learn a thing or two from him. He’s never been alright since Sarah left.”

Left.

“Parker? Are you alright? You look a little pale.”

I shake my head. “Sorry. Could I trouble you for some water?”

“Stay there.” Abby points to a chair, and I sink down into it, trying to focus on my breathing as much as I can. But that becomes almost impossible no matter how hard I try.

Because when I lift my face from the ground, the thing I see on the wall is Sarah smiling at me.

* * *

Hours later, I sit in the chair in the den, my feet pressed up to the seat, hugging my knees. I keep staring at the search engine on the monitor, afraid to type anything.

Every time the screen falls asleep and goes black, I reach out and wiggle the mouse to wake it. I’m not sure if I’ve done that fifty or five hundred times, but when the summer sky begins to darken outside the window, I realize if I don’t look now. I never will.

I typeSarahinto the search engine, followed byGriffen, Abby’s last name.

If the chair didn’t have wheels, I might’ve flipped it when I push back, driving my body away from the desk, away from the results.

PARENTS SUE THERAPEUTIC SCHOOL FOR WRONGFUL DEATH OF DAUGHTER.

TEENAGER DIES OF SEPSIS AFTER BEING DENIED MEDICAL CARE WHILE ATTENDING WESTERN MASSACHUSETTS BOARDING SCHOOL, PARENTS ALLEGE.

There are dozens of hits, right in front of me. I bring my shaking hands up, folding them over my face before I inch forward, using the mouse to scroll down, clicking on one.

Autopsy results show that Sarah Griffen died from peritonitis, an infection of the abdomen that, under proper medical care, is usually successfully treated with antibiotics…

I click the back button.

PROBE FINDS NO ISSUES AT THERAPY BOARDING SCHOOL WHERE TEEN DIED; NO STATE LICENSES REVOKED.

Immediately, I jump out of the chair and rush into the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet as I violently vomit.

* * *

---