Page 107 of Before We Fell

And Riley’s screams? They still rang in my ears over a week later. I couldn’t scrub them enough to erase that eardrum piercing, high-pitched tenor that rang throughout the house so loudly it was a wonder windows hadn’t shattered from it.

And ironically? Riley was doing better. The night all hell broke loose, my parents took her home, immediately called her therapist, who made a house call to talk to her. With her guidance and presence the next day, we’d allowed Ryan and Nate, another officer in Carlton to come to my parents’ house and question her to be certain he was the man who she saw shoot her parents.

I’d been vehemently opposed to it, but Clara and Ryan promised to go gentle with her. Taking cues from his own mom, Ryan had quietly and patiently asked Riley a quick series of questions. My mom had wrapped Riley in her arms, settled her on her lap. Watching my niece’s tiny little hands trembling like we were in the middle of an earthquake as she pointed to his pictures again, mugshots from various years, immediately picked out amongst pages of other criminals, had made me leave the room.

She was only fucking eight years old. She never should have been put in such a position.

Mrs. Moore stopped by the next day, then the next. And through it all, I sat in the room, listening to Riley say what happened that night. The night Travis had shot her parents, swung the gun to her face and said, “If you speak, you’re next.”

Which had explained so damn much. The fear she’d kept bottled up, the revelation that the reason why she was so much more quiet around me was because she thought I would step in to defend him, because, according to what my sister said — I kept bad men out of jail.

Oh, the ways I’d fucking failed my niece was a weighted guilt on my shoulders that made it difficult to stand on the best days in the last week.

On the worst? I got drunk. Really fucking drunk. It worked to numb the thoughts running through my mind, of Lauren, Riley, of Amanda and Jake and how damn proud they’d be of Riley for being brave and bringing closure to all of us.

But no amounts of alcohol dulled the pain and confusion I felt when it came to Lauren.

I loved her. Loved her in a way I’d known a week ago she wasitfor me. In a way I’d imagined us having our own children. A back yard, larger than my current one, filled with swing sets and littered with sports equipment. In a way I’d imagined her walking down an aisle toward me, dressed in white, her beautiful smile making my knees go weak at the sight of her.

But how in the hell did I move on with her now when her brother killed my sister?

And how couldn’t I? If anyone could help me get past this, it was Lauren. Yet how could I look at her and not see his eyes, the same damn eyes in his mugshot photos, staring back at me.

I owed her a conversation, something I’d been ignoring.

I just needed some damn time to figure it all out.

But my priority first was Riley. It was getting her settled, it was getting her the help she needed to heal. It was giving her peace and comfort and the only way I could think to do that was to keep her close to me and my parents, away from school where she’d never been fully comfortable, and away from Lauren.

Even though every day, Riley asked about her. “Soon,” I kept saying, putting her off.

She missed her teacher. She missed what Lauren was becoming to us outside of school.

It was only me who didn’t have the guts to face her.

“You look like crap,”my dad said. We were at my house and I was hungover as hell. Last night, Ryan had dragged me home from the club where I’d gone to drink. A pounding pain thumped against my brain and no amount of ibuprofen that day had helped.

Riley was still at my parents. I’d wanted the day to myself, a day of not working, a day without interruptions and quiet to figure my shit out.

It shouldn’t have surprised me that my dad showed up, uninvited, using his own spare key to let himself into my house.

I glanced at him over my shoulder from my sprawled out position on the couch. “Feel like crap,” I replied and went back to staring at the television. ESPN was on. Re-runs of old college championship games I wasn’t paying a lick of attention to because no matter how hard I tried to focus on the television screen, my gaze kept seeking the back yard. The path to Lauren’s, where I’d ripped down the lights earlier that week in a fit of childish rage.

If I hadn’t, would she have come over? Would she have taken the steps to talk to me even though I hadn’t returned her text messages asking if we were okay?

And did I even want her to?

My dad, aware I was avoiding him by staring at the television, took a seat on the other couch and kicked his feet up onto my coffee table. I shoved my head deeper into the pillow so I couldn’t see him.

“Talk to Lauren?” he asked, as nonchalant as could be. Like we’d had plans that day or something. Like I wanted him there. Like it made complete sense I’d pick up the phone and call her.

“Hey, heard your brother couldn’t make bail and is in jail until his trial. Pretty great, huh?”

I mean, Jesus. What was I supposed to say to her?

“No.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then two. Then twelve. I counted each second he didn’t say anything, waiting for him to strike, knowing, without doubt, I’d hate it when he did.

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