Page 92 of The Way I Used to Be
The woman looks at me dead on. “Eden, right?”
Breathless, I try my best to respond: “Yeah.”
“Can we speak privately? Caelin, Mrs. McCrorey, Officer Mitchell will be in to speak with you two shortly.”
I start toward my room, her footsteps trailing behind me.
“May I sit?” she asks, gesturing to my bed.
I nod. My heart is racing. My hands are shaking. My skin is crawling. She sits down, and the bed creaks like it’s spilling its secrets out all over the place.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right.”
“Okay, but I really don’t know anything.” Too jumpy, Edy. Calm down.
“Really?” she asks. “Because you didn’t seem at all surprised when Officer Mitchell told your family about the allegations against Mr. Armstrong.” That’s not a question, though. I don’t know how I’m supposed to answer, so I just stare. “I’d be interested in knowing why that is.”
“Why what is?” Play dumb, that’s it.
“Eden, if you have any information or knowledge regarding the Armstrongs, now would be the time to tell us.”
“I don’t, though. I swear. I had no idea he was doing that to her.”
“Doing what, Eden?” she asks, pretending to be puzzled.
“I don’t know. Whatever he was doing, whatever he did, I don’t know.” Oh God, she sees right through me.
“All right. Then back to my initial question?”
“Why I wasn’t surprised, you mean?”
“So, youweren’tsurprised?”
“No, I—I was. I was surprised—am, I mean, Iamsurprised,” I stammer.
“No,” she says slowly, “your mother and father and brother were surprised—shocked—but not you. Can you tell me what was going through your mind?”
“Nothing, I don’t know, I wasn’t thinking anything.”
“You had to have been thinking something?” And she looks at me with these eyes—these no-nonsense, no-bullshit, no-tolerance-for-lies-of-any-kind eyes. She looks so far inside of me, as if she can see everything. Everything I am, everything I’m not. I count the seconds of her staring into my soul: One. Two. Three. Four. Fi—
“Let me ask another question, then. Do you think that these allegations against Mr. Armstrong are plausible—just in your own opinion?”
“I don’t know. How should I know? I mean, I wouldn’t know.”
“I have to say, you seem awfully agitated, Eden. Are you hiding something because you think you’re protecting Mr. Armstrong?”
“Protecting? No. And I’m not hiding anything, really.”
“Eden, I’ll be frank with you,” she says, folding her hands neatly one over the other in her lap. “I personally spoke with Amanda, and she specifically mentioned your name. Told me I should be talking with you.” She gently points her finger at me through her clasped hands. “Do you know why?”
I shake my head too hard back and forth, back and forth.
“Well, she seemed to believe that you may have some kind of information about Mr. Armstrong. Kevin,” she adds, as if she knows the spark of rage that just the sound of his name sets off inside of me.
I watch her watching my hands shake. I cross my arms and tuck my hands under my arms.
“Amanda told me about an incident that happened at school earlier this week. She said you became highly... emotional when discussing—”
