Whisper Down the Lane, Clay Chapman [best short books to read txt] 📗

knees and beg for forgiveness. Do you understand that this is your one and only chance to do something right? To make this right and make it all go away? You get this shot once in a fucking lifetime, my friend, and it’s right here, right fucking now. You lawyer up, so help me, you’ll never get this chance again.

MERRIN: This is your chance to atone. To confess.

BURSTYN: You know what they do to fucks like you in prison, Richie? Do you know what they will do to you when they find out why you’re there? You won’t last a fucking night, Richie. You won’t live to see your first fucking sunset.

MERRIN: Richard. Please. This is your last chance. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t do this to the people you love. Your family. Talk to us. Before it’s too late.

BELLAMY: (…)

MERRIN: Richard?

BELLAMY: I want my lawyer.

(INTERVIEW TERMINATED.)

DAMNED IF YOU DON’T

 RICHARD: 2013

There’s an elderly woman in the police station parking lot who won’t stop staring at me. I’ve never seen her before in my life. She’s not a part of the influx of young homeowners. Definitely old Danvers. Born, and born again, right here. Her shoulders sag forward, her spine drooping like a question mark that lost its lower bulb. She pushes an empty cart through the lot, halting long enough to take me in.

She’s wearing a T-shirt two sizes too big for her frame. Printed on the front, it reads: jesus saves. On the back: because he shops at walmart.

She’s looking at me like we know each other. Have always known each other. Her eyes trail after me as I leave the station. The woman won’t stop staring, even after I open the passenger door to Tamara’s Cherokee and duck in. We lock eyes once more through the window.

Miss Betty. She looks exactly like Miss Betty. I haven’t thought about her in years. She smiles at me, as if she’s just recognized me, and waves. The moment her hand fans through the air, it blurs. Her fingers distort into a hazy smudge. Her lips pull back to expose a row of dried corn kernels. Diced vegetables spill from her mouth, green beans and cubed carrots tumbling down her chin. I pinch my eyes shut and push the image away as Tamara pulls out from the lot.

I spent eight hours at the precinct. Whenever I insisted on leaving, Detective Merrin found an excuse to keep me. Just one more question, he kept saying. Hold on a minute…

One more thing…

Almost done…

This was a game to them. There were no formal charges. Not yet. Merrin considered me permissible to be at large, which meant I was free to go. I wasn’t considered a flight risk.

We’ll be keeping an eye on you, Merrin said. Don’t go too far, okay?

Where would I even go? Where could I run to now? They had already found me.

The Others.

I haven’t slept for days. I’m losing track of time. I can’t think straight. There’s a persistent buzz in my head that only I can hear, like a paper wasp’s nest, like Dunstan’s humming, throwing me off balance. I can’t keep my equilibrium. Everything feels fuzzy around the edges. The sharp corners of the building look like carpet fibers to me. As soon as I stepped out of the station, the sunlight jabbed their beams directly into my eyes, fueling a slow-mounting migraine that’s only grown worse in the Jeep. The cars, all the surrounding people, everything around me is out of focus. I can’t see people’s faces. Their features look gauzy. I can’t help but think they’re all staring. Smiling at me.

“I just want to go home,” I say—I think I say—out loud. Tamara doesn’t respond. I don’t know if I said it loud enough. But I need to go home. Crawl into bed. Sleep. Never wake up.

Tamara hasn’t said a word since she arrived at the station. Her eyes remain on the road, never meeting mine. I’ve tried talking to her, thanking her for—

Rescuing me.

—picking me up but she doesn’t answer. I wonder if she heard me, if I’m even talking. I keep quiet, keep to myself, my focus drifting out the window to all the people on the street.

Others.

Turning their heads.

Others.

Staring back.

Others.

Smiling.

“Is it true?” Tamara asks the windshield.

I turn to her, grateful to hear her voice. I wish she would look at me. Please, just look at me. See me. But she won’t make eye contact. Won’t acknowledge that I’m right next to her.

“It’s not what you think it is…” My voice is hoarse, my throat feels like sandpaper.

“Just tell me it isn’t true. What they’re saying.”

“Tamara, please—let me explain.” I realize how hollow it sounds. There are so many things that aren’t true, it’s impossible to list them all. Even I can’t make the words sound right. Not when I’m this exhausted. This empty.

“I can’t let you back into our house—anywhere near Elijah.”

“I would never hurt Eli. Never.”

“Then…how?” She shakes her head, searching for the right rendition of how. There are so many versions to pick from. Which how fits here? “He showed me, Richard.”

“Showed you what?”

“The bruises. On his arm. I saw them this morning.”

“I—” My train of thought snaps like a bone. “Did he say how he got them?”

Where did these bruises come from? Such a simple question.

“He wouldn’t tell me. But his arm is black-and-blue.” Tamara’s foot presses on the gas, reflexively revving the engine.

Who did this to you?

“All I can think about is that woman, that mother, and her little girl. What they said about you.”

Was it your teacher?

“They’re lying, Tamara—”

“That girl pointed at you. She looked right at you.”

“It’s not true—”

“She said your name. And then I—I see Eli’s bruises and he told me about how you shouted at him and—”

“I never laid a hand on Eli!”

“What about Weegee?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you know what happened to him?”

I don’t respond.

“Did you do something to him?”

“No! I…”

“I went into your studio. Jesus, Rich, I found