What if no one believes me? Surely, I can’t be charged with something with no evidence.
What am I even saying? Why the hell am I even worried about this after my sister was just murdered? I shouldn’t have to worry about any of this. I should be mourning the death of my sister in peace, not—
Light knocking on my bedroom door snaps me out of my thoughts. Slowly, I push upright into a sitting position, just as my grandpa peeks his head around the door. At seventy-two years old, my grandfather is still as handsome as ever. His charming personality and funny jokes are exactly what I need right now. Just the sight of him, dressed in his usual flannel jacket, has me on the verge of tears. His form swims before me as he slips inside my bedroom and softly shuts the door behind him.
“Grandpa,” I choke out, finally losing the battle with my emotins.
“Shhh, Peanut.”
He lowers himself on the edge of my bed next to me, and I scoot closer, needing to feel his strength and the warmth of his presence. His smell hits me first. It’s a mixture of menthol for his arthritis and the pomade he still uses in the sparse hair on his head. Taking my hand in his, my grandpa squeezes, and I stare down at his bony, weathered hands, letting the tears carve hot trails down my cheeks.
“They don’t believe me. I don’t know what’s happening, but no one believes me.”
“They’re in pain, Mackenzie. Just like you are. We all deal with pain differently.”
My bottom lip quivers wildly. “He yelled at me for being in her room. I just … I needed to feel close to her, because … b-because I can’t believe this is true. I keep hoping I’ll wake up, and it’ll be over. I keep hoping I’ll open my eyes, and she’ll be there in her room.”
My grandpa sighs heavily, which prompts me to look up at him. I didn’t realize it, at first, but I can see he’s been crying. I can only imagine what a wreck my grandmother is.
“Well, your father always was an idiot,” he grumbles, referring to the fact that he never truly approved of my father for his daughter. “But this is real. This is a tragedy we’ll all have to deal with for the rest of our lives, Mackenzie. It’s not going away.”
I look down, causing the tears to plop onto my jeans. “I know,” I whisper in a wobbly voice. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye to her.”
“Not many people do.” He pauses thoughtfully. “How about we give your mom and dad a break, and you stay with Gram and me for a while? Until we can get this all cleared up.”
I nod, pushing to my feet at the same time he does. I start reaching for my bags but pause with my grip around the handle of my suitcase.
“You believe me, right, Jelly?”
“Peanut,” he says, pulling me into his arms. “I’ll always believe you. Always.”
I follow my grandpa down the stairs, my luggage thudding down each step. There are whispers. I can already imagine what my mother is speaking to her mom, my grandma, about.
I don’t know what we’re supposed to do from here. Where we’re supposed to go. All I know is I’m angry. So angry with everyone.
My parents for not believing me.
Madison for going to the rock when it was supposed to me.
Those bastards for taking away my sister, for ruining my entire life, and for stealing another life far too soon.
Instead of saying goodbye to my mom and dad, I roll my suitcases outside and wait by the Subaru. Maybe time away from each other is what we need. I know it can’t be easy for them to look at me. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror without seeing the lesser version of Madison.
My grandparents don’t live far from us, so the drive to their place doesn’t take long. In fact, it’s only about a fifteen-minute ride. As we pull onto the main street, leading to their house, I perk up, wiping the silent tears streaming down my face.
I don’t know how it slipped my mind, but it did. When we turn, driving down their street, my heart bangs against my chest. My eyes remain glued outside my window, looking for the two-story home. It’s only across the street and four houses down from my grandparents, but it’s there.
Unlike the rest of the royalty here, Marcus Whitehorn doesn’t live in a house that resembles a goddamn mansion. Instead, he resides here, with the rest of the normal population of Ferndale. His father, Mr. Whitehorn, one of the founding fathers, is a jerk from what I hear. He left Marcus’s mother years ago for his assistant, who is twenty years his junior. I guess during the divorce, Marcus decided to stay with his mother, instead of with his father in the big mansion on the other side of the hill.
Not that I blame him. If my stepmother was only a few years older than me, I’d want out, too.
My eyes narrow as we slowly pass in front of his two-story home, looking for any evidence that anyone is there. The lights are off, and no cars are in the driveway. Rage barrels into me, surging through my tense body as I replay the events of yesterday morning. The way they so callously pushed me away when I demanded the truth. The way they belittled me.
The house disappears from my view out the window as we pull into my grandparents’ driveway, but I’m quick to get out and stare. My lips thin into a grim line, and I grind my teeth together. The pain and anger build, simmering just at the surface. The only thing that brings me back is the soft, sad voice.
“Come on, baby. Let’s get inside.”
I follow my grandma in, never once letting the Whitehorn residence out of sight.
My stomach growls, but every time I get up to eat, I lose my appetite. It’s not right. I don’t deserve a decent meal.
Why should I get to eat when my sister no longer can?
I’ve kept mostly to myself for the rest of the evening. My grandparents tried to get me to eat, but just the thought of food made me sick to my stomach. It’s nighttime now. The moon gleams in through the window of the guest room, casting dark, gloomy shadows across the walls and floor. I’ve been in bed crying for what feels like the entire day. I don’t think I have any more tears left to cry, but then I surprise myself. All it really takes is one flashback with Madison to turn me into a blubbering mess.
As I blankly stare out the window, I notice something strange across the street. I rapidly blink, clearing away the fog of film over my eyes, and impetuously jump to my feet, running to the windowsill. Marcus’s Jeep pulls into the driveway, and he gets out. Completely alone.
My hands curl around the ledge. I don’t know what makes me do it, but before I can think better of it, I rip open one of my suitcases to yank out a sweater and then slip on a pair of my tennis shoes. I don’t bother going through the front door. It’s not that I’m sneaking out or hiding from my grandparents, but after everything that has happened, I don’t want to worry them.
I unlatch the lock in the center of the windowsill and lift. With no screen as a barrier, it’s easy to climb out and hop down onto the damp grass. The air is chilly. It creeps in through the material of my sweater, settling into my bones.
I march across the street with no plan in mind. I don’t even know why I’m going there. I just need to confront someone. I need him to apologize. I need someone to confess, so my sister can get justice.
I stomp up the steps, my ratty Converse almost slipping with how worn the bottoms are. I raise my fist, about to bang on the front door, when a voice to my right has me whirling around and a startled yelp flying from my lips. There, with a blunt hanging from his lips, is Marcus Whitehorn. He’s dressed in the same clothes as yesterday morning, only now, he’s wearing a sweatshirt to ward off the chill.