“Throat-punch?” Kincaid smirked and cocked a brow. “I aim lower, honey, just so you know.”
Shaw hid behind Taryn. “Ouch.”
Taryn laughed. “Yeah, don’t wrong this one. Remind me to tell you about a certain guy in high school, a wandering eye, and a car full of dog food.”
“It was more than his eye that wandered,” Kincaid said flippantly. “Now, get yourself ready to inspire and amaze. You’re on in three minutes.” She gave a little wave and walked off to check on things.
Taryn turned in Shaw’s arms. “You sure you want to stay for this? It may be…hard.”
In the longer video, they’d had survivors do testimonials. Even knowing the stories, Taryn had sobbed watching the rough cuts Liv had sent her. She’d had to fight not to lose it when she gave her own testimonial. She couldn’t imagine what it was going to be like for Shaw to see all these people talk about losses his brother had caused.
He looked down at her and kissed the tip of her nose. “It’s supposed to be hard. That’s okay. I avoided anything having to do with Long Acre for a long time, but I need to be here for this. Seeing this program get into schools is important and personal to me, too.”
She let out a breath, still worried for him but also relieved to have him there with her. “Okay, then let’s do this. Save me a spot in the front row.”
Shaw gave her a quick kiss and then left her to go find their seats. She smoothed her suit jacket and then took her note cards out of her pocket. But after glancing at them briefly, she put them away just as quickly. She didn’t need this to be rehearsed. That was the mistake she’d made with the school board, speaking from an intellectual, scientific place—the safe place where she was just a professor reciting statistics, the place where she didn’t have to feel every bit of her grief. Tonight, she needed to be Taryn, not Dr. Landry. She knew what she wanted to say, and she needed to say it from her heart.
When the lights dimmed, Liv stepped out from backstage and up to the microphone to introduce her. Taryn turned, smiled, and walked up to the stage with her heart firmly attached to her sleeve. For so long, she’d protected that thing like it was the Hope diamond. Safe. Guarded. Lonely. She’d first started to unlock that vault when Liv, Rebecca, and Kincaid had come back into her life, but Shaw had helped put in the final numbers to that code. They’d taught her something she never would’ve believed before—that vulnerability was a superpower. Tonight, she had to wield that superpower with all her might.
She stepped behind the podium, took a deep breath, and looked out to the audience. “Thank you for coming. It means a lot to me to see so many of you here. Maybe you already know I’m a professor and that I’ve spent years studying this topic, but tonight, I’m standing in front of you not as the expert but as a survivor, pleading for your help. It’s been many years since I walked the halls of Long Acre High and a long time since that horrible night, but something like that never leaves you. The loss never leaves you. The news cycle moves on, but we are the ones left behind to deal with it.”
The audience was quiet, all eyes trained on her. She took a breath and went on.
“It changes who you are. The pain is always there. The people we lost never come back.” Her throat tightened. “Every day, I think of my younger sister, Nia. Every day, I miss her. I miss who she was, and I mourn who she could’ve become. That was stolen from her. It was stolen from me and my family. All of us who were there that night or who are connected to someone who was there walk around with holes inside ourselves, wounds that can never be healed. And I’d like to say it was a freak incident, that it was a one-time thing, that we were just unlucky, that no one else will have to walk around with these gashes ripped into them, but I can’t. I can’t because we are not alone in this grief. Since Long Acre, there have been so many more tragedies just like it that most of us have lost count. Every few weeks, another group of kids and teachers gets membership in a club no one wants to be in—the victims, the survivors, the traumatized, the grieving. Or worse, the perpetrators.”
She took another breath and caught Shaw’s gaze in the audience. “It’s time not just to say ‘enough’ but to do something. Not after the next tragedy. Not during it. Now. Before it happens again. Kids are hurting. Growing up is tough. But these tragedies don’t happen in a vacuum. Kids may be born with certain vulnerabilities, but they aren’t born killers. We are not helpless. We need programs in our schools and community that don’t just step in when it’s too late. We need all children to have access to supportive mentors, to mental health services, to their
community, to each other. We need to connect them to activities that will give them confidence and a sense of pride and belonging.
“We are most at risk when we are alone. Isolation breeds dark and dangerous things. Love and connection combat that.” She swallowed hard. “Love goes a long way. So I hope you’ll watch these stories and help me and the other survivors spread the information so that we can do something now. Doing nothing is no longer an option. Doing nothing is saying that we think this is okay. It’s not okay. We have to fight.” She put her hand to her belly without thinking.
“I don’t want my children to walk into school wondering if they’re going to make it home that day or if they’re going to become an only child overnight. I don’t want my children to ever feel what I and the people in these videos have felt. I hope you’ll join me in writing an ending to this story because none of us wants to see a repeat of it ever again. We have seen it far too many times already. Thank you.”
Taryn gripped the edge of the podium, feeling emptied out and laid bare, but when the applause started, she let herself breathe. She looked to Shaw and her friends, and they had the proudest looks on their faces, which just made her want to cry. Luckily, before she could lose it onstage, the lights went dark and the videos started. The opening guitar chords of the first song she’d written since she was a teenager filled the auditorium as the short video played.
She’d written “Nia’s Song” in the RV on the way back to Austin. After all the failed attempts at writing something before then, the words to the song had come to her unbidden on the road trip home, the lyrics coming from a place of healing, not a place of grief. Hope you like it, baby girl. She made her way back to her seat, took Shaw’s hand, and let the tears fall.
The intro video finished and the testimonials started. At some point, Taryn closed her eyes, listening to her classmates’ stories and leaning on Shaw. But after the first three survivors’ segments, the sound of a familiar voice had her eyes popping wide. She sat up straight as Shaw’s image filled the screen. She glanced at him, but he was looking straight ahead, his jaw tight.
She looked back to the screen, listening as Shaw’s segment began.
“My name is Shaw Miller, and fourteen years ago, my younger brother, Joseph, walked into senior prom with his friend Trevor and opened fire. I’m not here as a survivor, but I am here to tell you that I don’t believe my brother was born a murderer. When we were growing up, he was just a regular kid. He could be funny and annoying and sweet and smart. He could be all the things we all are sometimes. He could beat all my family at Monopoly. He loved the beach. He could win all the hardest video games.” On-screen, Shaw looked down at his hands, gathering himself.
“He also had things going on that we didn’t see because we weren’t paying close enough attention. Because we weren’t there enough. I realize now that he felt ignored. He felt slighted. He felt less than. I was not an involved big brother because I was too wrapped up in my own dreams. When he accused my parents of favoring me, I told him, ‘Maybe you should do something worth noticing.’” Shaw looked right at the camera, pain in his eyes. “Then, he did.”
The audience gasped, and Taryn’s chest squeezed tight. Shaw had confided in her the words that had haunted him for so long, but she never imagined he’d ever go public with them. She gripped his hand harder.
“Every day since then, I’ve blamed myself for what I said, for what I contributed to Joseph’s state. But I realize now that it was one small piece in a very big puzzle that created the monster Joseph became. If something like Dr. Landry’s program had existed back then, maybe Joseph would’ve had more of a chance, more people in his life to help. Families fail sometimes. Brothers let down brothers. Sometimes a dangerous turn in a person is so quiet that no one notices. We need to put as many safety nets as we can in place so that kids don’t fall through the cracks. Please join us in our fight. Don’t let there be another Joseph.”
The segment ended and Taryn looked to Shaw, her heart filling with so much love for him that she thought it might burst. His darkest secret, the one he’d protected most preciously, was now on display because he thought it would help sway people. He’d done this for her and for the program. He’d given her everything he had to give. She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek, breathing him in. “Thank you. I love you so much.”
“I love you, too, baby.” He gave her a soft smile. “Thank you for giving me the courage to say it. I needed to do that. I feel…better.”
She understood. Secrets smothered. They were both ready to breathe some fresh air.
“You’re amazing,” she whispered.
“You’re my favorite,” he whispered back.