We don’t talk much more on the way over. I feel anxious the closer we get to Megan’s old place. I haven’t seen her parents in years and haven’t been near her house since the night of the accident, and I’m not sure how I’m going to react. I love her mom, and her dad’s a decent guy for a clan asshole, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to talk to them since the funeral. Not until I called out of the blue to ask if we could see Megan’s old stuff.
On top of that anxiety, it’s a struggle to push the Turkish mob from my mind, but I keep feeling the bite of that blade against my throat. The slick, cold steel, coated in a fine mist of my blood. The memory lingers, and I know that at any moment the Turks could be back, looking for revenge. Rian makes me feel safe, but even still, doubts and fears linger. There’s only so much one man can do against an entire mob organization bent on killing me.
Rian parks outside of a small house in the middle of a quiet suburban block around the corner from a grocery store. Nostalgia washes over me, sudden and intense. A tsunami of conflicting feelings, of warm memories spent lying around Megan’s room listening to CDs and screwing around online, of laughing in her living room while watching a movie and drowning ourselves in popcorn, of sobbing until I threw up in the toilet after her funeral. All of it hits me at once, and I sit there unmoving and stare at the white vinyl siding, the gray shutters, the red door. There are more weeds in the flower beds, but it’s the same house it always was.
“You ready?” Rian asks and his voice is soft. Almost gentle, which is a first for him.
“Give me a second.” I close my eyes and take a couple of deep breaths. “I haven’t been here in a long time.”
“Just remember, this is important. If we don’t figure out what happened, nobody’s going to.”
I nod once and open my eyes. He’s right, if we don’t do this, then the world will move on without Megan in it and nobody will ever understand what really happened to her. She’ll be swept away by time, and I can’t let that happen.
“Let’s go,” I say and we get out of the truck together. Megan’s mom answers the door. She’s a woman about my height with light blonde hair beginning to go gray, wrinkles around her eyes, and a bright smile. She’s wearing jeans and a white top, and she gives me a big hug.
“Oh sweetie, I heard you were back. It’s good to see you.”
“How are you, Mrs. Byrne?”
“Call me Amy, please.” She blinks at me, grinning hugely. I think she’s fighting back tears. “It’s good to see you again. It really is. You used to be like another daughter, you know.”
I nod and refuse to let myself cry. “I’ve been away too long. I should’ve stopped by sooner. I just went to college and—”
“It’s okay, honey, you don’t need to explain. I’m sure it’s hard coming back here.” She glances over at Rian, her smile fading away. “And it must be hard dragging this one around.”
“Hello, Mrs. Byrne,” Rian says, sounding like the model of a polite young man.
She scowls at him before putting an arm over my shoulders and steering me inside. “I hear you want to see some of Megan’s old stuff. I don’t know what you’re up to, but feel free. I’ve got everything packed up in the attic, just sitting in boxes doing nothing. Take what you want, honey. I bet Megan would’ve wanted that.”
“Thanks so much, Amy.”
“Do you want something to drink? Something to eat? Let me feed you while you’re here.” She glances over at Rian. “Not you. Starve for all I give a shit.”
I try not to smile but it’s hard. I grin at him, and he rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling back. We know the truth about him, but what’s the use in trying to convince the world? Nobody will believe us, not until we have proof of what really happened. And besides, why not let Megan’s parents hold on to their anger? It’s better than letting them smother themselves in sorrow. Anger burns hot and holds some of the pain at bay. Let them have that.
Megan’s mom takes us to a pull-down ladder in the upstairs hall, and I climb up with Rian on my heels. The attic’s hot, stifling really, covered in plywood with bits of insultation floating around. Big plastic tubs sit in stacks near the soffit vents, stuffed into corners, some clothing and dollhouses and old toys flowing out like spillage.
“Let me know if you need anything, Daley,” Mrs. Byrne calls up. “I’ll just be in the kitchen.”