Debatable.
Clearing my throat, I forge on, “Kacey was too close to the door and out of sight, I guess. Enzo never mentioned seeing another girl, and there was no way Dad would let Enzo see what he had done to her. He got lucky, I guess…” I trail off.
“Trinity,” the officer starts, then pauses, seeming to struggle with her words. “Why was it that Sylvester mutilated Kacey the way he did and not you?”
I look down, discomfort rattling in my bones. “He liked me more,” I choke, twisting my face at the implication. “He uh, preferred to… he liked me differently. So, he… punished us differently.”
Her face slackens, disgust and fury mingling in her eyes. But she quickly looks down, concealing her reaction toward something horrific and ugly, and fuck,notmy story.
Officer Bancroft scribbles notes down in her notepad, and it feels like tiny little bugs are nipping at my nerves, growing more aggressive the longer she writes.
Did I say something different than Enzo? Did she find a hole in my story and is writing down how much of a liar I am?
However, she finishes and lifts her head, smiling at me with nothing less than kindness.
“You mentioned there were several bodies buried in the cellar. Do you know who these people were?” she asks. She’s back to questions about the people who were found, and my panic once more heightens.
I look down, feeling almost dizzy from how pivotal this single question is. Enzo and I had thought long and hard about doing this after answering that call over the radio—about finally killing Sawyer Bennett. I knew that if I ever wanted to go on living without looking over my shoulder, she had to die.
“Enzo w-wasn’t the first to shipwreck on those waters. There were several. And Dad… he didn’t let them go. We-we were hidden away from them, so I never got to see them, but… there was one that made herself known.”
Bancroft leans forward, listening intently.
Swallowing, I explain, “She wasn’t adjusting well, and he thought my presence might help. I guess it did in some way, but I wasn’t any less miserable—”
I drag my fingers over my lips, cutting myself off.
“It’s okay,” Bancroft assures. “You’re allowed to say that.”
I nod. “Her name was Sawyer. Sawyer Bennett. We were… were friends, I-I think. She told me a lot about her life. But she… she always cried and screamed to be let go. One night, it stopped, and I never saw her again.”
Tears fill my eyes, and my bottom lip trembles. While the reason I’m crying is fabricated, it truly feels like I’m killing myself and who I used to be. It’s an emotion I’m having trouble putting a name to.
Grief, I suppose.
Maybe relief, too.
I sniff, wringing my hands together to abate my shaking hands.
“Dad wouldn’t tell us what happened, but I was heartbroken about losing her, so I went looking through his things to see if I could find why,” I croak, my voice raspy with unshed tears. “I… found this.”
I shift and reach into my back pocket, pulling out a letter, and handing it over to the officer with a trembling hand.
My heart is beating so hard, I can feel it in my ears. Bancroft’s brow furrows as she opens the letter and begins to read it.
Lying was never the worst of my sins, just the first of them.
The day I told my parents Kevin James Bennett was raping me, my mother slapped me in the face, and my father demanded I apologize for lying about something so sick.
They looked at me as if I was the abuser. How dare I ruin our perfect little family with these despicable lies? How dare I accuse my perfect brother of such a thing?
I wasn’t lying then. But I did after.
When I stood in front of my brother, head bowed, and tears streaming down my cheeks, and told him that I was sorry for my accusation. My parents stood on either side of him, arms crossed and frowns on their faces, ensuring that I said the words.
That was a lie.
After that, I got good at telling them.