Far From You

50

FOUR MONTHS AGO (SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD)

Detective James is tall, at least six and a half feet, with slick dark hair and a worn plaid shirt. He sits on my mom’s red couch, and the cup of coffee looks tiny in his large hands.

My mom places her hand on my shoulder. “Sophie, this is ­Detective James. He has some questions for you.”

I’m ready to answer them. He’s safe. He’s police. If I just tell the truth, everything will be fine. He’s going to find her killer.

I have to repeat it a few times in my head before I can venture further into the room.

“Hi,” I say. “Do you want me to sit?” I ask.

“Hello, Sophie.” He stands up briefly to shake my hand and nods, short and clipped. His face is grim, like he’s seen it all and then some.

I sit down in my dad’s armchair across from the couch, folding my good leg underneath me. I stretch out my bad one, the flex brace on my knee only letting me get so far. My mom hovers in the doorway, arms folded, her eyes on the detective. I can hear Dad moving around in the kitchen, staying close so he can eavesdrop.

Detective James pulls out a notepad. “Sophie, can you tell me who attacked you and Mina?”

“No. He was wearing a mask.”

“You’d never seen him before?”

I frown. Did he not hear me? “I don’t know. He was wearing a ski mask.”

“But it was a man?”

“Yes. He was tall. Over six feet. That’s really all I can tell you about him. He had a big coat on; I’m not sure if he was heavy or thin.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Not at first. He…” I can feel my face scrunching as I try to think, and it pulls sharply on the stitches swirling across my forehead, ending at my hairline. “He said something. After he hit me. Right before I passed out, I heard him. He said something to Mina.”

“And what was that?” Detective James asks.

I have to think about it, pick it apart through the tumult of fear and pain and panic that had surged through me in that moment. “He said, ‘I warned you.’”

The detective scribbles something down on his notepad. “Had someone been threatening Mina? Had she been fighting with someone? Having problems with anyone?”

“I don’t know…I don’t think so. I—”

“Why don’t you tell me why you girls were out at Booker’s Point?” he interrupts. “Your mom says that you told her you were going to a friend’s place—Amber Vernon—but Booker’s Point is a good thirty miles away from her house.”

“We were going to Amber’s,” I say. “But Mina had to take a detour to the Point. She was meeting someone for a story.”

“A story?”

“She has an internship at the Beacon.” I stop, my lips pressing together tightly. “Had,” I correct myself. “She had an internship.”

“She didn’t tell you who she was meeting?” The skeptical note in his voice makes my mother bristle, the lawyer coming out in her face.

“No. She wouldn’t tell me. She said she didn’t want to jinx it. She was excited, though. It was important to her.”

“Okay,” Detective James says. For almost a minute, he’s silent, writing on his notepad. Then he looks up, and my mouth goes dry at the look on his face—someone zeroing in for the kill. “Booker’s Point is well known as the place to go for drug deals,” he says. “It would be understandable, for someone with your history, to return to bad habits.”

“We weren’t out there for a drug deal,” I say. “Test me again. Go get me a cup right now to pee in. I don’t care what anyone’s saying. Kyle’s lying. Mina was meeting someone for a story. Ask her super­visor at the paper what she was working on. Ask the newspaper staff. Go through her computer. That’s where you’ll find your killer.”

“And the drugs in your jacket?” Detective James asks. “Were those part of Mina’s story, too? Or did they just appear out of nowhere?”

I open my mouth, tears flooding my eyes, but before I can say anything, there’s Mom, striding to the center of the room. “I think that’s all for tonight, Detective,” she says firmly. “My daughter’s been through a great deal and she’s refused pain medication. She needs to rest.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but my mom is already hustling him out with the power of her stare and the authoritative click of her heels.

I’m left alone in the living room, my parents talking in low voices in the kitchen, so I slip upstairs before they notice.

I curl up on my bed, and a few minutes later my mother comes into my room. My mattress sinks down as she sits next to me.

“You did well,” she says. “You didn’t incriminate yourself. But this is just the first interview. There’ll be more as the investigation proceeds.”

I look straight ahead, unable to meet her eyes. “I didn’t relapse,” I say. “I know you don’t believe me, but I didn’t.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” she says. “It matters what the police think. You could be in a lot of trouble, Sophie. You need to be aware of that.”

I turn over on my back and finally look at her. “What matters is that they find Mina’s killer. They can’t do that if they think it was a drug deal. Because that’s not what happened. I don’t care if they charge me with possession—I only care about finding the person who did this.”

Mom flinches. “Well, I care what happens to you,” she says curtly. “I am doing everything I can to keep you out of trouble, Sophie. You’re seventeen; you could be tried as an adult. No offering drug tests, do you hear me?”

“I’m clean,” I grit out.

“Promise me.” Her fear has crept inside the room with us, thick and heavy. Her mouth, shark-bite red, trembles, and her fingers twist together. Mommy will always protect me, even when I’m destroying her.

“I promise,” I say.

It’s the only way, because I know my mother. She’ll never believe me, but she’ll do whatever it takes to keep this from ruining my life.

It’s the first thing I’ve done that isn’t about Mina.

It’s for me, and for Mom, who’d claw her fingers bloody fighting for me.

It feels like a betrayal.