Tess Sharpe - Far From You

“I loved Mina,” I say. I’ve practiced it a hundred times, but this can’t sound rehearsed. “And her murder is something I have to deal with for the rest of my life. But Mina would want me to move on. She’d want me to be happy. And she’d want me to stay clean. So I’m going to do that.”

“And what about her killer?” Dr. Charles asks. “Do you feel ready to talk to the police about what you might know?”

“I loved Mina,” I say again, and this time my voice does shake. This time it’s the truth, and nothing but. “And if I knew who killed her, I would be screaming his name at the top of my lungs. But he was wearing a mask. I don’t know who it was.”

Dr. Charles leans back and examines me like I’m a fish in a bowl. I have to bite the inside of my lip to stop it from trembling. I keep my breathing steady, like I’m holding a difficult yoga pose and have to power through.

“She was my best friend,” I say. “Don’t you think I know how I screwed up? I barely sleep sometimes, thinking about what I could’ve done differently that night. How I could’ve stopped it. How it’s my fault. I know all of that. I just have to learn to live with it.”

This is the truth.

The guilt—it’s real. It just doesn’t come from the place that Dr. Charles thinks it does.

It is my fault. For not stopping Mina. For not asking more questions. For letting her act like a newspaper story was something to keep top secret. For following her lead, like always. For not being faster. For being crippled, unable to run or fight or do anything to protect her.

“I’d be happy to talk to Detective James again,” I say. “But he doesn’t think I’m the most reliable witness.”

“Do you blame him?” Dr. Charles asks.

“He’s just doing his job.” The lie feels like glass against my gums, the words grinding through my skin. Hating ­Detective James is second nature at this point. If only he’d listened to me…

But I can’t think about that now. I’ve got to focus. Mina’s killer is out there. And Detective James isn’t going to find him.

“I know going home will be hard. But I feel like you’ve given me the tools to handle everything way better than I used to.”

Dr. Charles smiles, and relief hits me like a two-by-four. She’s finally buying it.

“I’m delighted to hear you say that. I know we had a rocky start, Sophie. But our last few sessions, you’ve had a much more positive outlook. And that’s very important, with everything that’s ahead of you. Recovery is not easy, and the work never stops.” She checks her watch. “Your parents should be here by now. Why don’t I take you to the waiting area?”

“Okay.”

We walk in silence down the corridor, past the group session going on in the rec room. That circle of chairs has been my own personal hell for the last three months. To have to sit there and share with people I barely know has been excruciating. I’ve spent every minute lying my ass off.

“They must be running late,” Dr. Charles says when we get to the empty waiting room.

Right. Late.

She’s either forgetting our last strained family-day session or she honestly believes the best of people.

I don’t.

Which is why I wonder if my parents are late. Or if they’re just not coming.

THREE AND A HALF MONTHS AGO (SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD)

“Don’t make me do this. Please, Mom. I don’t need to go anywhere—I’m clean. I swear !”

“I don’t want to hear it, Sophie.” Mom snaps my suitcase shut and marches downstairs. I follow. I have to fight her. Make her believe me.

Someone has to.

My dad’s waiting for us at the front door, his coat over his arm like he’s off to work. “Ready?” he asks.

“Yes,” Mom says. Her heels click across the Spanish-tile floor as she takes her place next to him.

“No.” I plant myself at the bottom of the stairs, square my shoulders, and cross my arms. My bad leg shakes as disappointment bears down on me from both sides. “I won’t go. You can’t make me.”

My dad sighs and looks at his feet.

“Get in the car, Sophie Grace,” Mom orders.

I say it low and slowly. “I don’t need to go anywhere. I didn’t relapse. Mina and I weren’t out scoring. I’m clean. I’ve been clean for over six months. I’ll take any drug test you give me.”

“The police found the pills in your jacket, Sophie,” Dad says. His voice is hoarse and his eyes are red. He’s been crying. Crying over me. Over what he thinks I’ve done. “The bottle had your fingerprints on it. You were supposed to be at Amber’s house, but you girls were out at Booker’s Point instead. You were buying drugs. Even if you didn’t get around to taking the pills, you bought them—they didn’t just magically appear in your pocket. Seaside is the best choice for you right now. Do you know how hard your mother had to fight just so you wouldn’t get a drug charge on your record?”

I look desperately at each of them. Dad won’t even look at me; Mom’s face is frozen; she’s in ice-queen mode. Nothing will crack it.

I have to try.

“I’ve told you before, they weren’t mine. Detective James has it all wrong. We weren’t out at Booker’s Point for drugs—Mina was meeting someone because of a newspaper story. The police are going after the wrong people, and they won’t believe me. I need you to believe me.”

Mom rounds on me, the suitcase swinging in her fist. “Do you understand what you’ve put me and your father through? What about Mrs. Bishop? Do you care what she must be feeling right now? She’s already lost a husband, and now she has to lose her daughter, too! Trev will never see his sister again. And all because you wanted to get high.”

She spits out the words, and I feel like less than nothing. A speck on her shoe. Narrowing her eyes at me, she goes on, “So if you don’t get in that car, if you don’t go to Seaside and learn how to stay clean, I swear to God, Sophie…” Tears glimmer in her eyes as the anger evaporates.

“I keep almost losing you,” she whispers, and her voice trembles and cracks with the weight of the words. “This is what I should’ve done the first time, but I didn’t. I’m not going to make that mistake again.” Her voice hardens. “Get in the car.”

I don’t move. I can’t. Moving would be like admitting she’s right.

Six months. Five days. Ten hours.

That’s how long I’ve been clean, and I repeat it over and over to myself. As long as I focus on that, as long as I’m committed to making that number rise, minute by minute, day by day, I’m going to be okay. I have to be.

“Now, Sophie!”

I shake my head and grip the banister. “I can’t let you do this.”

All I can think about is Mina. Mina’s in the ground and her killer’s walking free, and the cops are looking in all the wrong places.

My dad grabs me around the waist, breaking my hold, and lifts me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. It’s gentle; Dad is always gentle with me, like how he used to carry me upstairs after the accident. But I’m done with his gentleness. It doesn’t make me feel safe anymore. I pound on his back, red faced, yelling, but it doesn’t stop him. He yanks the front door open, and my mother stands on the porch, watching us, her arms hugging her body like it’ll protect her.

He strides down the driveway and dumps me into the car, his face stony as he slides into the driver’s seat.

“Dad.” Tears are slick down my cheeks. “Please. I need you to believe me.”

He ignores me, fires up the engine, and drives.

NOW (JUNE)

My parents still haven’t shown up. Dr. Charles keeps checking her watch and tapping her pen against her knee.