Tess Sharpe - Far From You

“Here.” Warm fingers close over mine, placing the pump in my palm. I push the button and wait.

Slowly, the pain retreats. For now.

“Your dad went to get coffee,” Trev says. He’s in a chair next to my bed, his hand still covering mine. “Want me to find him?”

I shake my head. “You’re here.” The morphine makes my brain fuzzy. Sometimes I say stupid stuff, I forget things, but I’m almost positive he hasn’t visited before.

“I’m here,” he says.

“Mina?” I breathe.

“She’s at school. I got out early. Wanted to see you.”

“You okay?” I ask. There’s a fading bruise on his temple. He’s sitting in a weird position, his leg straightened out like it’s in a cast. But I can’t prop myself up enough to see how bad he’s hurt. Mina has a cast on her arm, I remember suddenly. The nurses and my mom had to force her to leave last night; she hadn’t wanted to go.

“I’m fine.” He strokes my fingers. They’re pretty much the only part of me that isn’t bruised or broken or stitched together.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Sophie, I’m so sorry.”

He buries his face in the sheets next to me, and I don’t have the strength to lift my hand to touch him.

“’S’okay,” I whisper. My eyes droop as the morphine kicks in further. “Not your fault.”

Later, they’ll tell me that it was his fault. That he ran a stop sign and we got T-boned by an SUV going twenty above the speed limit. The doctors will explain that I flatlined on the operating table for almost two minutes before they got my heart started again. That my right leg was crushed and I now have titanium rods screwed into what little bone remains. That I’ll have to spend almost a year walking with a cane. That I’ll have months of physical therapy, handfuls of pills I have to take. That I’ll have a permanent limp, and my back will cause me problems for the rest of my life.

Later, I’ll finally have enough and cross that line. I’ll crush up four pills and snort them with a straw, floating away in the temporary numbness.

But right now, I don’t know about what’s ahead for us, him and me and Mina. So I try to comfort him. I fight against the numbness instead of drowning myself in it. And he says my name, over and over, begging for the forgiveness I’ve already given.

NOW (JUNE)

My mom’s car is in the driveway when I get home. As soon as I open the door, I hear heels, brisk and sharp against the floor.

She’s immaculate, her straight blond hair in a slick bun. She probably came straight from court; she hasn’t even unbuttoned her blazer. ��Are you all right? Where have you been?” she asks, but doesn’t pause for me to answer. “I’ve been worried. Macy said she dropped you off two hours ago.”

I set my bag onto the table in the foyer. “I left you a note in the kitchen.”

Mom looks over her shoulder, wilting a little when she sees the notebook paper I’d torn off. “I didn’t see it,” she says. “I wish you would’ve called. I didn’t know where you were.”

“I’m sorry.” I move toward the stairs.

“Wait a moment, Sophie Grace.”

I freeze, because the second Mom gets formal, it means trouble. I turn around, schooling my face into a disinterested mask. “Yes?”

“Where have you been?”

“I just went for a walk.”

“You can’t leave whenever you like.”

“Are you putting me under house arrest?” I ask.

Mom’s chin tilts up; she’s ready for war. “It’s my job to make sure you don’t fall back into bad habits like before. If I have to restrict you to the house to do that, I will. I refuse to let you relapse again.”

I close my eyes, breathing deeply. It’s hard to control the anger that spikes inside me. I want to break through the ice-queen parts of her, shatter her like she’s shattered me.

“I’m not a kid. And unless you plan on staying home from work, you can’t stop me. If it’d make you feel better, I can call you to check in every few hours.”

Mom’s mouth flattens into a thin slash of pearly-pink lipstick. “You don’t get to make the rules, Sophie. Your previous behavior will no longer be tolerated. If you step one toe out of line, I’ll send you back to Seaside. I swear I will.”

I’ve prepared myself for these threats. I’ve tried to examine every angle Mom might come at me from, because it’s the only way to stay a step ahead of her.

“In a few months, you won’t be able to do that,” I say. “As soon as I turn eighteen, you can’t make any medical decisions for me. No matter what you think I did.”

“As long as you live under my roof, you’ll follow my rules, eighteen or not,” Mom says.

“You try to send me back to Seaside, and I’ll leave,” I say. “I’ll walk out that door and never come back.”

“Don’t threaten me.”

“It’s not a threat. It’s the truth.” I look away from her, from the way her hands are shaking, like she’s torn between holding and hurting me. “I’m tired. I’m going up to my room.”

She doesn’t try to stop me this time.

I haven’t been allowed a lock on my door since forever, so I shove my desk chair against it. I can hear Mom climb the stairs and start to run a bath.

I shove all the clothes off my bed, taking off the sheets and blankets and pillows, too. It takes me three tries to flip the mattress, both my legs shaking at the effort. Panting, I finally succeed, my back protesting all the way. I step over the pile of sheets and blankets and pull a notebook from my bag. There are loose pages stuck between the bound ones, and I shake them out on top of the mattress before going over and grabbing tape and markers from my desk.

It takes only a few minutes. I don’t have much to go on—yet. But by the time I’m done, the underside of my mattress has been turned into a makeshift evidence board. Mina’s junior-year picture is taped underneath a scrap of paper labeled VICTIM , and the only picture I have of Kyle is taped under SUSPECT . The picture’s an old one from the Freshman Fling when all our friends went together. Mina and Amber and I are crowded to the side, laughing as Kyle and Adam are caught midshove and Cody looks on disapprovingly. We look young, happy. I look happy. That girl in the picture has no idea that her entire life’s gonna get trashed in a few months. I circle Kyle with my Sharpie before moving on. To the side of the picture, I tape my list, the number one question: WHAT STORY WAS MINA WORKING ON?

In smaller letters, I add: Killer said “I warned you.” Were there threats before this? Did she tell anyone?

I stare at it for a while, imprinting it in my head before I turn the mattress right side up and remake the bed.

I peer out into the hall, checking to make sure Mom’s still in the bathroom. Then I grab the cordless—tomorrow I’ll ask her if I’m allowed a cell phone—and take it into my bedroom.

I punch in a number; three rings before someone picks up. “Hello?” says a cheery voice.

“It’s me,” I say. “I just got out. We should meet.”

THREE MONTHS AGO (SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD)

It takes only a few days at Seaside for it to really sink in: Mina is dead. Her killer’s running free. And no one will listen to me.

Nothing has ever made less sense.

So I sit in my room, on my cramped little bed with its polyester sheets. I go to Group and am silent. I sit on the couch in Dr. Charles’s office with my arms folded, staring straight ahead as she waits.

I don’t talk.

I can barely even think.

At the end of my first week, I write a letter to Trev. A pleading, cramped soliloquy of truth. Everything I’ve wanted to say for so long.