Page 87 of Thicker Than Water
There was a moment, this morning, as we sniped and snarled, threw flaws in each other’s faces like grenades, that I worried we might never sit this close again.
“And I lashed out at you,” she adds, taking my hand with her bandaged one, her fingers almost tentative as they slide between mine. “I said… awful things.”
“You said true things, too.”
Your silence is distance.You keep everything all locked up, refuse to say anything a little bit hard.
I should have known: even at my quietest, Sienna always heard me. Even when she couldn’t make out the words, she could see them there, bulging in my throat.
“So did you,” Sienna says. She pulls back a little to wipe her nose with her free hand, and I recognize the fear that wrenches her face.
Maybe we’ve both been holding each other back.
Is that one of the true things I said?
I look down at our hands. Our grip on each other is looser than usual. Our palms, untouching, cup a pocket of air.
“But hey—” Sienna says, forcing mock cheer into her voice. “At least we know Jason didn’t actually cheat on you. At least he’sjusta murderer, right?”
She laughs, bitterly, before crumpling forward, collapsing into sobs. I rub her knuckles and don’t bother to shush her, don’t mutter soothing sounds. I let her cry, feeling each of her tearful gasps like a fist in my chest, pressed against my own pain.
It should be a comfort—the idea that Jason didn’t cheat. It should probably unclench something inside me. But mostly, I’m confused. Why would Maeve tell us that, instead of what really happened? Why cover for Jason, if it meant spinning a scenario where she shared the blame?
“God, thoseemails,” Sienna says. “Sorry about last night, it was a big mistake. Of course you assumed it was an affair; why would you ever think he’d write so casually aboutkillingsomeone? And no wonder Maeve didn’t want to talk to him—she’d seen himstab a manthe night before, and then he was just like, ‘Go home, Maeve, I’ll take care of it!’?”
Sienna lifts her head, tears shining on her cheeks. “And Gavin died from suffocation, not blood loss. Which means he was still alive when Maeve left. Which means when Jason emailed her the next day, talking about hisbig mistake last night, she probably didn’t even know he’d killed Gavin. She probably thought he cleaned up his wound and left.” Sienna bats at her tears. “It’s so fucked-up.”
I nod, slowly. But I’m only partially following Sienna’s words, distracted instead by my memory of those emails. If I’m recalling correctly, it’s another puzzle piece that isn’t fitting the way it should. Just like Jason’s insistence that Maeve drove Gavin home that night, or Jason’s motive for stitching a dead man’s lips.
I lean away from Sienna, pulling my phone from my pocket. To get to the screenshots we took of the emails, I have to bypass the photo of Jason’s blazer, and I pause on it a second as Sienna peers at the screen.
“I know,” she groans. “Eventhiswasn’t enough for me. Because you were right, I’ve been so blind when it comes to—”
“No, look,” I interrupt, swiping to the screenshots, then zooming in. “I want to apologize again about what happened last night. And I need to know that you’re okay. You’re not answering my calls, so if I don’t hear back from you soon, I’m coming over.”
Sienna scoffs—such a small sound, but I still hear her tears in it; they thicken her throat, her voice, even the air between her lips.
“Yeah, great move, Jason,” she says. “She’s not answering your calls because she’s fucking traumatized, so maybe leave her alone.”
I nod again. But as I read Maeve’s response, a chill crawls over my skin: “Don’t come over. I told you when you left the house last night that you need to stay away from me from now on, and I meant it.”
I review it another time, silently, and I become so still that my body forgets to breathe.
Sienna flicks her gaze from the screen to my face, then back again. “What?” she asks.
I point to the line that’s frozen me. “I told you when you left the house last night that you need to stay away from me.” I look at Sienna, who still seems stumped.
“We assumed ‘left the house’ meant Maeve’s house,” I explain. “But she must be talking about Gavin’s. Only—Jason said he toldherto leave.”
“It’s probably a typo. She probably meant ‘when I left.’?”
“Maybe,” I agree. “Or maybe she didn’t leave when Jason told her to. Maybe she saw everything that happened.”
Sienna frowns, wiping her nose again. “Does it matter?” she asks. “Jason confessed.”
I give myself a moment before I answer, playing back everything he told us. Sienna’s right; he did confess, more or less. Any prosecutor would probably be satisfied. Jason accounted for opportunity (he was there, in his boss’s backyard) and means (his knife in Gavin’s stomach). And even motive: he was desperate to rescue Maeve, whether she needed to be or not. Moreso, like Sienna said, he was desperate to rescue himself—from the guilt of his past, from the men he didn’t speak out against, the women those men might have hurt.
Even still, there was one thing missing from his account of that night.
