I Was Here(82)

             “Except she caused her death,” Richard says. “That’s the definition of suicide.”

             Richard and I glare at each other. “Bradford made her do it.”

             “Which makes going to see him a brilliant idea!” Ben fumes.

             “You knew I was looking for him,” I shoot back.

             “I don’t know shit, Cody. Because for the last six weeks, you’ve refused to talk to me.”

             “I’m talking to you now. I spent the last six weeks trying to smoke this guy out.”

             “And how’d you do that?” Richard asks, his gaze ping- ponging between Ben and me.

             “Harry helped, but mostly it was me. I kind of posed as someone who was suicidal. You know, me appetizing mouse. Him hungry snake.”

             “Jesus fucking Christ, Cody!” Ben exclaims. “Are you insane?”

             “You mean like Meg was?”

             That shuts him up.

             “How does one do that? Pose as suicidal?” Richard asks. “My only experience is the opposite. Someone suicidal posing as okay.”

             I could bullshit. I could say I lied, made it all up. But I tell the truth. “I found the part in me that was tired of living,” I say quietly. “And I put her out there.” I look down, unable to face their shock, or anger, or disgust. “I suppose that does make me insane.” I sneak a peek at Ben, but he’s staring hard at the fire.

             “Nah,” Richard says. “Everyone goes there. Everyone has their days. Everyone imagines it. But you know why my pop says that suicide is a sin?” He points his thumb toward the house, where Jerry is now helping Sylvia with the rest of the dishes.

             “Because it’s murder. Because only God can choose when it’s your time to go. Because stealing a life is stealing from God.” I parrot all the awful things people said about Meg.

             Richard shakes his head. “No. Because it kills hope. That’s the sin. Anything that kills hope is a sin.”

             I chew on that for a while.

             “So what do you expect to accomplish? Now that you’ve found this guy?” Ben asks in a strangely formal tone.

             “He has to be liable, somehow, as an accessory, or something.”

             “So call the cops,” Ben says.

             “It’s not that simple,” I say.

             “Have you told Meg’s family?” he asks.

             “You’re missing the point,” I reply.

             “None of this will bring her back,” Richard says. “You know that, right?”

             Yes, I know that. That’s not the point, either, though the point is muddled. But I can’t go to the cops or go to Meg’s family. I have to do this—do something—by myself. For Meg.

             And for me.





32

             I wake up the next morning to the international coalition of Zeller children leaping onto the couch. I get up, get dressed, and am helping Sylvia with the toaster waffles when Ben pads out, rubbing his eyes.

             “Want to get coffee on the road?” I ask him.

             “You’re leaving already?” Sylvia asks.