“The police will talk to him,” I told her.
She slammed her fists against the table. “Do you know how ridiculous you sound? Like a spoiled child! How will you feel when the police look into this and discover Brian wasn’t involved?”
“I’ll be relieved.” I started crying again. “I hope I’m wrong about this.”
“Let’s talk this out,” Mom said. She pulled her chair closer to mine and sat. She leaned on her elbows, her hands reaching in my direction. Pleading. “Let’s go over the timeline again. There must be an explanation. Something that doesn’t line up.”
Before I had a chance to respond, the doorbell rang. Mom looked toward the front. “Who is that?”
“The police,” I whispered. I lowered my head.
“No, Della,” she said. “You can’t.”
But I already had. After I’d returned from Amber’s house, I’d called the tip line. This time, I asked to speak with Detective Jeffries by name. I told him my name, my real name, and that I thought my brother might be connected to the missing women at SCU. I told him I’d found the IDs in his bedroom. After we hung up, I went downstairs, hid the phones and waited for Mom to wake up.
I walked to the front door and opened it.
“Are you Della Mayfair?” an officer asked. Several other officers stood behind him, waiting to tear apart our home and our lives.
“Yes.” I stepped back.
Mom wailed in the background. As the officers approached her, she started screaming. “She’s a liar. That little bitch doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
The officers tried to calm her, which only made her rage more. I felt scared. I knew Mom’s reaction would be bad. I didn’t want her to get in trouble. Or hurt. Eventually they took her into another room, but I could still hear her broken screams.
“Della,” the officer said, trying to distract me from Mom’s outburst. “This is very important. Have either of you contacted your brother today?”
I shook my head.
“Are you sure?” he asked again.
“I just now told her what I found,” I said. I handed him the Ziploc bag and sat down.
For a split second, the officer’s stern expression cracked. I was a teenage girl doing the unthinkable. I was accusing my brother of a horrendous crime. My mother was having a nervous breakdown on the other side of the wall. I saw the sorrow in his eyes as clearly as he saw the fear in mine.
“You’re doing the right thing, Della,” he said. “It’s going to be okay.”
I didn’t feel okay about it. Not for a long time. That lonely pain consumed my life for what felt like years. It lasted longer than anything else. The arrest was quick, as was the sentencing. The press dubbed Brian the Sterling Cove Stabber. I didn’t think the press would ever drop Brian’s story, but eventually even the articles subsided. I left school and cut ties with everyone, even Danny. Mom and I took her maiden name and left Wilsonville for northern Florida. But the pain followed us. I didn’t know if it would ever go away.
I used to make myself sick thinking about different alternatives. If Brian never knew I’d visited Amber that weekend. If I’d only told Detective Jefferies about my suspicions the first time I called the tip line. If I’d only acted sooner. If I’d only done more… Amber would still be here.
Brian’s crimes were notorious. People remembered the college freshman who managed to kill six female students in under six months. They often forgot about the ex-girlfriend in his hometown who also lost her life. I never forgot. Amber was my cross to bear. Amber was my fault. On the nights I blamed myself most, I repeated the responding officer’s words to myself:
I did the right thing. I did the right thing. I did the right thing.
Forty-Four
Now
As I creep closer to consciousness, I hear Danny. He’s in conversation with another man about my condition. I pull at the tight sheets covering my legs. When Danny sees me, he immediately ends his discussion and comes closer.
“Della,” he spits, before adopting his calm bedside manner. “Della, are you awake?”
“What happened?” I ask, as the throbbing in my head returns.
I recall my most recent memory. I was running along the fields. I fell, and something cracked against my skull.
“I’ll speak with her,” Danny says to the other man, a doctor. I’m not sure the tactic would have worked with any husband, but the man shows Danny some professional courtesy by quietly exiting the room. He closes the door on his way out. Danny turns to me. “You had a nasty fall. An ambulance brought you in.”
“A fall?” I ask. I remember slipping. Had I hit my head on the pavement hard enough to knock me out? I didn’t think so. I recalled being hit a second time by something else. The specifics are rushing in so quickly, nothing quite makes sense. The most important detail comes into focus, the fear making me hold my breath. “The baby. Danny, is the baby—”
“The baby is fine.”
He squeezes my hand, signaling it’s okay to breathe. It’s okay to feel. I begin crying immediately. I’m consumed with my own foolishness and regret. What if I’d been more injured? What if I’d lost the baby due to my own stubbornness? I didn’t realize how devastated I’d be until this moment.
Danny gives me a few minutes to regain my composure. He’s relieved I’m all right—that we’re all right—but underneath that relief is anger. I jeopardized more than just myself, and he’s going to make sure I know it.
“The police were responding to a noise complaint when they found you beside your car,” he said. “Can you tell me what you were doing at some high school party?”
“I called the police,” I say, leaning my head against the pillow. “I was only there because I wanted to prevent something bad from happening.”
“Something bad?”
“You know what happened at the
