We look at each other for another moment, long enough for Shaw to open an eye and gaze at us, and then Klingman has a few more questions to ask.
As Klingman is stacking his notes and closing file folders, I say, “So Donny Wharton killed Marisa and Sam Bridges.”
Klingman pauses. I notice he has on the same tie he wore when we first met, although the stain is gone. Klingman glances at Panko before saying, “I can’t speak to anything specific connected to an ongoing investigation.”
We shake hands, and Johnny Shaw and I take the elevator down to street level and walk outside. The downtown streets are busy, cars crawling around a lane blocked due to a county crew repaving, the stink of asphalt hanging in the air.
“What happened with the DNA test?” I ask Shaw. “I walked in thinking there’d be a lab tech waiting to swab my cheek.”
“They don’t need it anymore,” Shaw says. “They found other evidence.”
“What did they find?”
Shaw shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.” He squints at the traffic, looking for a cab—Gus is on vacation this week, and Shaw doesn’t trust ridesharing. I rode MARTA here, but instead of walking to the station, I hesitate.
“What Klingman was saying in there,” I say to Shaw. “When I asked if Donny killed them both. What did you think about his answer?”
Shaw blows his nose and tucks his handkerchief back into his pocket. “Officially, it’s boilerplate that keeps him from having to share anything,” he says. “Unofficially?” He looks at me pointedly. “Donny Wharton killed them both.” He raises his hand, conjuring a taxi to the curb.
I MEET COLEMAN at a Starbucks near my house, and we find a table among half a dozen patrons wearing earbuds and staring at their laptops. Coleman is horrified and fascinated in equal measure by my injured hand. I tell him I fought with a home intruder and it’s all okay now. “How’s Sarah?” I ask. “Is she still in the hospital?”
Coleman smiles. “Went home two days ago, as a matter of fact. She’s okay.”
I close my eyes and sigh with relief. “That’s good,” I say. And it is. Guilt still batters away at my heart, but at least Sarah’s okay. I take a breath. “I need to tell you about Marisa,” I say.
I tell him the abbreviated version of me and Marisa, how she became infatuated with me and stirred up my past. I gloss over Donny and Bridges as much as I can, but I do reveal that Donny was the one who caused my stitches. I say nothing about her phone.
When I stop talking, Coleman is floored. “So this Donny character, he killed Marisa?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
Coleman lets out a low whistle. “Are you all right?” he asks.
“I’m thinking about resigning, actually.” Just saying the words feels like a stone rolling over my heart.
Coleman raises his eyebrows. “Why?” he asks.
Now I stare at him. “The students must think I’m some sort of stalker creep,” I say. “I can only imagine what their parents must think. And Byron and Teri can’t be comfortable with me teaching there anymore.”
Coleman pulls out his phone, swipes at his screen a few times, and then holds the phone up. “You ought to see this.”
I peer at his screen to see a picture of what looks like a poster board with my name in the center, surrounded by handwritten notes—We love you, Mr. Faulkner! English teacher extraordinaire! Thou are the nonpareil!—and a cloud of signatures, including Mark Mitchell and Sarah Solomon. That stone I felt in my chest rolls away as if from the mouth of a cave, letting in sunlight. “What is this?” I ask.
“It’s from your AP English class,” Coleman says. “Sarah wanted them to sign a card in support of you. They had to get a poster board.” Coleman smiles down at the picture. “I saw Sarah just before she was discharged from the hospital. She’d already figured out that it was Marisa Devereaux on Twitter. ‘I knew it wasn’t Mr. Faulkner,’ she said.”
The image of the picture on his phone blurs, and I wipe tears away with my good hand. I’m a high school English teacher who likes poetry, I often tell people—I cry at everything. But hearing what Sarah said makes me want to sob. “That’s really nice,” I manage to say.
Coleman nods. “I think you’ll find Byron and Teri are willing to welcome you back to school,” he says. “If you want to come back.”
I laugh at that, a short bark through my tears. “What, back to that place? With those kids? Good God.” I wipe my eyes again. “But … I have to resign. Don’t I? I mean, I was having sex with Marisa at school. She manipulated students to get me a teaching award. She got murdered because she got wrapped up in my shit.”
Coleman thinks for a moment, brows knit together. “I can understand having mixed feelings about the Faculty Award,” he says. “Which, I have to tell you, is going to be awarded to Betsy Bales instead. And having sex with another teacher at school is probably not compatible with the highest principles of workplace behavior. But this Donny character killed Marisa, not you. And everyone’s figured out Marisa Devereaux was manipulative and tried to ruin your career. Unless the police are going to arrest you for her murder, I don’t see the school having a problem.” He puts a meaty hand on my shoulder. “As a priest, I talk to a lot of people who feel guilty. If you feel guilty about something, don’t try to make up for it by punishing yourself in some other way, like quitting your job.” He squeezes my shoulder, then smiles gently. “That’s not how it works.”
CAESAR IS SITTING up in his hospital bed and talking with Frankie when I walk into the room. “Hey,” Frankie says, hugging me. “Man, you got cut up, güero. You okay?”
I hold up my bandaged hand.
