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26: American All Star

                        26: American All Star

I don't know anything about a red car—or enough about one to satisfy Spencer Ray and his ever present sneer. Dean's words keep replaying in my head, about me already having all of the pieces, but I worry that I'm not providing enough of an objective perspective to view things properly—not how I'd been at the beginning, when Devin was just some girl I knew, distantly, not too much, not as deep as it's become. Pieces or not, the cloud of Byron still hangs over my head and I can barely remember anything that could prove to be useful.

Spencer finally brings the interview to an end when Archie orders him outside for a talk. His pity is a heavy weight from across the table, hands folded into fists as he assures me that I need to remain calm, that I'm not a suspect—but even I can hear the but slowly attaching itself to the end of his sentence. I'm perfectly innocent, I ordered frequently, but Spencer just wasn't hearing any of it, so caught up in the idea that of course I knew something, he wouldn't allow himself to realise that I didn't.

"It's alright, Kasia," Archie says, leading me back to the reception where my parents and Graham have joined Skylar. Archie's hand hovers in the air, almost reaching my shoulder but falling short, and I've never seen him look so distinctly uncomfortable in the blue shirt of his uniform. "There's nothing to worry about. Spencer is just . . . he's invested in this case. Have a good night," he bids, already turning and returning to the hubbub of activity in the main office.

I'm left standing there, lost and unsure what to do when Mom comes flying down the hall to throw her arms around me. It's been so long since the last time I can recall hugging my Mom, even when Byron died and we were left trying to figure out how to live again with someone missing, I'd kept my distance. It's feels nice, though, I realise, the familiar scent of her perfume almost suffocating me mixed in with the fresh smell of her shampoo, arms wrapped around her frame, finally allowing myself to be looked after.

I've been so ready to attack since the murder, waiting for the other shoe to drop—the rug to be pulled out from under us when another thing goes bad, as I'd been so sure would happen. I'm still on high alert when Mom pats my hair, hugging me so tight I can barely breathe, catching sight of Benny lingering in that way he does—shoulders hunched in tight, head looking down, trying too hard to look like he's not distinctly aware of his surroundings—and my gut twists tight just watching him try to act like everything is okay.

"—all our fault, everything!" Mom is saying, moving back to take hold of my chin and make me look at her, Dad moving to stand at her shoulder—he won't even look at me, either, because it's his son that caused this, his affair that left us all in this mess, though I'd told myself that I'd moved past this, that any feelings of resentment had eradicated themselves years ago, but now it's all flooding back to the surface—gesturing for Graham to come forward, too. "If I'd known, sweetie, I'd—we'd have done something. I'm sure Benny is feeling very regretful," turning to look at Dad for approval to speak on his son's half, Mom turns back to me again, "he's been really tense, lately, I'm sure that's why he lashed out."

"Exactly," Dad parrots, "Benny feels ashamed of himself, Kasia, he just wants to apologise."

"And what about what I want?" I ask, being greeted with silence and a look in their eyes like I'm being ridiculous for not accepting a half-assed sorry that only occurred because he got caught in cuffs. "I don't want to talk to him, now or ever, actually."

"Kasia," Dad begins, "don't you think you're being unreasonable? You and Byron fell out all of the time, Benny's your brother, too."

"Benny is nothing to me!" I hiss, stepping out of my Mom's grasp on my shoulder.