“Cale, it’s lemonade.”
“Oh.” I stare into my pint, and then pick it up and take a mouthful of beer. It doesn’t taste of anything right now, but I’m grateful for the sensation of it slipping down my throat.
When the glass is a quarter empty, I set it down and watch the bubbles rising up the inside of the glass. “I didn’t tell you the full story of what happened to Mirrie at Christmas. I’m sorry.”
She reaches out and her fingers curl around mine. “Don’t be sorry. You can tell me as much or as little as you want.”
I don’t tell many people, let alone seventeen-year-old girls who have been through their own hell personal. In the past, acquaintances would press me to tell them what happened, thinking they were being helpful by getting me to share. So I’d tell them, and their faces would grow blank with shock and they wouldn’t know what to say. I learned to just shut up about it.
Looking at Ryah’s slender fingers threaded through mine, I want to tell her everything. She’s been through her own pain. Everything I’ve said to her, done to her, she’s looked steadily back at me and asked for more. I need her strength right now, or I feel like the earth will swallow me up.
“I was twelve when it happened. She was fourteen.” I see the police standing in the hall, their faces broadcasting the terrible news they’re yet to speak. “It was awful when she was missing, but it was horrific the day we found out she was dead. Do you remember that hill you can see from the east side of the house? I didn’t take you there. It’s called Red Hill. She was dumped up there. Probably killed up there. Strangled.”
Ryah’s fingers tighten on mine.
“And raped.”
Ryah’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Cale,” she manages in a strangled whisper.
I reach up and touch her cheek, pain slicing through my heart. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
She takes a shuddering breath and wraps her other hand around mine. “No, I’m sorry. I’m listening. I wondered if maybe she got sick, or there was an accident. You seemed so sad sometimes that I hoped it wasn’t—that it wasn’t—”
She can’t go on, and stares at our hands while tears slip down her face. I stroke her hair, watching the golden strands glisten under the light. A moment later she sits up, composing herself. “Please go on.”
I tell her about the police and listening under the window to what they told Mum and Dad. I tell her about the phone call I got from Mum today. “I don’t know much yet. Mum and Dad were waiting for me to call. They received a visit from the police yesterday, who said they’d arrested a man several months ago for some murders in Wales. Young women. He confessed to his cellmate to killing Mirrie, too.”
I wonder if the killer was bragging about Mirrie, or if he was trying to get something off his chest. I wonder if he’s sorry, or if he’s proud of what he did. What makes a man take someone and use them up, and then throw them away like garbage? And I ask myself again, like I did when I was twelve, if he had to do that to her, why couldn’t he just let her come home after?
“What are you thinking about?” Ryah asks.
I scrub my hand over my face. “Too many things.”
“Do you want to go back to your parents’ house for a while?”
I consider that. It would be a comfort to be with them right now, but there’s nothing we can do yet. Mum says they’ll be taking to the police, but that we won’t know more until it goes to court, and that will take time. It’s better if I check in with them every day on the phone and keep up with developments as they unfold.
“No, I’ll stay here. I want to be with the circus.” I look at Ryah’s fingers twined in mine. “Am I sad, sparkle?”
“A little, sometimes. Sad, or like you’re waiting for something bad to happen. Like it’s inevitable.”
I feel myself smile ruefully. Ain’t that the truth. I look up and find her gazing back at me, worry in her eyes. “You remind me of her. You’ve got a smile like hers.”
Ryah makes me happy like Mirrie did, too. But I couldn’t look after her. Maybe some people would say it’s wasn’t my job to look after her, or that if a killer really wants to hurt someone, no one can stop them, but I don’t agree. We were her family, and we couldn’t protect her.
“Sometimes I think we’re lucky. We only lost her for two days. We only had two days of being sick with worry and not sleeping. Some people go years, decades, without finding out what happened to the people they lost. Sometimes they die and they never find out.”
Ryah’s eyes fill with tears again. “I’m sorry that’s all you have to be grateful for. But I understand.”
We sit in silence for a while, our hands entwined, ignoring our drinks.
“What’s going to happen now?” Ryah asks, wiping her face.
That’s a good question. I haven’t had much to do with the courts, or even watching police dramas. “I suppose there’ll be a trial. They take a while to organize. So perhaps nothing will happen for a while. I’ll keep calling Mum every day. She’ll know when things will happen.”
Ryah nods. “Is it all right if I tell the others you’ve had some bad news, and ask them to leave you alone for a while?”