I reach for his hand and lace our fingers together. He squeezes back. I’ve never been so grateful to have him by my side as I have been these past couple of weeks. His leave of absence from the medical practice got approved today, and one of the other rheumatologists from Oak Park will see his patients while he’s out. This way one of us can keep staying with Jacob while the other manages things at home with Wyatt and Sutton. We’re going to work out a schedule later tonight.
“Has he ever tried to hurt himself before?” Detective Locke stares at me like there’s a clue hidden somewhere in my face.
“Absolutely not. That’s not the kind of kid he is.” I lean forward across his desk, pushing a stack of papers aside with my elbows to create space. “I know you’re doing your job and that all of this is a part of it, but our son would never hurt himself on purpose.” I stare at him pointedly.
“I understand how you feel, Lindsey, and I sympathize with you.” He leans across his desk in the same way to meet me in the middle. “However, with all due respect, the forensics taken from the scene paint a different picture. Jacob’s injuries and finger placement on the gun are all consistent with an attempted suicide.”
“He might have put the gun up to his head and pulled the trigger, but I promise you that he didn’t know the gun was loaded, or he never would’ve done it. He knows better than that.” I wait a beat before continuing, making sure my words get a chance to sink in. “And besides, it’s not like he was the only one who touched the gun. All three of the boys’ fingerprints were on it. Anything could have happened.” I throw the information in his face like he wasn’t the one who shared the report with us when it came back from ballistics.
Andrew nods in eager agreement with me. We’ve been through so many different scenarios during the long hours we’ve hovered at Jacob’s bedside. Our ideas range from the relatively mundane, like a truth-or-dare game gone terribly wrong, to things that are more ridiculous, like they were on a whacked-out acid trip that made them think they were in one of their violent video games. But none of them include a suicidal version of Jacob. Something else happened that night, but I don’t have time to figure it out. My job is taking care of Jacob. Detective Locke’s job is figuring things out. I wish he’d let me get back to mine and start doing a better job at his.
FIVE
KENDRA
I was always on Sawyer about cleaning his room. He was such a slob, and the mess drove me crazy. Not to mention the smell from his sweaty jerseys and socks that he left strewed everywhere. We had some of our biggest fights over it. Now I’m glad he never listened. It’s a new house rule to keep his door shut so I can trap his smell in here for as long as it’ll stay. His personality fills the space, from the punk band posters taped above his desk to the wadded-up papers in the corner from abandoned homework projects. I try to inhale him as I sit in the middle of his floor, clutching one of his favorite T-shirts against my chest.
Becoming a mom birthed my biggest fear—losing him. Sawyer marked my entrance into motherhood. Pregnancy riddled me with anxiety because his survival depended on me, and I expected immense relief from that burden once I’d successfully brought him into the world. I assumed sharing the responsibility with Paul would give me a much-needed reprieve from my obsessive worrying. My insides expanded with unbelievable love when they placed Sawyer in my arms after a long and difficult labor, and in that same instant, I was filled with the knowledge that the loss of him would wreck me to my core, which brought my anxiety to new heights.
Every fear I’ve had over the years—each terrorizing thought, every agonizing image of something awful happening to one of my kids—doesn’t even touch the utter devastation in my being. And life will go on without him. That’s the part I hate the most. It can’t. It must stop. Waves of grief strip all concept of time as I disappear into their swirling abyss.
And then I’m returned.
Depleted and empty.
Spent.
My eyes burn. Red fills my left one. My doctor said I popped multiple blood vessels from all the crying. The blood pools in the corner and works its way around my iris throughout the day. That’s not the only place seeping blood. My stools are filled with it and with the putrid smell of the pain rotting my insides.
People say they survive this. Millions of children died last year. All of them with parents who somehow managed to go on. Not me.
“Mom?” Reese’s voice calls from behind the door. My other son, two years younger than Sawyer.
A flash of annoyance. I don’t want to be bothered, but he knows I’m in here. He won’t go away if I don’t say something.
“Yes?” My throat is raw. Talking hurts. Maybe my throat is bleeding too. Red. Black seeps into the edge of my vision. Did Paul give me another sleeping pill in my tea?
“Mom?”
My head swirls.
Sawyer?
Did I say that out loud?
“No, Mom. It’s me, Reese.”
Is he reading my mind? Dear God, don’t let Reese be reading my mind.
His words are bubbles floating past me. They dance around my head before floating above Sawyer’s headboard. I’m on his bed. Wasn’t I on the floor? There’s another bubble. I stick my pointer finger through it. Pop. It doesn’t make a sound as it disintegrates. I want to pop another one, but I’m tired. So exhausted.
My lids are heavy.
Stop fighting.
SIX
DANI
I clasp my purse in front of me and hurry into the hospital, pushing through the heavy glass doors and flashing my license at the security officer standing in the lobby. Guards have been posted up at every entrance and lobby of the hospital for weeks. Everyone wants to catch a glimpse of Jacob, but Lindsey and Andrew are determined to keep them away. They hate being the center of attention and are sickened by the way the media has tried to exploit their tragedy. It’s ignited both sides of the gun control debate, but they don’t want any part of it.
People’s obsession with our story has grown to epic proportions since detectives started crawling all over the school. Kids who barely know the boys are making ridiculous claims just to get their twenty seconds in the spotlight. They’re saying things like that the boys planned to blow up the school, that they had a hit list, or my personal favorite—that Bryan and I knew about their plans and didn’t stop them. The media has done nothing but crucify us for having a gun in the house. We took Luna’s phone away from her yesterday after Bryan found out she’d been on Instagram. She threw a fit over it, screaming that he was treating her like she was still a child even though she’s been away at college for almost a year, but it’s not our rule. That one came from Detective Locke—no social media.
My footsteps echo behind me as I reach the end of the empty corridor and make a right at the second nurse’s station. I scan for REHABILITATION signs. Jacob’s medical team moved him out of the ICU last week. They consider him medically stable even though machines keep him alive and do everything for him. I assumed visiting him in the new ward would be easier, but it’s not because things feel more permanent. Unlike in the ICU, everything is still. Nothing moves fast. People’s doors are always closed, and I don’t ever look in the ones accidentally left open. I made that mistake once, and I won’t do it again.