untitled (3 page)

myself or something.” It’s a lame attempt at a joke that

leaves a gaping hole of awkward silence between us.

Macy sips her iced tea, looking at me over the glass. I

tear a fry in half and squish it between my fi ngers just for

something to do.

“Anything else for you girls?” the waitress asks as she

refi lls my water glass.

“Just the check,” Macy says. She doesn’t even look at

the waitress, keeping her eyes on me. She waits until the

woman’s behind the counter. “Okay, Sophie. No more bad

jokes. No more small talk. Time to tell me the truth.”

I feel queasy, and for a second I’m so full of dread, I’m

afraid I’ll be sick.

She’s the only person left who hasn’t heard my truth. I’m

so afraid she’ll do what they all did: Blame me. Refuse to

believe me. It takes every shred of strength I’ve got left to

force out: “What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with why you supposedly relapsed two

weeks after getting home from Oregon.”

When I say nothing, she taps her fork against the edge

18

F A R F R O M Y O U

of her plate. “When your mom called and said they found

drugs in your jacket, I was surprised. I thought we’d worked

through all that. I could have understood your relapsing if

it had been
after
Mina’s murder. But this . . . not so much.”

“The pills were in my jacket at the crime scene, so they

had to be mine, right? Mina didn’t do drugs. I’m the one

with the history. I’m the one who’d barely been clean six

months when it happened. I’m the reason we were out there

in the fi rst place. That’s what everyone says.” I can’t hide

the bitterness in my voice.

Macy sits back in the booth, lifts her chin, and peers at

me, a sad sort of knowing in her face. “I’m more interested

in what
you
have to say.”

“I—You—” The words stick in my throat, and then

it’s like she’s yanked a plug inside me. A garbled sound

wrenches from my mouth, tight and incoherent with relief.

“You’re going to listen to me?”

“You’ve earned that from me,” Macy says.

“But you didn’t visit. You never wrote. I thought that

you—”

“Your mom.” Macy’s mouth fl attens. She has that look in

her eye that she always gets before she goes off on a job. A

coiled tension that’s dying to leap out. “This has been hard

on her,” she continues. “She trusted me to get you clean,

and she feels like I’ve failed. Plus, when I found out she’d

sent you to Seaside, I may have said some things.”

“What things?”

“I bitched her out,” Macy explains. “And I shouldn’t

have, but I was angry and worried. I asked her if I could go

T E S S S H A R P E

19

see you or at least write, but she didn’t want me involved. I

love you, babe, but you’re her kid, not mine. I had to respect

her wishes—she is my sister.”

“So you stayed away.”

“I stayed away from you,” Macy says. “But I didn’t stay

away from the case.”

I sit up straighter. “What’s that mean?”

Macy opens her mouth, but closes it when the waitress

stops by our table, setting the bill down. “You girls take

your time,” she says. “Let me know if you need any boxes.”

Macy nods her thanks and waits until the waitress is

off taking another order before turning back to me. “Your

mom had made her mind up about what happened to you.

But I was the one who got you clean. I’d spent more time

with you last year than she did. And I couldn’t do anything

for you while you were at Seaside, but I knew how much

Mina meant to you. And I knew that if you had any infor-

mation about her killer, you would have come forward,

even if it got you into trouble. I couldn’t shake that feeling,

so I put some calls in to a few old friends from the force,

asked around, got my hands on the reports, and the head

detective’s take on things didn’t click. Even if you and Mina

had been out there to score, why would a dealer leave the

drugs? That’s evidence.

“The killer shot Mina. He could’ve easily shot you, too,

getting rid of both witnesses, but he chose to knock you

out. That tells me it wasn’t random, it was targeted. And

if he planted the pills on you, that means it was planned.”

Something close to relief starts to uncurl inside me.

20

F A R F R O M Y O U

Everything that she’s saying is everything that I’ve thought,

over and over while I’ve been locked away. Why did he

leave me alive? Why did he plant the pills? How did he

know enough about me to plant the
right
pills?

“I didn’t know the pills were in my pocket,” I say. “I

swear. He must have put them there while I was uncon-

scious—he was gone when I came to. And Mina was . . .” I

have to blink hard and swallow before I’m able to continue.

“I had to stop the blood. I used my jacket, but it wasn’t . . .

I left it there, after she . . . after. It wasn’t until Detective

James came to the house that anyone even mentioned

drugs. Then it didn’t matter to Mom or Dad that my tests

from the ER came back clean—they wouldn’t listen to me.

No one would.”

“I’m listening,” Macy says. “Tell me what happened.

Why were you girls out at Booker’s Point in the fi rst place?”

“We were going to our friend Amber’s party,” I say. “But

halfway there, Mina said we had to take a detour to the

Point. That she had to meet someone for a story she was

working on. She was doing an internship at the
Harper

Beacon
. When she wouldn’t give me any specifi cs, I just

fi gured it was an errand for her supervisor, or maybe an

interview someone had to reschedule. I didn’t want to make

the trip—it was way out in the boonies, and Amber lives on

the other side of town. But Mina was . . .” I can’t say it, that

I couldn’t ever deny her anything.

My hands shake, rattling the ice cubes in my glass. I

put it down carefully, knotting my fi ngers together and

studying the table like the answer to everything is hidden

between the glitter in the Formica.

T E S S S H A R P E

21

I haven’t talked about this honestly since the police fi rst

questioned me. Dr. Charles tried her hardest, through bro-

ken furniture and weeks of silence, but I’d twisted the truth

to suit the person she thought I was.

With Macy, I’m fi nally safe. She’d yanked me back from

rock bottom once, and I know she’d do it again. But I’m

not at the bottom anymore. I’ve found my footing in that

precarious middle place, the gray area where you trade

addiction for something almost as dangerous: obsession.

“I saw him before Mina did,” I say. “I saw the gun in

his hand. I saw he was wearing a mask. I knew . . . I knew

what he was going to do. I knew there was no way I could

outrun him. But Mina might have. I should’ve yelled at her

to run. She could’ve gotten away. She would’ve at least had

a chance.”

“There’s no way to outrun a bullet,” Macy says. “He

wanted to kill Mina. That was why he was there. You

couldn’t have stopped him. Nothing could’ve.”

“He said something to her. After he hit me, I fell, and as I

was blacking out, I heard him. He said, ‘I warned you.’ And

then I heard the shots and I . . . I couldn’t hold on anymore.

When I woke up, it was just us. He was gone.”

My hands are shaking again. I tuck them underneath

my thighs, pressing them hard against the red vinyl booth.

“I told Detective James all of this. I told him to talk to the

Beacon
staff. To ask her supervisor what she’d been work-

ing on. Did he check her computer? Or her desk? She wrote

notes on everything—they have to be somewhere.”

Macy shakes her head. “He talked to everyone, Sophie.

Mina’s supervisor, her fellow interns, even the cleaning lady

22

F A R F R O M Y O U

who worked the night shift. He dragged in every known

dealer in three counties for questioning, along with most of

the kids in your grade, but didn’t fi nd anything to warrant

further investigation. Along with a witness testimony that

was—well, shaky.” She fi ddles with her fork, looking up at

me. “Without any fresh evidence or a miraculous confes-

sion, it’ll be dismissed as an unsolved drug-related murder,

and that’ll be it.”

I feel sick inside and grit my teeth. “I can’t let that

happen.”

Macy’s eyes soften. “You might have to, babe.”

I don’t say anything. I keep quiet.

We get up, she pays the bill, tips the waitress, and we

leave the diner. I’m still silent, the idea of never knowing

who took Mina away from me burning in my chest. But

somehow, as always, Aunt Macy hears the words I can’t say.

When we’re in the car, Macy reaches over and takes my

hand.

She keeps it in hers the entire drive home.

It feels like a safety net.

Macy is always poised for my inevitable fall.

4

NINE AND A HALF MONTHS AGO (SIXTEEN YEARS OLD)

“You’re a fucking sadist,” I snarl at Macy.

It’s been three days since my parents shipped me off to Oregon

so Macy can “straighten me out,” as my dad put it. Three days since

I’ve had any pills. The withdrawal is bad enough—like my body is

one giant, throbbing bruise and spiders crawl underneath my sweaty

skin—but the pain, undulled and persistent, is too much to take. With

the pills, I can move without it hurting too much. Without them, my

back is killing me and my leg’s always giving out. Every movement,

even turning over in bed, sends sharp fl ares down my spine that leave

me breathless, pain-tears tracking down my face. The pain, full force

for the fi rst time since the accident, combined with the withdrawl is

too much. I stop getting out of bed. It hurts too much.

It’s all Macy’s fault. If she’d just give me my damn pills, I’d be fi ne.

I’d be able to move. I wouldn’t hurt. I’d be okay again.

I just want to be okay again. And Macy won’t let me.

I spend a lot of time staring at the the cheerful yellow walls of

her guest room, with its lace curtains and vintage travel posters. They

make me want to puke. I hate everything about Macy’s house. I want

to go home.

I want my pills. The thought of them consumes me, drives every-

thing out of my head, makes me focus with a singularity I’ve had for

24

F A R F R O M Y O U

only one other thing in my life. Mina would hate me for comparing

her to this, but I don’t care, because I kind of hate her right now, too.

“I’m helping you.” Macy barely looks up from her magazine. She’s

sitting in a turquoise armchair across the room, her legs kicked up on

the matching stool.

“I’m . . . in . . . pain!”

“I know you are.” She fl ips a page. “Which is why you have a

doctor’s appointment tomorrow. Best pain management doctor in

Portland. We’ll fi nd non-narcotic options for you. And Pete’s got an

acupuncturist friend who’s going to come to the house to treat you.”

The idea twists in my gut. “You want to stick needles in me? Are

you crazy?” “Acupuncture can be therapeutic.”

“There is no way I’m doing that,” I say fi rmly. “Can’t I go home,

please? This is so stupid. The doctors were the ones who gave me the

pills in the fi rst place. I have
prescriptions
. Do you really think you

know better than them?”

“Probably not,” Macy admits. “I didn’t even graduate college. But

I’m in charge of you now, which means I get to do what I think is best.

You’re a drug addict. You screwed up. Now you get clean.”

“I told you, I don’t have a drug problem. I’m in
pain
. That’s what

happens when you get crushed by an SUV and your bones are held

together by metal and screws.”

“Blah, blah, blah.” Macy waves it off and sets her magazine down.

“I’ve heard it all before. Some people can handle pain meds, some

can’t. Considering the pharmacy your dad found in your bedroom,

I’m going to say you’re just a few bad days away from OD’ing. You

think I’d let you do that? Put your mother and me through that? I