Chapter Thirty-One

Russ confirms I'm right without saying a word.

It's all there in his expression—a guilty slackening of his features. When he does try to speak, rage flashes through me and I find myself slamming against the door. The motion rocks Russ onto his heels and I barrel inside, throwing myself at him.

"Ethan, what the fuck?"

I smash against him in the middle of the entrance foyer, not caring that he's twenty pounds heavier than me, all of it muscle. I shove and grunt and curse, managing to push Russ across the foyer only because he's too stunned to fight back.

He responds once I back him against a sideboard next to the stairs, the framed family photos on display there toppling like dominoes. The clatter wakes something in him and he starts pushing me backward.

First with one mighty shove.

Then another.

I try to fight him off by swinging a fist at his face. Russ easily blocks it with his left arm and slams the forearm of his right into my nose. I let out a strangled huff as my vision goes fuzzy like TV static.

In the haze, I'm aware of Russ charging me again.

Of Detective Palmer thrusting herself between us.

Of me knocking into the wall and sliding down it until I'm on the floor. I touch my nose and realize it's bleeding. Even though Russ clocked me in the face, I hurt everywhere. Yet none of it stings as much as the betrayal I feel.

For thirty years, Russ not only pretended to be innocent; he pretended to be my friend. He could beat me to a pulp multiple times, and it still wouldn't cause as much pain as knowing it was all a lie.

Ping!

The sound erupts from the phone shoved deep inside my pocket. I ignore it, too dazed and angry and pained.

My vision's cleared enough for me to sort of see Detective Palmer in the center of the foyer, arms outstretched like a ref in the ring. "Everyone needs to calm down!" she shouts, the boom of her voice bringing Russ's wife out of their bedroom to the top of the stairs. Not missing a beat, Detective Palmer flashes her badge and says, "State police. Please stay where you are."

"Russ?" Jennifer says as she leans over the banister to peer into the foyer. "What's going on?"

Detective Palmer looks between me and Russ. "I'm trying to figure that out myself."

"I'm okay, Jen," Russ says, keeping his gaze fixed on me. "Ethan's just confused."

Down the hall, Russ's son, Benji, starts calling for his mother. Detective Palmer hears him, too, and addresses Jennifer. "Go to your son, and don't come out until I say it's okay."

Jennifer hurries off to do just that, while Detective Palmer turns back to me and Russ. "Can one of you please tell me what the fuck is happening here?"

"It was him!" It hurts to speak. All my teeth ache. I run my tongue along them and taste copper. More blood. "He did it!"

"The tent thing worked?" Detective Palmer says.

This time I merely nod. It hurts less.

"You remembered?"

Another nod.

"And he's who you saw?"

"It was Russ," I say, wincing through the jaw pain. "I'm certain of it. He slashed the tent."

On the other side of the foyer, Russ leans against the sideboard I'd backed him into, unsteady now all on his own. I hope at least some of that is my doing.

"You have to understand," he says. "I wasn't in my right mind back then."

"So you admit it?" Detective Palmer says.

"Yes."

Ping!

My phone again, barely noticed as I shout across the foyer. "Why?"

"Because you were always with Billy! You never wanted anything to do with me."

"He was my best friend," I say.

"Yeah, you made that clear."

The phone sounds yet again—Ping!—the sound drowned out by Russ's voice saying, "You have no idea how much I've struggled since that night."

"You? How do you think I feel?"

Anger pushes me to my feet as I think about all the ways in which I've suffered. The guilt. The insomnia. The Dream.

"I know it's hurt you, too," Russ says. "And I know you've had a hard time since Claudia died."

I stalk across the foyer, intercepted by Detective Palmer. Caught in her surprisingly strong grip, I glare at Russ. "Don't you bring Claudia into this. Don't you fucking dare. You still have a wife. You have a child. I don't. Also, I didn't kill Billy. You did."

Russ sways at the accusation. "Wait. That's what you think? I didn't lay a hand on Billy."

"Bullshit," I say, sounding like I'm ten again and trying to convince Billy there's no such thing as ghosts. "You killed him!"

Detective Palmer raises a hand to silence me. Turning to Russ, she says, "So you're telling me that you slashed the tent and just…walked away?"

"Yes," Russ says. "That's exactly what I did."

"I have trouble believing that," Detective Palmer says.

As do I. "If you didn't kill Billy, then why didn't you tell anyone you cut the tent open? You had thirty years to do it, yet you said nothing."

"Because you're right," Russ says. "What happened to Billy is my fault. If I hadn't slashed your stupid tent, whoever it was that snuck into your yard might have kept walking. But they didn't. Instead, they saw that gash in the side and realized it was easy access to whoever was inside."

"That's going to be hard to prove," Detective Palmer says.

"Well, it's the truth."

"Do you have any proof? What happened to the knife you used to cut the tent?"

Russ's broad shoulders rise and fall. "I don't know."

"Now that's really hard to prove."

"I swear," Russ says. "I brought it inside with me after leaving Ethan's yard. I set it on the kitchen counter and went back upstairs to bed. In the morning, it wasn't there."

"And you never saw it again?" Detective Palmer says.

"No. I looked for it after the news that someone took Billy got out. I wanted to—"

"Hide it?" I say, unable to help myself.

"Yes," Russ snaps. "I was going to hide it. Because I was afraid I'd get in trouble if anyone found out what I'd done. But I couldn't find it. It was gone."

"Knives don't hide themselves, Russ," Detective Palmer says. "If you didn't do it, who did?"

"It was me."

The voice floats down from above, making all three of us crane our necks to look at the top of the stairs, where Misty Chen stands in a silk robe cinched tightly over a set of white pajamas. She looks so old and frail as she starts to descend the steps. Like she's aged twenty years since I saw her this morning.

"I hid the knife," she says. "Because, in my heart of hearts, I know Russ is a good boy."