"I know," she says, her voice quiet. "You can trust me."
"So there isn't anything you want to tell me?" I ask. "Nothing you want to get off your chest?"
Her brow furrows at my line of questioning. "No."
"Nothing at all?"
"No, nothing." Her expression is full of confusion. "What is this about, Naz?"
Wordlessly, I stare at her, before opening the envelope and reaching inside. Holding it up, I pull out the top photograph, just far enough for her to see what it is. She stares at it blankly for a moment before her eyes widen with recognition. Her gaze darts straight to me, panicked, that fear returning.
The knife in my chest is being twisted.
"Where did you get that?" she asks. "Who took it?"
"Kelvin. You remember Kelvin, right? The bouncer from the club? I suppose some of those times you felt like you were being watched, you actually were."
Her eyes widen even further. "You had me followed? You said you didn't. You lied to me!"
"I lied to you?" I ask incredulously, shaking the photograph in her face. "You told me I could trust you."
"You can," she says. "That's not what it looks like. I don't know what he told you, but it's not what it seems."
"It isn’t? Because it seems to me, Karissa, like you got caught talking to the police."
"I didn't get caught. It wasn't like that."
"It wasn't? Because I don't remember you telling me about it. I don't remember you coming to me."
"That's because you were hurt," she says, shaking her head as she turns the stove off, abandoning whatever she's cooking. "Jesus, Naz, you'd just been shot! You had enough to deal with. I was trying to be strong… for you, for me… for us. I was trying, okay? And every time I left the house, every time I went somewhere, those detectives were around. So I talked to them."
"You talked to them."
"Yes, when you were injured."
"When I was injured," I say. "You talked to them."
"Ugh, stop that!" she growls. "Stop repeating me. I went there because they wouldn't leave us alone. I went there because you were hurt, Naz, because you'd been shot, and I wanted to know what they were doing about it. So I asked, and then they asked me to help you, so I told them what I knew."
Anger, sometimes, is bitter cold.
It's harsher than red-hot rage.
There's the blue.
"You told them what you knew?"
"I told them who shot you."
I step toward her, tossing the envelope beside the stove as I go toe-to-toe with her, backing her up against the counter. "You don't know who shot me."
"Yes, I do," she says, her voice shaking. I can tell she's trying to hold it together. "I'm not an idiot. Just because you don't tell me things doesn't mean I can't figure them out on my own. I know who shot you."
"And you told them."
"I did," she says. "I told them, because it was better than the alternative."
"What, exactly, is the alternative, Karissa?" I ask, looking down at her. "Tell me why you really did it. Tell me why you talked to the police."
"I just told you why," she says. "If it went any further, one of you would end up dead. I couldn't just let that happen. So I told them my mother shot you, I reported her to the police, because I'd rather her be in jail than in a grave!"
These words aren't what I wanted to hear.
I hoped for a denial.
A stitch of repudiation that I could cling to.
I needed her to tell me it was a misunderstanding.
That she would never talk to the police.
But she's confirming one of my worst fears.
"And the other stuff," I say. "Why did you tell them it?"
"What other stuff?"
"Come on, Karissa… you just told me you weren't an idiot. Don't act ignorant now. They know things… things they wouldn't know unless somebody told them. Things I did. Maybe I haven't flat out told you about them, but like you said, I don't have to. You can put it all together yourself. So tell me, sweetheart, did you tell them how much of a monster I am? How I killed your father… how I killed your professor?"
The color drains from her face.
She knows I did it, but I never blatantly confessed to her before.
"I didn't say anything."
"So you didn't tell them I was coming after your family? You didn't tell them about the man at the body shop? You didn't tell them about the man who didn't come home from Vegas with us?"
"I didn't," she whispers. "I swear."
"And you expect me to believe you?"
"Yes."
"Why would I?"
"Because I'm telling the truth."
I want to believe there isn't more, that she didn't spill every dirty detail, but the evidence is stacked against her and she's already confessed to part of it. I want to believe in her.
I'm not sure I can.
"I didn't do it," she says. "Whatever they know, it didn't come from me. I didn't tell them anything about you. I told them my mother shot you. That's all. I swear. I wanted to stop all of this. It didn't want anyone else to die! I thought if they arrested her, she'd be safe. I thought you'd be safe. I was trying to save both of your lives!"
"And you endangered yours in the process yet again," I say, laughing bitterly as I back up a step. I need some room to breathe… to think. Running my hands through my hair, I growl with frustration, trying to purge the aggression that's building beneath my skin. "Do you know what happens to people who rat? Do you know what we do to them? Christ. You're supposed to lawyer up—that's what you do. You keep your mouth shut and they go away. Because that man? Jameson? He doesn't give a shit about me. He doesn't care about your mother, or you. He doesn't care about anything. All you gave him was validation. You gave him the justification he wanted to continue. The only person you helped is him."
"I didn't mean—"
"It doesn't matter," I say, cutting her off. "Don't say it unless you mean it. How many times have I told you that? Huh? You said it, and now you have to stand by it. And now I have to…"
Her voice trembles as she asks, "Have to what?"
Turning, I head for the door, not answering that question.
What am I supposed to say?
Now I have to decide who else will die because of this?
There are worse things than being alone.
Being lonely, for one.