“Who hurt her?” I ask, confusion knitting my eyebrows.
“My dad,” he chokes out, broken.
“Your dad hurt Jenny?”
His head moves jerkily into a nod, his breaths laboured.
“But you said it was your fault?”
His face crumples. “I think I killed Jenny.”
“You’re not making sense,” I say, rubbing his back.
He folds in on himself. “You’re going to leave me.” His head falls to my lap, and I stroke his hair while he cries.
I thought we were going to discover that he’d killed Jenny—and maybe his mum too—but now I’m left with more questions.
Did his dad kill Jenny or did he? Why is it his fault?
Eli cries himself to sleep, and when he wakes again, he’s calmer.
We’re sitting against the headboard, shoulder to shoulder.
I don’t dare break the fragile silence.
Thankfully, he does.
“My dad killed Jenny in front of me.”
I twist my head to look him in the eyes. “You remember whathappened?”
He shrugs, the movement slow. “Pieces of it. He slit her throat. There was so much blood. I was holding her in my arms, but she was already dead.”
My chest cracks open at his words. The fragments of his ramblings start to fall together.
“It’s not your fault,” I tell him, knowing he needs to hear the words.
He shakes his head, forlorn. “I didn’t get there in time. I couldn’t make myself move, and he hurt her because of it.”
I climb into his lap, straddling his thighs and cupping his tear-stained cheeks so he’s forced to look at me. “Remember what I said—the guilt is a response to your trauma, but it’s not your responsibility. Your father is the only one who’s accountable for Jenny’s death.”
The article I read a few days ago ways on my mind. I don’t want to make things worse for him, but at the same time, I can’t stand the idea of him not knowing.
“Eli,” I take a deep breath, “there’s something else I think you should know.”
He stills, frozen beneath me.
Okay, here goes.
“I found a news article.” I debate my words. “There was another body found with Jenny’s under your old house.”
His hands reach out to grasp my hips. “My mums?” he asks, his voice cracking, and yet, it’s not a question of surprise, but of resignation.
“You knew?”
His lip trembles, tears glistening in his eyes. “I think he killed her too.”
I wrap my arms around his shoulders, resting my head against his chest. “I’m so sorry.”