The Sister-in-Law: An absolutely gripping summer thriller for 2021 Pamela Crane (good books to read for young adults txt) 📖

Chapter 17

Harper

‘Because I know you killed Daddy just like I killed my sister.’

Jackson’s accusation clung to me like tar, binding and sticky. My son’s blame hurt more than Ben’s death. It hurt more than Ben’s suicide letter. Nothing compared to the lash of my child’s words against my skin. All of the pain, all of the guilt, all of it Jackson heaped onto my shoulders for me to carry the rest of my days. But that’s what mothers did, didn’t they? They carried the burdens of their children.

‘I already told you, I didn’t kill Daddy,’ I whispered, the statement lodged in my throat. ‘That’s why the police are helping to find out who did.’

He shook his head, but it was more of a tremble. ‘I don’t understand. You said someone else killed Daddy, but I know you made Daddy so sad he killed himself.’

Jackson knew? He knew about the suicide. But how?

‘Where did you hear that?’

I had done everything in my power to ensure the kids never found out. It was far easier to explain a home robbery gone wrong than to tell them their father simply gave up on them, that they weren’t enough of a reason to stay alive. Who the hell would have told them otherwise? Certainly not Lane. And no one else knew the truth. Unless he told Candace, and Candace told the kids …

‘I dunno.’

‘Jackson, honey, whatever you’ve heard, it’s not true. And I always tried my best to make your daddy happy.’

‘Then why were you always sad? And why was Daddy always sad?’

Deep insight from such a young boy. When did Jackson grow up and how had I overlooked it? He had always been mature for his age, highly intelligent and well-spoken. By age four, he was reading proficiently. At age five, his kindergarten teacher bumped him up into first grade. I remember the sense of pride I felt watching him surpass his peers. But now, now I missed my baby. I missed the days when his curiosities lingered on making slime, or a worm’s anatomy. My mother had warned me about this. When life gets too perfect, God kicks dust in your eyes, blinding you with misery while He stepped back and watched you fumble ahead blindly. I thought that was her resentment talking, the unquenchable bitterness over my dad’s disappearing acts. But maybe she was right all along. Iron was forged with fire, after all. And I had long ago lost my faith in God.

Struggle makes you stronger, Mom had told me, and it gives you character. But I had enough character to last two lifetimes. I wanted to trust God, that all of the death held some higher meaning, some bigger purpose. I wanted to be grateful, like the mothers I saw on Facebook who stared Death in the face and, proud of their war wounds, claimed, ‘Where, o Death, is your victory? Where, o Death, is your sting?’ I yearned to show my children the light, but I couldn’t find the light for myself. I was merely a child playing with matches.

‘I’m sorry, Jackson. You’re right. It’s my fault. After what happened with your sister, I was never the same. I couldn’t find a way to get better or a way to be happy. Then Daddy got sad too. Being sad is contagious. Do you know what contagious means?’

‘It means it spreads.’

‘Exactly. The sadness spread. That’s why we’re here with Uncle Lane now, to try to stop the sadness from spreading anymore.’

Jackson considered this for a moment, then looked at the floorboards. His expression was hard to read in the dim hallway.

‘How did he do it?’

‘Do what?’ I wondered aloud.

‘Kill himself. How did Daddy kill himself? With a gun? Or a rope? Or did he cut himself with a knife?’

Oh, God, had Jackson actually been imagining all of the various ways his father offed himself? And where did a six-year-old get such ideas? Certainly not from the limited age-appropriate Internet access he had on his tablet. Jackson continued naming his list of possibilities, but I didn’t hear the words above the wails inside my head. I covered my face with my hand, as if I could hide from this conversation. I wasn’t an angry person, but there it lived, right beneath my grief.

‘Or did he drink poison? Or—’

‘That’s enough!’ I yelled, cutting him off. ‘I don’t want to talk about this anymore.’ I couldn’t listen to another word. I had spent the past year burying bad memories along with the pain. How dare Jackson unearth it with his cruelty?

Jackson stood there, unmoving, his chalky eyes growing damp.

Oh no, what did I just do?

‘I’m so sorry, sweetie.’

My icy anger thawed into remorse, and I rushed to Jackson, aware of how I was treating my son. My young boy was so traumatized that he conjured a list of causes of death. He was still a child, and I expected too much from him. Some days I forgot that Jackson and Elise were kids, their emotions just beginning to evolve, their minds still blossoming and innocent. Why did I force them to carry the weight of little adults? I wasn’t being fair to either of them.

I knelt at Jackson’s bare toes. ‘Please forgive me.’ I held his cheeks, the bones jutting into my palms, and begged him with my eyes. My arm twitched to pull him against me, but instead I remained stoic.

‘Okay. But Mommy, when can you forgive me?’ His voice was tiny in the long hallway.

I’ve never blamed you for what happened, I wanted to say. And yet I couldn’t utter the words. It wasn’t true. And until I forgave him, I couldn’t cross the chasm between us.

‘Forgive him for what?’ Candace’s voice broke into the somber moment.

I released Jackson’s face and popped up on my feet. ‘It’s nothing,’ I said, ushering Jackson back into his bedroom. When I had finished tucking him in and calling for Elise to come upstairs