After a long time, I asked, “Where is Caleb?”
My mother’s arms tightened.
Officer Hale called that afternoon.
Caleb was not under arrest. He was at the station with a victim advocate, giving a full statement. He had walked there after leaving me at my house. He had not gone home. He had spent the night in an interview room, turning over a box of evidence he had hidden for months: old receipts, scanned newspaper clippings, photos of his father’s storage shed, and a flash drive containing recordings of arguments between his parents.
He had waited until after prom.
That made me angry.
Then it made me understand.
Then it made me angry again.
Grief is not one emotion.
It is a house full of locked rooms, and anger has keys to most of them.
At five, Officer Hale asked if I wanted to see Caleb.
I said no.
