Deep Water by Mark Ayre (best big ereader TXT) 📕

Ollie stared. Didn't speak because what was he supposed to say? Instead, his anger bubbled. He'd convinced himself Louis was guilty and didn't want to field probing questions that could make his conviction tremble. Before he could explode from her previous comment, Abbie decided to push things a little further with her next.

"Did you know," said Abbie, "that when we humans have taken actions we believe may have caused something awful to happen, something that would lead to soul-crushing levels of guilt, we tend to project. We find someone else to blame for the horrible event, whatever that may be, and we use our hatred for this victim of our blame to flatten and diminish the guilt we would otherwise experience." Louis was the perfect example of what she was trying to explain. Given how Ollie felt about the man, Abbie decided not to mention him. "Does that make sense?"

Ollie's face was twisted into a mask of half grief, half depression. "You're saying I killed Aurora."

His hands were balled. Before he attacked again, as in the shopping centre, Abbie shook her head.

"Absolutely not. I know you didn't kill Aurora, but we’re often our worst critics." Abbie paused, wondering how far she could push this. Decided to go a little further. "You were with her the night she died, weren't you? You argued about Jacob."

Ollie hadn't expected Abbie to know this, and for a moment, was stumped. Inside, his emotions had created a clogged mess, meaning he expressed nothing at all.

"I want you to know," said Abbie, "it's okay that you argued and refused to walk Aurora home. That doesn't make you responsible for her death. You're not to blame."

This was taking some leaps of faith. Jacob had told Abbie that Aurora and Ollie had been together on the night Aurora died, but Abbie had no way of verifying the claim. Even assuming it was true, the stuff about arguing and Ollie leaving Aurora to walk home alone was complete conjecture. It was a risk throwing it out there but a risk worth taking. If Abbie asked Ollie if he and Aurora had argued, Ollie might lie. Speaking of the events as though she knew they were true meant Ollie was more likely to cop to them if they were.

"She was everything to me." The words came as a whisper, and Ollie turned his head from Abbie, unable to meet her eye any longer. "From when we were the littlest of kids, we did everything together; I thought it would always be that way. She was my best friend, my partner, my sister. Then she started drifting, and I didn't know why. When she told me she was dating that… that…" Ollie squeezed his eyes closed and shook. For a second, it seemed merely thinking of Jacob might cause Ollie’s head to explode. In the end, he dodged the name or descriptive altogether. "Louis was trying to rob my grandma. That family was the enemy, and Aurora was choosing to be with that prick instead of me. I was angry, so angry. Then I... I... Oh, no."

Ollie put a hand to his mouth as the emotion untangled and broke free. He began to cry. Balling his hand into a fist, he thumped his own knee once, twice, three times. On the fourth attempt, Abbie caught it.

"Stop," she said. “You don't need to do this."

"But I do," he said, though he didn't yank his fist from her hand. "I do because I deserve to hurt. I'm good for nothing else."

"I disagree," said Abbie. Releasing his fist, she squeezed his shoulder. Ollie looked at her hand but didn't shake it away. In fact, he seemed pitifully grateful, and Abbie couldn't help but wonder if his mother had ever shown him even this tiny level of affection.

"I hit her," Ollie said, his eyes widening with the horror of the memory. "She was the best friend I ever had, and I told her I hated her, and I hit her."

His face was paper white. Tears continued to pour down his cheeks. The pain was so raw, Abbie could almost feel it. Wanted to recoil from it but kept her hand on Ollie and stayed put.

"You said I wasn't to blame," Ollie whispered. "But I was."

"You weren't."

"Yes, I was," he said, his voice rising. "I didn't slit Aurora's throat, but—“

"No," Abbie cut in, and her voice was firm, hard. "Look at me. Ollie, I said, look at me."

He did, though he didn't like it, though he was ashamed of himself and couldn't bear to look someone else in the eye.

"You can't make me stop feeling guilty."

"You should feel guilty," said Abbie, taking Ollie by surprise. She squeezed his shoulder a little more tightly. "You hit your best friend, a girl you see as a sister. She lied to you, but she was in love and didn't know how to tell you. She didn't deserve your anger or your fist."

"I know," he sobbed. "I never meant—“

"No excuses," said Abbie. "You feel guilty for what you did, you regret it, but you also own it; you did it, so suffer. Apologise to Aurora's memory, and promise to learn to control your emotions. And mean it. That's the big one.

"I will; I can."

"Don't promise me," said Abbie, "and don't do it now. Now, tell me if you killed her.”

“I already—“

“Tell me again.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Then don’t you dare feel guilty for her death. Don’t you dare.” She paused, let him take that in. “Now, tell me, are you to blame for Aurora’s death?”

"No."

"No," Abbie agreed. "So who’s to blame? Who should feel guilty?"

"The person who killed my sister."

"Right, the person who killed Aurora, and no one else. As for you, there's something else on which you need to focus, and it won’t be easy."

He looked at her. Yesterday, he hated her; now his eyes pleaded with her to tell him more, to help him, because God knew his mother never would.

"Revenge against Louis, against Jacob, is a