The Good Son by Carolyn Mills (best novels for teenagers .txt) 📕

at my mind. Everything that’s happened in the last few days — the case being re-opened, Mom’s heart attack, the accident at work, me being sick — it all becomes larger than life. A hopeless sort of dread washes over me as I fight to remain rational and to quell my racing thoughts.

When I do sleep, my dreams are interspersed with confusing and disturbing incidents that involve Amir. In my more wakeful moments, I can’t decide whether I’m hoping to run into him again or not, and if I am, then what does that mean? Knowing he’s in Dunford has shifted something in my gut. Mom’s message continues to play in my mind, “Guess what I just found out?” And in my more twisted hallucinations, Mom marches Darius into my living room. His head is hanging in shame, but when he steps to the side, there is Amy Nessor, standing on my carpet, smiling. Mom looks so proud. Then Amir is in the room, too, with his arm around me, and for a moment, I am overcome with the rightness of the whole scene. Amir. Sweet little Amy. Everyone back together. And I am relieved. So relieved.

Then, just as suddenly, everything is wrong again. Amy Nessor, even though she is standing on the carpet in front of me, is unmistakably dead, and Jason is in the room too, staring at Amir whose arm is wrapped possessively around my waist. I know it’s Jason I should go to, but I can’t because Amir’s grip is like a vice, locking me in place.

Mom is gone. Where did she go? Why would she disappear right when I need her? I am casting about the room, searching for her, when I tumble back into consciousness, back into the equally troubling mess of my real life.

I lie awake in the pre-dawn hours trying to come up with a plan. Should I see if it’s possible to reschedule my interview? Surely being as sick as I am is a reasonable excuse. Bruce can vouch for the fact that I’m legitimately ill. Even more pressing though is the need to talk to Jason. But I can’t talk to him, not really talk to him, until I know what’s actually happening with the investigation, and despite the message I left last night for Ricky, he still hasn’t bothered to reply.

Will the police want to question me again? Whatever information Darius has given them, they must know by now that I was lying all those years ago. Or at least withholding key information. Will I be considered an accomplice? I can already see the headline: Nine-year-old deliberately misleads police in investigation of missing six-year-old. But I didn’t mislead them, did I? I told the police everything I saw. I described the car over and over again. I looked at countless pictures of different vehicles and pointed out exactly which models looked like the one I had seen. Why couldn’t they figure it out? Both Darius and his dad had driven the car all over Dunford, in plain sight of everyone!

As the initial investigation wore on, days turning into weeks, even I convinced myself that it must have been a different car I had seen on our street. I wanted to believe it so badly, and if the police had given Darius’s dad’s car the all-clear, then they must have had a good reason; I let myself be swayed, comforted by the certainty that I was wrong about the car. Wrong about everything.

Who would have thought that after twenty-nine years, Darius would talk? As I go over the scene one more time, from that long-ago afternoon, my childish suspicions coalesce into an ugly certainty. I was right about the car. I knew it. I always knew it.

In an attempt to soothe myself, I repeat certain truths over and over. I didn’t see my brother in the car. I didn’t lie to the police. I didn’t lie to anyone. I was only nine. I was just a kid — a scared and confused little kid.

I close my eyes and try to quiet my turbulent thoughts. What I feel, as I lie in my tangled sheets, is absolute despair. And tiredness. I am tired of running from Amy’s ghost.

What is Ricky doing right now? He must be taking stock of his options, hiring a lawyer. Does he think he can still get away with it? I remember him talking to Darius on the phone, telling him to convince Jeremy to lie about where they were the night Amy went missing. Does he think he can lie his way out again? He doesn’t know about me, though. He doesn’t know what I heard and what I saw. He doesn’t know that I know. Or that I have carried the guilt of that knowledge like a boulder around my neck for the whole of my life.

I drag myself out of bed, but don’t make it further than the couch, where I sit listlessly, waiting for whatever’s going to happen next. I get up once to take an Advil, but I don’t have the strength to keep moving. My legs feel slippery; the walls in my living room tilt and sway, as if the entire room is balanced on a knife tip. I keep my phone beside me, turn on the TV, and somehow, I end up dozing. Perversely, when I wake up, my stomach is grumbling. I eat a small bowl of cereal, but the Cheerios sit like lead bullets in my stomach. How much time do I have? Days? Hours?

It’s been three days since I first saw the news, and I know something has to give soon. I keep the TV on. The police must know something that they aren’t sharing.

I dial Ricky’s number again and am caught off guard when Brenda answers. I must have called the house by mistake. What is she doing home, anyway? She should be at work. Does she know, too? Is she also sitting in front