After I Reported My Grandfather for Murder, the Class Queen Broke First

I dialed the county tip line while my grandfather stood at the stove, burning toast. The call connected on the fourth ring. I gripped the kitchen phone cord so hard it bit into my palm. "My name is Nora Vale. I'm calling about the death of Thomas Bell in 1981. My grandfather, Arthur Vale, told me he killed him." Behind me, the toast popped up, black at the edges. My grandfather looked over his shoulder. "Nora?" I kept my eyes on the rain-striped window. "He told me he did it. He also said the police got the circumstances wrong." The woman on the other end asked me to repeat my name and address. Her voice was calm and professional. I gave her both, then answered questions about where my grandfather was and whether he had a weapon. He was seventy-one, living in a small house on the edge of Bellwether, and his hunting rifle was locked in a cabinet. When the call ended, I set the receiver down. Grandpa turned off the stove. "You reported me." "Yes." "You believe I killed him?" I did. I had believed it in my first life, too. I had also believed the rest of the story: that he was a violent man, that he had earned the town's contempt, and that whatever happened to me was the price of carrying his name. Then, at thirty-six, I found his old court papers in a box beneath his bed. I read the pages he had never shown me. I learned what he had confessed to, what the police had left out, and how a girl at school had used my name and my grandfather's conviction to make sure I never left Bellwether. Then I had woken up again, eighteen years old, on the morning the mail came. My grandfather set a plate on the table. "Sit down." "I have to get to school." "You have time to eat." "I don't." He studied my face. His hair was thinner than I remembered. His hands still had the pale, hard scars from the paper mill. For one moment, I saw him as he had looked when he was carried home from prison: thinner, quieter, and unwilling to ask anyone for anything. "I never told you I killed Thomas," he said. "You told me enough." "No, I didn't." I put my hand on the doorknob. "If you're going to say it," he continued, "say it to my face." I turned around. "You confessed to his murder in 1981." "I confessed to being in the warehouse when he died." "That's not what the papers say." "The papers say what the prosecutor wanted them to say." The words pressed against something inside me. I remembered the file, the smudged copy of a witness statement, the handwritten note in the margin. I had found it too late the first time. Now I only knew that it existed. "Who else was there?" I asked. His eyes went to the plate. "I'm not answering questions while you're running for the door." "I'm not running." "Then sit down." I was late by ten minutes. I stayed anyway. He poured coffee into his chipped mug and sat across from me. "I went to the Harbor Street warehouse that night to meet Thomas. He said he had information about the mill accounts. We argued. He fell. I should have called for help. I didn't." "So you left him there." "I did." "Did you kill him?" He rubbed his thumb along the scar across his knuckle. "I didn't push him." "What happened to the report I just made?" "It will bring a deputy to my door." "Good." He flinched, barely. "You came back from somewhere with that word." I stared at him. "I know you," he said. "You're looking at me like you've already said goodbye." I grabbed my bag. "I'll be home after school." At Bellwether High, the front hall smelled like wet coats and floor wax. Students crowded around the office counter, waiting to see if the mail carrier had brought the college envelopes. My acceptance letter was due today. In my first life, it had never reached me. Laurel Bell stood beside the counter in a green wool coat, her dark hair pinned back with a pearl clip. She had a neat stack of envelopes against her chest. People moved around her as if she were the center of the hallway. When she saw me, her smile slipped. "You're late," she said. "Not by much." She glanced at my empty hands. "Any mail?" "Not yet." "Maybe tomorrow." Laurel's gaze lingered on my face. "You look awful." "I called the police." The surrounding conversation thinned. Laurel's fingers tightened around her envelopes. "For what?" "My grandfather." Her cheeks went pale. "What did you tell them?" "That he killed Thomas Bell." For a second, all I heard was rain ticking against the windows. Then Laurel dropped the envelopes. They hit the floor, and students stooped to gather them. Her expression changed fast. Shock first, then anger, then something so nakedly frightened that I almost wondered if I had imagined it. "You can't do that," she whispered. "I already did." She grabbed my sleeve and pulled me out of the crowd. "You have no idea what you've just done." I pulled free. "I know exactly what I did." Laurel looked past me toward the office door, where the secretary had stopped sorting the mail. "You need to take it back," she said. "Why?" Her mouth opened. No answer came. A student behind her said, "Laurel, are you okay?" She turned toward him with a bright, practiced smile. "Fine." But her hands were shaking.