Page 85 of Every Sweet Thing Is Bitter

“No one else comes to see him,” he says.

“Your fingerprints are on it too, dumbass.”

“And who are they going to believe? Me or the felon?”

“I’ll take my chances.”

I am bluffing when I head for the door, but he falls for it. He blocks my way like a linebacker. “Don’t do this to him, please.”

“And I should let Harmony go to prison for something she didn’t do? I should sacrifice my family for yours? How noble that would be.”

“It’s noble to save someone you love. Someone who loves you. Don’t kid yourself about the relationship you and Harmony have. She’s never going to want you around, but my dad loves you like a daughter. He doesn’t even know how to move a bishop half the time, but he knows who he loves.”

To choose one sister over another is a decision of blood, but to choose Gil over Harmony can only be a betrayal—and yet, at some level, even though I hate him for it, Connor is right. It boils down to love. Gil loves me and Harmony does not.

People love me. I am lovable.

“He’s an old man.” Connor is close to tears. “He’s not well. He never would have hurt your mom on purpose, God as my witness. I was only—damn it! Damn it!”

The sobs strangle his breath, but I will not comfort him. I watch him weep, watch him collapse to the floor, watch him bury his head in his hands, watch him crumble into pieces. It boils my blood. He hauled my mother’s body to the woods. He left her body beneath the leaves for the little boy to find. He comforted me when I saw her body.

Body. Body. The word snags in my brain. He is the reason she is a body and not a person anymore.

“It never had to go this far. You could have called the cops.”

“He doesn’t deserve to die in prison.”

“He has Alzheimer’s. They’d send him to a care facility.”

“Half their dads and granddads were in the KKK. You think those good ol’ boys wouldn’t jump at the first chance to throw another Black man in prison? They don’t give a shit about the Alzheimer’s. They’d still lynch him if they could.” He runs his teeth over his bottom lip, his chest trembling from the force of his exhale. “What if it was Grace? You’d have done the same thing. I saw it when you came to the school that day, how you would have taken a bullet if it meant she’d be safe.”

And he is right, about all of it, but I can’t give him the satisfaction. “Give me my gun.”

“No.”

“It’s my gun.”

He thumbs the tears from his cheeks. “I’m keeping it. You go to the cops and I will too. You don’t and we have no problems.”

“Maybe I’ll go to them anyway.”

“They won’t believe you.”

“I have her shoes,” I say.

“They’re just shoes. Maybe they were my mom’s. Only so many places to buy shoes around here.” He does not intend to be snide, but it still sounds that way. He is three moves ahead of me.

“The car. If he hit her with a stolen car, then—”

“I tore the engine apart. The nurse had to scrap it for parts. It’s gone.”

“My God, if you had put half the effort into getting my mother medical attention as you did covering your tracks and hiding her body, she would still be alive. Did you hear her breathing, Connor? Was she still gasping for air when you left her to die? Did she beg you for help?”

“I thought she was dead, I swear to God. If I’d known—”

“Fuck you, Connor.”

I storm out of the house. One more word and I will be sick. One more word and my universe, already splitting at the seams, will collapse completely. I stop in the driveway and look back at the house.