I say, because sometimes when I meet people from North Orchard outside of school, I have to tell them this.
Jeremiah shakes his head. “Not from there. From a picture she kept in her room. You both have these hats on. She talked about you. You’re June.”
I know exactly what photograph he means, because I have a copy too. Mine is in the back of my closet, and I haven’t looked at in a very long time.
“I’m sorry, you’re too late. For the memorial I mean,” I say. “People were here before.” I try to slow my still pounding heart. “Other ones. But the police came.”
“I know. I was watching.”
“You didn’t come down.”
“I wasn’t here to drink with those people.” He pauses. “I came looking for answers.”
There is something in his voice then; it hits me in the center of my chest. “Me too,” I say. “I’m trying to find out why she did it. Why she . . .”
The wind whistles. I pull my coat tighter.
“She didn’t kill herself, June.” Jeremiah leans forward. “Delia was murdered.”
A pulse of white-hot energy rushes through me. I stare at his face, half lit under that big yellow moon. “What are you even talking about?”
“She hung around with a lot of messed up people. She wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything. Even when she maybe should have been. She wouldn’t have killed herself, and if it looks like she did . . .” He pauses. “Then it’s because someone made it look that way.”
I reach out for something to grab onto. There’s nothing but air.
“So we have to figure out who did this to her,” he finishes. “Because no one else is going to.”
I say, “If someone . . . I mean . . . We need to go to the police.”
“I already went. And they wouldn’t listen. They pretended to humor me, then gave me some pamphlets on grief and sent me on my way.” Jeremiah leans forward again. “We have to figure this out ourselves.”
His words are sinking in.
“You’re the only other person who cares enough to ask the right questions.”
I can barely breathe.
“She wouldn’t have done this to herself, what they’re saying she did,” he says.
“But what are they saying?”
Jeremiah is quiet for a long time. “Come with me,” he says finally. “There’s something I need to show you.”
I follow Jeremiah back to the road. What the hell am I doing?
I feel like I’m in a dream. I think, This guy is crazy with grief. I shouldn’t be following him.
We get in our cars.
We make our way on narrow twisty roads. Up Beacon, down McKenna, onto leafy Red Bridge. It seems like we’re heading to Delia’s house, but instead of pulling up in front, Jeremiah makes a sharp right and pulls into the cul-de-sac that connects to the woods behind it. He parks. I pull in behind him.
For a moment I sit there in the silent dark, the only light the yellow circle from someone’s front porch. I press my hand to my chest. I haven’t been anywhere near Delia’s house in over a year, but I used to come here nearly every day. This was more my home than my actual house was.
I open the door and step out. Jeremiah is waiting for me. I will the memories to stay away. I can’t handle them now.
“It’s down through the woods,” he says quietly.
He holds up his phone again, flips on the blue light. He steps up onto the grass between houses and disappears among the trees. I follow.
We’re surrounded by darkness. The leaves crunch beneath our feet. I breathe heavy. In, out, in. And that’s when I smell it: this strange scent I cannot understand. It’s weak at first, but as we reach the edge of the trees, it hits me like a punch in the face. There’s burnt wood and leaves, scorched rubber, melted plastic, gasoline. I pull my scarf up over my mouth and nose. But it doesn’t matter – the stench is so strong.
“What the hell is that?” I say.
We are standing at the edge of Delia’s backyard now. Jeremiah points his phone toward the remains of a structure out in the grass. I can’t tell what it is.
“How they say she did it,” he says.
“How she . . .” I stop. Then I remember: This is where Delia’s stepfather’s shed is supposed to be. He uses it to drink and jerk off, Delia had said. And what I’m looking at now is what’s left of it – half of a wall, a metal frame, and a pile of burnt things.
Jeremiah turns toward me. “This is how they’re saying Delia killed herself. That she burned herself to death in there.”
I breathe in. I can taste it. My legs start to shake.
“There was firewood inside. She doused it in lighter fluid, herself too, and lit it up. Whoosh. So they say.”
I can feel the heat crawling up from my stomach. Images flash. Delia trapped, fire all around. She’s scared, screaming.
And it’s real now. I can’t breathe. Delia, who was so tough, who would say anything, do anything, go anywhere, wasn’t brave about everything. Memories come – Delia shrinking away from a tiny bonfire on the night she first confessed it. Delia flipping out because a guy was playing around with a lighter too close to her. I remember the look in her eye when she told me about her nightmares of nothing but flames. If I have one while you’re here, she had said, squeezing my hands tight, you must promise, promise you will come and wake me up.
Delia was scared of just one thing. This was it.
“There’s no way she did this,” I say. And I know in that moment that what I’m saying is true.
Jeremiah nods. He turns toward me, out there in the dark.
“So now you understand,” he says, “why I need your help.”
We’re up by my car now, Jeremiah and I. And I’m this close to losing it entirely.
“We can go back to the police,” I say. “Maybe we can tell them . . .” I am desperate, grasping for anything.
“They’ve already seen this place. There’s no point in going to them until we can tell them something they don’t already know.”
“I haven’t . . . I hadn’t spent time with her in so long, I don’t know anything about . . . Where would we even start?”
Jeremiah turns away. “I might have an
