None of us says a word as Chase leads the way, threading through the wooden fold-down chairs, pushing up each seat so we can get past. He stops at a skinny door. There’s a big silver alarm on the doorpost. He takes out his pocketknife and does something to the alarm. His back is to me, so I don’t see what he does. But he knows what he’s doing. He’s obviously done it before, somewhere. He turns around and sticks the knife back into his pocket. “We’re going down the fire escape. Are you both good with that?”
I nod. Then I remember T.J.’s afraid of heights. If Jer and I sit on the top bleacher at a practice, T.J. won’t come up. “You don’t have to,” I tell him.
“I’m fine,” he says, but the pupils of his eyes are too big, and his voice too high.
I don’t let go of his hand as we follow Chase, taking each black metal step, clang-clanging with every move on the rickety ladder. I expect to descend into a pool of reporters and spectators, who will swallow me whole.
But nobody’s there when we reach the bottom. I glance back at T.J., asking, without words, if he’s okay. He nods, his face cloud white, his glasses crooked. I squeeze his hand before letting go.
“I’m parked back here,” Chase says. We haven’t asked for a ride, but we follow him. The sun has already set, leaving the sky a mess of gray.
We get into the backseat like before, and Chase starts the car. He eases around the side of the courthouse, then away from the throng of people forming on the courthouse lawn.
When we’re safely away, T.J. and Chase exchange words in low tones, but all I hear are empty voices. My mind is back in the courthouse, on the witness stand, going over all the things I should have said… and all the things I shouldn’t have.
We’re halfway to Grain before I try to speak. Even then, I’m scared I won’t be able to hold back the tears that are so hot and thick they’re clinging to my throat. “I can’t believe I did that to Jeremy. I should have let those reporters tear me apart, piece by piece. I deserve it.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Hope,” T.J. says. We’re sitting as far apart as possible. I’m gripping the door handle.
“You didn’t say anything wrong,” Chase whispers, so soft I’m not sure he really said it.
“Are you kidding?” I’m too loud, but my heart is pounding in my ears. “Raymond and I practiced, but not for that. Not for those questions. That prosecutor, Keller, he tricked me. He got me to say exactly what he wanted, that my brother is strange, but not insane. I’ll never forgive myself if I-”
Nobody except Jeremy has ever seen me cry. I cover my face and try not to let out the sobs that rack my body. But I can’t control anything. I hear the animal noises coming from me as if they’re from someone, or something, else. T.J. reaches out his hand, but I don’t take it. “I thought I was doing so great,” I say between sobs. “I wanted the jury to know Jer the way I do. Then they’d have to see that he couldn’t murder anybody. But all I did was make them see he’s not insane.”
“It’s not up to you, Hope,” T.J. says, sliding his fingers through his slicked-back hair. “And anyway, you did better than that fancy psychiatrist.”
I know T.J. is trying to help. But it’s not helping. My head’s pounding, and I feel like I’m going to throw up. This is no time for a migraine attack.
“Hope?” Chase’s voice is soft, but firm. He expects me to answer.
“What?”
“Did you say anything in court that you don’t believe?”
“No!”
“Do you believe your brother’s crazy?”
“Of course I don’t!”
“Well, then, you couldn’t say anything except what you did, could you? Not under oath.”
I don’t answer.
“What the jury saw today was a sister who loves her brother. That’s it. Jeremy’s attorney can still make a solid case for insanity.”
“But Jer’s not insane.” The fire has gone out of my voice. Out of me.
“Okay,” Chase says, not looking back at us, not glancing in the rearview. “But isn’t that the best outcome of the trial? If they find Jeremy insane, they’ll just send him to some kind of mental facility, right? And if he’s okay, they’ll see that and let him go eventually.”
“He’s right, Hope,” T.J. whispers.
I’m shaking my head. “Jeremy wouldn’t survive in a mental hospital. He needs to be with me. He needs me. We need each other.”
“Great,” Chase mutters. “That TV woman is there again.”
When I look up, I can’t believe we’re in front of my house. The blue van is parked in the same spot as yesterday. “I can’t face them. Not after what I did today. I don’t even want to face Rita.”
Chase does a one-eighty and heads north. “Where do you want to go?”
“We can go to my house,” T.J. offers.
In a few minutes, we’re walking up to the Bowers’s two-story white house. There’s not much of a front yard, but what there is looks like a green carpet. Impatiens hang in baskets from the front porch, and black-eyed Susans form gold-and-brown clumps big as bushes against the house.
T.J. goes in first. “Hey! Anybody home?”
His mother comes downstairs carrying a laundry basket. “That you, Tommy?” T.J.’s real name is Thomas James, but his mom is the only one who calls him Tommy. When she sees Chase and me, she balances the basket on her hip and pushes thin strands of brown hair out of her freckled face. “Well, how are you, Hope? Good to see you too, Chase.” If she’s surprised to see him, she doesn’t show it.
I’m surprised he’s still here, and I’m pretty sure I’m showing it. He tried dropping us off, but T.J. wouldn’t have it. Chase is hanging back, close to the door, like he’s ready to bolt first chance he gets.
T.J. takes the laundry basket from his mom. “We need someplace to hide out for a while. Reporters are all over Hope’s lawn.”
“What a shame.” She shakes her head, then smiles at me. “You know you’re always welcome here, Hope.” I thank her, sure that she means it. Her smile passes to Chase, who reaches for the doorknob. “You too, son. Say, are you kids hungry? I’d be happy to make you something to eat. Plenty of time before I have to get ready for the night shift.” Mrs. Bowers has worked at the Oh-Boy cookie factory longer than any other employee, so she could have the day shift if she wanted. But T.J. says she started working nights the year they adopted him so somebody would be home all the time. She got used to the hours, and now she can’t imagine working days.
“I’m not hungry, Mrs. Bowers,” I tell her. “But thanks.”
“I should be going,” Chase says. His eyes dart around the living room. He looks like he’s scared the house is about to blow up. He probably never hangs out with people like me and T.J.
“Don’t go, man.” T.J. nods to the basket he’s holding. “Let me run this down to the basement. I’ll meet you in the kitchen. Hope, get us something to drink, whatever’s in the fridge.” He slants his eyes at me, like he and I have some kind of secret that explains why he’s making sure Chase sticks around.
I don’t get it. But a lot of times I don’t get T.J. “Sure,” I say to his back as he heads toward the basement. Then I start for the kitchen.
Chase stays where he is a second, then follows me.
I love the Bowers’s kitchen. It’s the biggest room in the house. T.J.’s dad built all the cupboards, plus a cooking island in the center. Chase slides into the small corner booth, also built by Mr. Bowers. They have a dining room, but I’ve never seen them use it.
I pour three glasses of OJ and join Chase in the booth, taking the other end of the L. “You really don’t have to stick around,” I tell him.
Chase is fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers. He shrugs without looking up.
After a minute, I can’t stand the silence. “I’ll go see if T.J. needs any help.” I make my way to the basement and find T.J. pulling clothes out of the dryer. “T.J., what’s going on?”
He glances back at me. “Sorry this is taking so long. I’ll be up in a minute.”