The Truth Read Free Page A

shoulder. “Remember what we talked about. Keep it succinct, consistent.”
    I nod, and he smiles, and for a moment I think he’s going to tousle my hair like he did three years ago.
    But, instead, he turns and walks out of the room. Leaving me alone. Still shaking. Then Devon bursts into the room and hugs me, and for a few minutes anyway, things are better.

3
    Now
    â€œSo this Detective Fyfe shaped your story for you,” Derek says.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” I ask.
    â€œHe told you what to tell the assistant DA.”
    â€œHe…was just trying to be helpful.”
    â€œHelpful.” Derek shakes his head. “That’s what you call it? Asking you to lie?”
    â€œI didn’t lie.”
    â€œOh, really?” His grip tightens on the garden shears.
    â€œPlease, don’t…”
    â€œDid you see the gun in his hand?”
    Sweat from my forehead stings my eyes, and I try to blink the pain away. “He turned, he pointed it at me, and I…I just reacted… My gun went off.”
    â€œBut did you see the gun ?”
    â€œHe…had it. He might have shot me, so I shot him. It was self-defense. After I shot him, he fell on the gun. That’s why I didn’t see it afterward. The police found it. Detective Fyfe told me.”
    â€œAnd Detective Fyfe wouldn’t lie, right?” he says in a harsh growl.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThe only way you’d know for sure is if you can say you saw the gun in my brother’s hand.”
    â€œThe police—”
    All of a sudden, he is on his feet, with both hands now around the handle of the garden shears. “Do you think I’m kidding?” he spits, his voice now a harsh growl. “Do you think I won’t cut off this finger?”
    â€œNo! I believe you! Please—”
    â€œ Did you see the gun in his hand? ”
    â€œ I don’t know! ”
    â€œWhat do you mean you don’t—?”
    â€œI want to be able to tell you. I do! It was so fast…and then my gun went off…and then he was falling… And when I think back to it, sometimes I see the gun and sometimes I don’t. I can’t be sure…but Detective Fyfe said they found the gun under his body, so he must’ve…”
    â€œYou think you’re going to get by with a story like that?” he seethes. “You think you can just—”
    â€œIf I were lying, I wouldn’t tell you I wasn’t sure!” I shout. “I’d just tell you what Detective Fyfe told me to say!”
    Hearing that, he hesitates. “Maybe,” he says.
    He’s going to do it. I can tell. I can feel the sharp edge start to press, starting to cut.
    â€œOr maybe you—”
    All at once, he begins to cough again, and the pressure stops. It sounds much harsher than before, and he pulls away, the blades releasing their grip as his coughing fit continues for at least a full minute, his body bent at the waist and turned away from me as he fights to regain control. In that moment, I look down at my left hand, expecting to see my little finger hanging by only the flesh. But I’m shocked to see no blood. There’s just a scratch from where his coughing spasm caused him to pull the garden shears back, scraping the skin.
    Finally he stops, but instead of coming toward me, he simply stares.
    Waiting to see what he might do next is almost as bad as when I thought he was going to cut my finger off.
    After a minute, he simply says, “Go on.”
    I look back at him, confused. “What?”
    â€œKeep talking.”
    â€œI told you. I can’t remember—”
    â€œI know, I know,” he says, waving the hand holding the garden shears as he returns to the chair. “You can’t remember if you saw a gun. Maybe that’s true. I’ll decide later.”
    After more seconds pass, I ask, “What more do you want me to say?”
    â€œWhat happened after you