real.
“Mr. Connolly?”
“What is it?” Rachel asks.
“Mr. Connolly.”
“Nothing,” I say.
“Who’s that? What’s going on? Simon?”
“Nothing,” I repeat.
The officer is standing over me. “I need you to come with me, sir.”
“Simon.”
What does it all mean?
The officer leads me to one of the vestry’s back rooms. White linen cloths drape a thick-legged, wooden table. A plastic bag filled with pounds of white wafers, perfect circles, rests on a counter in the back. Robes hang from pegs beside the door. I know I will remember every last detail of that room. Forever.
He pulls a chair out for me. I sit, and he sits across from me, placing a leather-bound spiral notebook on the table. The pen fits perfectly into the tubular wires. He slips it out and opens the pad. His eyes meet mine for the first time. I assume this is because I did not look him in the face before that moment.
“I need to ask you a few questions,” the officer says.
Some leftover, primal instinct urges me to strike this man. My brain can’t come up with a single reason why, but I have to restrain myself. I nod.
“Are you Jake Connolly’s father?”
I nod, but he looks like he is waiting for more. “Yes.”
“Did Jake attend school today?”
“Yes. Look, can you please tell me what’s going on? Is he okay?”
The officer pauses, as if carefully choosing his words. This, forsome reason, frightens me more than anything else that has happened so far. Finally, he answers.
“At this time, Jake’s whereabouts remain unknown. All we know for sure is that his car was found in the student parking lot.”
“What does that mean? He just answered his cell.”
The officer checks his pad, tapping it as if he suddenly understands something. “Does your son know Doug Martin-Klein?”
Everything rushes over me, my entire life, Jake’s entire life, everything that has happened, it all crashes on me like a tidal wave. I am drowning.
“Mr. Connolly?”
“Can I have some water?” I ask, my voice gravelly.
The officer looks me over. My primal instincts have vanished. He dissects me with his eyes. He picks at my guilt, my fear, and my failure. He understands it all, just as I suddenly did as well when he mentioned that name.
The officer walks out of the vestry. I am alone for some period of time, I do not know how long. The initial overwhelming blast of emotion fades. I am numb, but I am also aware again. When the officer returns with a woman in a wrinkled pants suit and a long, straight black ponytail, I am all too aware of what is going on.
“You think . . .”
I stop myself. As awful as it sounds, I need to be careful. I was about to say that they think Jake is somehow involved in all this. The reason I think this is simple—Doug Martin-Klein.
“Hello, Mr. Connolly, I am Detective Anderson. I wondered if I could ask you some questions?”
“Look, I’m going to find Jake.”
I stand up. The first officer squares off, blocking me from moving toward the door.
“Please sit,” Detective Anderson says. “We want to find Jake, too.”
I am enraged now. Her tone implies our desire to find my son does not share a motive. “What does that mean?”
Detective Anderson blinks. My phone rings again. It is Rachel.
I answer without asking if that’s okay. The detective waves her hand dismissively and looks at the officer.
“Rachel.”
“They think Jake’s involved in this,” she says, her voice near hysterics.
I look at Detective Anderson but talk to Rachel. “Are you okay?”
“What the hell? Didn’t you just hear me? They think Jake shot those kids!”
“I’m coming home,” I say. My voice sounds soulless, even to me.
Rachel sobs, gasping for breath.
“I need to get home,” I say.
Detective Anderson nods to the guy in uniform.
“Officer Gunn will drive you.”
“I have a car,” I say.
“We’ll get that to you. We need to have a look inside it first. Is that okay?”
“Inside my
“Mr. Connolly?”
“What is it?” Rachel asks.
“Mr. Connolly.”
“Nothing,” I say.
“Who’s that? What’s going on? Simon?”
“Nothing,” I repeat.
The officer is standing over me. “I need you to come with me, sir.”
“Simon.”
What does it all mean?
The officer leads me to one of the vestry’s back rooms. White linen cloths drape a thick-legged, wooden table. A plastic bag filled with pounds of white wafers, perfect circles, rests on a counter in the back. Robes hang from pegs beside the door. I know I will remember every last detail of that room. Forever.
He pulls a chair out for me. I sit, and he sits across from me, placing a leather-bound spiral notebook on the table. The pen fits perfectly into the tubular wires. He slips it out and opens the pad. His eyes meet mine for the first time. I assume this is because I did not look him in the face before that moment.
“I need to ask you a few questions,” the officer says.
Some leftover, primal instinct urges me to strike this man. My brain can’t come up with a single reason why, but I have to restrain myself. I nod.
“Are you Jake Connolly’s father?”
I nod, but he looks like he is waiting for more. “Yes.”
“Did Jake attend school today?”
“Yes. Look, can you please tell me what’s going on? Is he okay?”
The officer pauses, as if carefully choosing his words. This, forsome reason, frightens me more than anything else that has happened so far. Finally, he answers.
“At this time, Jake’s whereabouts remain unknown. All we know for sure is that his car was found in the student parking lot.”
“What does that mean? He just answered his cell.”
The officer checks his pad, tapping it as if he suddenly understands something. “Does your son know Doug Martin-Klein?”
Everything rushes over me, my entire life, Jake’s entire life, everything that has happened, it all crashes on me like a tidal wave. I am drowning.
“Mr. Connolly?”
“Can I have some water?” I ask, my voice gravelly.
The officer looks me over. My primal instincts have vanished. He dissects me with his eyes. He picks at my guilt, my fear, and my failure. He understands it all, just as I suddenly did as well when he mentioned that name.
The officer walks out of the vestry. I am alone for some period of time, I do not know how long. The initial overwhelming blast of emotion fades. I am numb, but I am also aware again. When the officer returns with a woman in a wrinkled pants suit and a long, straight black ponytail, I am all too aware of what is going on.
“You think . . .”
I stop myself. As awful as it sounds, I need to be careful. I was about to say that they think Jake is somehow involved in all this. The reason I think this is simple—Doug Martin-Klein.
“Hello, Mr. Connolly, I am Detective Anderson. I wondered if I could ask you some questions?”
“Look, I’m going to find Jake.”
I stand up. The first officer squares off, blocking me from moving toward the door.
“Please sit,” Detective Anderson says. “We want to find Jake, too.”
I am enraged now. Her tone implies our desire to find my son does not share a motive. “What does that mean?”
Detective Anderson blinks. My phone rings again. It is Rachel.
I answer without asking if that’s okay. The detective waves her hand dismissively and looks at the officer.
“Rachel.”
“They think Jake’s involved in this,” she says, her voice near hysterics.
I look at Detective Anderson but talk to Rachel. “Are you okay?”
“What the hell? Didn’t you just hear me? They think Jake shot those kids!”
“I’m coming home,” I say. My voice sounds soulless, even to me.
Rachel sobs, gasping for breath.
“I need to get home,” I say.
Detective Anderson nods to the guy in uniform.
“Officer Gunn will drive you.”
“I have a car,” I say.
“We’ll get that to you. We need to have a look inside it first. Is that okay?”
“Inside my
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