As usual, my mother fails to take an important fact into consideration.
Brett is not a victim, despite what my mother constantly tells herself.
Brett is surrounded by criminals because Brettisa criminal.
“Since you haven’t seen your brother, and you’ve been ignoring my calls and Rob’s texts, I guess you haven’t heard the good news?”
“Good news?” I question. The words “good” and “Brett Givens” don’t belong in the same sentence. The only thinggoodabout Brett’s current situation is that he can’t hurt anyone else. He’s serving a sentence at the state prison because he killed a man. He bought the alcohol. He doctored the drinks. He set the course the pledges needed to complete.
But even worse than all that? He never called the police. He never called for help. He went to great lengths to cover it all up, and now he’s paying the price.
Brett deserves the sentence he was given. It’s not enough. It won’t bring Dylan James back. It won’t make Phoebe and her mom whole again. But it’s the very least he needs to do.
“The lawyers are petitioning for early release. They think we have an excellent chance.”
Jesus. They’re goddamn delusional. I have nothing to say, so I say nothing.
“Ty, darling, isn’t that wonderful news? The wheels of justice move so slowly, but just think, by this time next year, Brett could be free. Darling, we could all vacation on the Cape next summer, go sailing, be a family again and finally be done with this nonsense.”
This nonsense.
This nonsense.
My mother’s cavalier, almost disgruntled attitude should alarm me. I should be appalled at her words, her tone. And, on some level, I guess I am. But I’m also used to it. I am painfully aware that Brett is and always has been the center of her universe. I am under no illusion that my mother cares about the man who died, his family, or his friends. She cares about herself. About her first-born son and her husband. About her social status and her bank account.
And I’d be a fool to think she’d ever change.
“I need to go. I have class.” The lie rolls off my tongue as I hang up, leaving no time for goodbyes.
I’m three pages back intoThe Kite Runnerwhen I get a text.
Knox:Need you to pick my ass up.
Ty:Where are you?
Knox:Quikmart on Grant Street. I crashed at some chick’s house last night.
The Quikmart is a couple miles off campus.
Ty:How the fuck did you get there?
Knox:Just pick me and get me coffee and I’ll explain.
Ty:OMW
I grab my stuff and head home to get my car. The drive to Grant Street doesn’t take long and I find Knox leaning against the pillar of the convenience store sign.
We drive in silence and head back to campus. I figure if he needs stuff for class, he can walk to our place. It’s not far. I park in the library lot and we walk into Drip. He grabs us a table by the window and I order two large Americanos and a couple bagels. Minutes later, we’re sitting down to eat.
“Thanks. For breakfast and the ride,” he says, nodding to his food.
“It’s noon. But you wanted coffee, and the diner’s pales in comparison to Drip’s.”
“Fine. Thanks for brunch.”
“You’re welcome. Now what the hell were you all the way out on Grant Street for?”
“I lost my car.”
