Free Where the Broken Lie by Derek Rempfer Page B

disappointed them?
    I slide the letter out of the unsealed envelope and unfold it to see a single word on a single sheet of paper. A single word that instantly spawns a million questions about the past.
    Innocent
    Later that night, I sit alone in the kitchen staring down at that one-word letter. I flip it over, turn it upside down, but there is just that one word. I delicately press out the creases, but find no answers in the folds and wrinkles. I hold it above me and let light shine through, but nothing is revealed. It’s just one word, but it carries the heaviness of certainty.
    Did Charlie write this? It seems unlikely. He had been willing enough to discuss his theories with me at Mustang’s even though we hadn’t seen each other in years. Why get all ‘Deep Throat’ all of a sudden?
    But if not Charlie, then who? Who else believed that Slim Jim was innocent and why would they wait until now to share this belief? And why in this manner?
    Innocent.
    That one word was secretive and cryptic. Inked by someone compelled to speak out, yet too frightened to step forward. And understandably so, I suppose. They would have a lot to explain. Probably more than they would be able to. For starters, how could you explain waiting twenty years?
    This was a real Pontius Pilate move. Launching this letter into the world and then washing their hands of the matter.
    All I know for sure is that after years of thinking that some random hobo had murdered Katie Cooper there are now two people declaring his innocence.
    Moose and Charlie had sworn each other to secrecy and assuming they kept that promise, the letter-writing candidates seemed pretty limited. It could have been some random prankster, but that seemed pointless. It could have been someone who—for whatever reason—believed that Slim Jim was innocent. Still the question remained—why now? Perhaps the author of the letter had been afraid to come forward back then. Perhaps the real killer was still alive.
    Or perhaps the author himself was the real killer.

When One Child Dies
    In my back pocket was the poem I had written for Katie the night before. The thought of giving it to her made my knees wobble, so I promised myself I would do it right before I had to go home so I didn’t have to talk to her afterward. We bounced my basketball up to the playground where we first played Around The World and then a couple games of HORSE. Interrupting our third game of HORSE came a call from the street corner.
    “Hey there, Sassafras.”
    The voice belonged to Edie Dales and without even turning around I knew that Son Settles was with him because Son Settles was always with him. Edie and Son were only a couple years older than me, but it seemed like dog years. And being around them was a reminder of all the places where I didn’t have hair or muscle. More than that even, they had a way of smiling that made me think I was going to learn a lot about the world in the next two dog years of my life.
    Edie and Son were best friends, though by appearance alone you’d never match the two of them together. Whereas Son came with all the accoutrements of a small town redneck kid—John Deere hats, t-shirts that were only sold at rock concerts and flea markets, and blue jeans with circular faded spots on the back pockets from cans of chewing tobacco—Edie always had a country club polish to him. He only wore shirts with collars, many of them with a small alligator or horse or something embroidered on the front. What’s more, he never wore blue jeans—always dressy-looking slacks. Somehow, those pants never sullied or stained, even when playing tackle football.
    The only thing more perfect than his clothing was his hair, which I never once saw mussed or tussled. That fleshy white crease down the center of his head parted his hair perfectly even, like a Bible opened to Psalms, giving him a veneer of innocence that he didn’t deserve.
    It was beyond disturbing how out of place Edie Dales looked in