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colleague. “We’d like to ask you some questions regarding the accident you were involved in, if you’re feeling up to it?”
    “Sure,” I answer, looking at my mom for confirmation. I’m not even certain why. She seems to sense my unease and shifts closer to me, placing her hand on my leg that’s bouncing wildly. What is it about moms? One simple touch has the power of complete reassurance. I exhale and try to let go of the anxiety that’s been steadily building in the pit of my stomach as I walked back from Ethan’s room.
    “Excellent; let's get straight to it, then,” he says, taking a pen from his crumpled white shirt pocket. He proceeds to scrawl illegibly across the clipboard resting on his knee. His pant leg is bunched up and I can see the black and green sock he’s wearing with a huge L for left on it. I like it; in a strange way it makes him seem more human.
    The questions start thick and fast, hammering down like a torrent of rain from a pregnant grey storm cloud. I’m interrogated for over two hours about every single aspect of the accident that I can recall. Why were we in Arizona? What happened at the bar the night before? I have no qualms about telling the officers that Frank stopped the car in the middle of the road to pick a fight with Ethan. My mom sits quietly by my side with a pained expression as I retell the argument Frank and Ethan were engaged in when the trucker hit us.
    I’m exhausted by the time the officers finally relent and decide to leave. I’m told that they will be ‘in touch’, and they’ll be speaking to Ethan and Frank in due course. My blood runs cold as I realize that it’s yet another promise that I’ve not kept. I promised Ethan that I wouldn’t tell anyone about the situation with his father. I sang like a canary once Officer Murphy asked me to elaborate on Ethan and Frank’s argument. Both officers sat staring at me and then glancing at each other, as if they were in some silent conversation while Mom kept squeezing my knee. I’m not sure whether it was in reassurance or sadness over what I was confessing. Once I mentioned the abuse the questions came faster. I got the feeling that they didn’t believe me and it was frustrating as hell. Why would I lie?
    Apparently the truck driver had died of head injuries at the scene. I’d been told he hadn’t made it, but didn’t know how or why until now. I remember seeing him on his cell shouting for help covered in blood. I squeeze my eyes tight and try to remove the image. The cops said he’d been talking to his wife on his cell phone when he hit us. Turns out the truck had veered slightly without him realizing. If we hadn’t been stopped in the road like sitting ducks, we’d more than likely have been able to swerve and avoid the whole thing. They didn’t say that, but I know it’s true. I could have done without knowing he was on his cell to his poor wife. I’m pretty sure that I’ll be revisiting that little piece of information in my dreams tonight. I can’t imagine how awful it must have been for her to hear everything play out over the phone and not be able to do anything. The thought makes me shiver.
    The officers leave the room, the soles of their shoes squeaking down the hall until finally they fade and silence descends once more. Before I can breathe a single word to break it Mom stops me.
    “Why on earth did you not tell me what was going on, Blair?” She crushes me to her chest as she shakes her head over my shoulder chanting, “That poor boy,” over and over. My eyes fill as I realize that all I’ve accomplished by keeping Ethan’s secret is letting this whole situation escalate to where we are now. If I’d done the right thing and told somebody sooner, this wouldn’t be happening. Why do all the promises I make end up hurting?
    “Sweetheart, I need you to tell me everything, okay? And we need to speak to Moira, too.”
    I tense instantly and pull away from her embrace. “Moira knows.