The Scattering. Kimberly McCreight
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But once we’re inside, any similarities disappear. The Newton station is much larger and more modern, not to mention busier than the one in Seneca. It’s actually way busier than I would have imagined. With the low crime rate in Newton, I can’t imagine why so many people are at the police station.
There are a dozen desks lined up in a large room behind a railing to the left. At a tall desk in front sits a tired-looking uniformed officer doing intake. He has thinning gray hair and rumpled eyes and he is dismissively sorting people into a second set of lines: complaints to be filed, summonses to be paid. It all seems seriously bureaucratic and super boring.
My dad and I take our places at the back of the line, and I listen as people register their complaints. One man’s apartment was broken into, a woman’s car was vandalized. And on and on. It’s 9:05 a.m. by the time we are next in line. I called Jasper twice on our way to the police station and he didn’t answer. And now, not only do I want to talk to him, but I’ve also got a bad feeling about him not answering.
“Yes. Hello!?!” It takes me a minute to realize that the officer behind the tall desk is finally talking to us.
“Wylie?” My dad puts a concerned hand on my arm. He’s taken my hesitation as a sign. “You don’t need to do this.”
“Yeah. I do,” I say, meeting my dad’s stare as firmly as I can.
Reluctantly, he nods and we step forward. “We’re here to see Detective Oshiro,” my dad says. “We have an appointment.”
“Wait over there.” The old guy points toward the railing in front of the desks without looking up at us, then picks up the phone.
We aren’t waiting long when I see Detective Oshiro heading our way. I’ve only met him once, and I’d forgotten how tall and imposing he is. Broad shoulders, crisply pressed shirt, and fashionable tie. Good-looking and young. Not too young, but younger than my dad. And way younger than the rumpled old detective I had in mind before he turned up on our steps the day after the accident.
That day, Detective Oshiro was calm and kind and exceedingly competent. Firm, too, in laying out the facts of my mom’s accident. That it was an accident. He never wavered on that—there was nothing to lead investigators to suspect otherwise. It was simply the way the car had impacted the railing in the area of the gas tank that had caused it to burst into flames. There was no evidence of foul play.
“There is something you should know, Wylie,” my dad says suddenly. His voice is rushed and tight, like this is his very last chance to make something right. “They think your mom had been drinking the night of the accident. She was upset and I take responsibility for that,” he says. “Anyway, it doesn’t change anything. I just didn’t want you to be surprised if you saw some mention of it in the file.”
“Drinking?” He actually feels relieved confessing this. Me? I’m furious. “What the hell are you talking about?”
And here I thought he’d been trying to protect me from grief. Was this—this thing that makes no sense whatsoever—what he was trying to avoid me knowing? My mom had the occasional glass of wine and that was it.
“Wylie, I know—”
“That is not true,” I snap. But I sound like a ridiculous little kid, refusing to accept that the tooth fairy isn’t real.
“Dr. Lang, it’s nice to see you,” Detective Oshiro says before my dad can respond, but he is wounded. I can feel that much. And I am glad. My dad and Detective Oshiro shake hands and then the detective turns to shake mine. “If you want to come back through here, I’ve got you guys set up in a conference room in the back. That way you can take as much time as you need.”
Detective Oshiro has made peace with this. He didn’t want us coming down and going through the file in the first place, but now that we are here, he’s not going to be anything but professional.
I expect the other detectives in the room to stare at my dad and me as Detective Oshiro leads us toward the conference room, for some kind of hush to descend. They’re here. They’re about to find out everything. But they don’t even look up from their desks. Because they do not care. Because there is no great secret about to be revealed. At least not one that is going to turn back time and bring my mom back, not something that will make all this Outliers nonsense go away. Is that why I’m actually here? Am I putting my dad through this trauma for that, a distraction?
“I can go in myself,” I say to my dad as Detective Oshiro stops about halfway down a row of doors. I am still pissed at him for dropping this whole “drinking” bomb on me, but now I feel ashamed, too. “I feel bad I even made you come down here.”
My dad turns and smiles at me, sad but also grateful. “I’m not sure I can handle looking through anything myself, but I’ll stay in the room with you.” He reaches down and squeezes my hand. “I know that none of this has been easy on you, Wylie.” And he means all of it—the Outliers, the camp, Quentin, my mom’s accident. “I want you to know that the way you’re handling all of it—I am so proud of you.”
THE ROOM IS plain and windowless, but clean, with floor-to-ceiling glass between it and the main room where all of the detectives are seated. It is surprisingly quiet inside, like maybe it’s soundproofed. There is a small table against the wall, two chairs on one side, a single chair on the other. A rectangular cardboard box—long, about the size of three regular book boxes—sits in the center of the table. Looking at it, I feel my heart catch.
“I’ll be right outside if you need me.” Detective Oshiro points to a desk that is only a couple steps away. “Please don’t remove anything from the evidence bags, and nothing can be taken from the room. If you see anything of value in your mother’s personal effects, let me know. I’ll make sure you leave here with it today.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say, checking my watch: 9:15 a.m. “I’ll be fast.”
Detective Oshiro nods and then closes the door after he leaves. I take a deep breath as I stare down at the box. Suddenly, this feels like a mistake. And I may not know exactly where that feeling is coming from, but that doesn’t make it any less real.
“You should take your time, Wylie,” my dad says. “We’re here now, and I don’t think you’re going to get another chance.”
He’s right. As much as I want to get this over with, I need to be thorough. It’s now or never.
I keep my eyes on the box itself for a minute. It looks brand-new, the top crisp, the label clean and clear. Name: Hope Lang. Date: February 8. Description of Matter: Automobile Accident. The ordinariness is both a relief and a disappointment. A tiny part of me did hope it might say Murder somewhere. Another part of me was dreading that, too.
As I lift the long lid from the box, I turn my head away, allowing a moment for the most awful of the ghosts to escape. I rub my palms against my jeans then to dry them and suck in some air as I turn back to the open box, bracing myself to see something truly horrifying, like my mom’s charred bones. But it’s just an ordinary box divided into two sections, one with hanging file folders, the second with a stack of evidence bags.
The bag on top holds something small and black and silver, like a hardened lump of mixed clay. It isn’t until I look closer that I realize it is a car key. Or what was once a car key, melted now beyond recognition. My stomach inches up into my throat. My dad was right—this is more awful than I thought it would be. Because now all I can think about is my mom liquefied. And Cassie, too. Everything and everyone I have ever loved reduced to a puddle—and then hardened into a shapeless rock.
I turn away from the evidence bags and toward the files, glancing over at my dad to see if he is watching me. I have a faint hope that something in his face will give me a real reason to stop. But his eyes are on his phone, reading something, an email or a text. His brow is furrowed as he begins to type. He is not going to rescue me from my own terrible idea.
I turn back to the box. I wanted to come here. I need to