Blood on My Hands

Saturday night. The seventeen-year-old Soundview High student was stabbed to death while attending a beer party in the woods behind a town baseball field.
“At this point we are still investigating the motive,” the police chief stated. When asked if there were any suspects in the case, Chief Jenkins would say only that his department was eager to speak to Callie Carson, seventeen, a friend of Ms. Remington-Day’s who was photographed next to the body with a blood-spattered knife in her hand.
Ms. Carson was last seen running away from the scene of the murder. The police are urging anyone with information to call the anonymous tip hotline.
    Griffen is coming down the sidewalk, wearing khaki slacks, a white shirt, a school tie, and a blue blazer. Thank God he’s alone, and yet I’m still terrified. I’m a complete stranger to him. If I were in his shoes, I’d probably call the police the instant I figured out who I was.
    My feet feel like they’re buried in cement, as if somehow they know that this is a huge mistake, even if the rest of me doesn’t. But I don’t know what else to do. If I don’t speak to him, who will I speak to? I feel miserable, sick with anxiety and lack of sleep, tired and cold and dirty and gross after spending the night trying to sleep on the ground in the woods. Maybe part of me wants him to turn me in just so I can take a shower and sleep on something soft tonight. Maybe I want him to do what I can’t bring myself to do.
    He’s going to pass the driveway in a second. It’s now or never. Still not sure what to say, I step out from behind the hedge and clear my throat. He turns his head, glances at me, takes another step, then stops and looks again.
    For a second we just stare at each other. Suddenly I’m aware of something strange that didn’t come through in the Facebook photo: Griffen looks familiar. I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before. But he and Slade have similar features. I mean, it would be easy to tell them apart—by height, for one thing—but at the same time they could be mistaken for brothers. Both have straight blond hair and strong chins. It strikes me as a peculiar coincidence. Do I feel like I’ve seen him before because he reminds me a little of Slade? Or because I really have seen him before? But I can’t dwell on that now. Meanwhile, my heart is banging so hard I can feel my temporal artery throbbing.
    I manage to issue a raspy “Please.”
    He scowls, says nothing, and stares.
    “Do you know who I am?” I ask, trembling.
    His eyes narrow.
    “I’m … the girl everyone’s looking for. I … I need to talk to you.”
    He doesn’t react. This is completely unnerving. Shouldn’t he be just a tad bit freaked? Everyone thinks I’m a killer. No doubt I’m the first in that category he’s ever encountered.
    “I didn’t kill Katherine.” I feel like I’m wound tight, close to snapping and unwinding into a frayed mess. “I know you have no reason to believe me, but it’s true.”
    He blinks and takes a step backward.
    “Don’t go!” I beg. “Please! I just want to talk. I swear. I just want to ask you some questions.”
    But he’s backing up, turning as if he’s about to sprint away. Only that heavy, book-filled pack on his back shifts from one side to the other, and the next thing I know, Griffen Clemment trips on his own feet, topples over, and lands hard on his side in the street.
    “Unnnhhhh.” A long slow groan slips out through his lips and he lies on the asphalt as if stunned.
    “Oh my God!” I kneel beside him. “Are you okay?”
    “I … I don’t know.” His voice is higher than you’d expect, and he seems really out of it.
    “Come on.” I help him slide his arms out of the pack. “You can’t just lie here in the middle of the street.” I get him to his feet and walk him to the curb. Then I go back and get the backpack. A moment later we’re sitting side by side on the curb and I’m brushing the sand and dirt off his blazer. One of his pant knees is torn and the scraped skin under it oozes dozens of little beads of blood. I pull a napkin from my jeans and dab the red away. “Does it hurt?”
    “Yes.”
    “See if you can straighten it.”
    He does what I tell him. His leg goes straight and then he bends it back up without complaining or grimacing.
    “Listen, Griffen, I can’t sit here out in the open like this. Everyone can see us.” I jerk my head back toward the hedge. “Can we go back in there? I