Page 6 of Goodbye Days

“That’s something, I guess.”

“See you later?”

“Yeah. Later.”

Now comes the hard part. When we can’t lose ourselves in regimented programs for our grief. When we’re alone with ourselves.

But the day’s not over for me yet. Nana Betsy invited me to stop by her house, where they were having a low-key potluck dinner to send the relatives from East Tennessee home with full bellies.

I squint against the dazzling light while I rummage for my keys and consider how blithely bright the day is.

The spinning world and the burning sun don’t care much whether we stay or we go. It’s nothing personal.

“Hey, Lisa,” I say to one of the NAA a cappella members passing in the parking lot on the way to her car.

“Oh. Hey.” She’s suddenly transfixed by her phone. She’s one of the people Adair was talking to before the funeral started. And as far as I know, she never bore me any special ill will before now. Yep. This school year is going to rule.

I’m about to get into my car when I see a youngish bearded man in khakis, a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and a loosened, skinny tie approaching.

“Excuse me. Sorry, excuse me,” he calls, waving. “You Carver Briggs?”

At least someone wants to talk to me. “Yeah.”

The young man is carrying a notebook and a pen. He has what looks like a digital recorder in his shirt pocket.

He extends his hand. “Darren Coughlin, with the Tennessean. I’ve been covering the accident from the beginning.”

I shake his hand reluctantly. “Oh.” So you’re the one responsible for the article printed a few days ago, telling the world that this was a texting accident and making everyone point at me.

“Hey, I’m really sorry about the circumstances. I’m working on a story about the accident, and Judge Edwards referred me to you. He said you might have some information about it? They were your friends?”

I rub my forehead. This is literally one of the last things on Earth I want to be doing right now. “Can we do this another time? I don’t really want to talk.”

“I get it, and I’m not trying to be insensitive, but the news doesn’t stop for grief, you know? I’d like to get your side before we go to press.”

My side. I suck in a breath. “Um, yeah. Best friends.”

He shakes his head. “So sorry, man. Do you know anything about what might have caused the accident?”

“I thought you already had an idea.”

“Well, seems like it was texting, but do you know who Thurgood—”

“Mars.”

“Excuse me?”

“We called him Mars.”

“Okay, do you know who Mars was texting with?”

My stomach folds around the jagged edges of the question. My sweat cools. Yes, as a matter of fact I do. “I—I’m not sure exactly. It might have been me.”

Darren nods and scribbles notes. “Were you texting him at around the time of the accident?”

He might be trying not to come across as brusque and uncaring, but he is, and it’s making me jittery. “I—maybe?” My voice is diminishing.

“Are you aware of any criminal investigation into the accident?”