Broken Pretty Things by Amber Faye

Chapter 37

I stareat the note for a long, long time.

There is so much in it. It’s more of a suicide letter than a note.

I wanted to study Literature,it concludes at the end of the page. I wanted to quit football.

College is no longer a safe haven.

Andie is no longer a safe haven.

I am writing this not out of desperation, but acceptance. Life is heavy, and my heart is dull.

Cole

“Life is heavy, and my heart is dull,” I repeat out loud after a while. My mouth is dry. “I know that. He used to say that.”

“It’s a quote by his favorite author,” Gunnar says simply. There has to be no part of him that still believes me after this.

“No.” I shake my head. I pull out the note from my bag, tears spilling from my eyes and down my cheeks.

Remember: You have a friend like me.

It’s worn. Folded and refolded. Jostled around by my schoolbag, but it’s still here. “The handwriting is different,” I say, and then I’m sobbing so hard I can’t look.

Because, at a glance, it’s not different.

Not at all.

“Please tell me it’s not his writing. He didn’t write a suicide note. He didn’t blame me because he couldn’t bear to write the truth. He wouldn’t do that to me.”

All this time I thought my best friend sitting beside me betrayed me, but it wasn’t him. It was Cole.

“Andie,” Hero says softly. I look past my fingers and she’s holding the phone, and my note, in both hands. I wait for some revelation. Some eureka moment. Please. “I’m so sorry.”

* * *

The three ofus sit at the bleachers for an hour longer before anyone speaks. Gunnar is staring into the distance, flexing his long fingers, and I watch them. I wonder what he’s thinking about; whether he’s regretting going easier on me for the last couple of days.

Hero is still studying the two notes, and she has her own tablet out, occasionally typing or searching something. “I have something to say,” she says quietly. “If you don’t mind my speculation.”

“Go ahead,” Gunnar says.

“Well, I was …” She bites at her lip. “I mean, maybe I was going about it wrong. But now I’m thinking about it, and what if the fact that it’s the exact same handwriting means—”

“It’s the exact same handwriting,” I repeat dully. “He wrote that note. He told the town I was a whore.” The note literally used the word. “Told everyone I had fucked Chris Barkley. That he saw it. That I was the reason he was doing it. He really wrote that.”

“Wait,” Hero says patiently. “It’s the exact same handwriting. Graphologically speaking, and I know what I just said about basing an entire case on this, but …” She studies the note for a while longer.

“Go on,” Gunnar prompts again.

“OK, well, isn’t it strange? He writes a sweet, kind note to Andie here. You see the broad, friendly loop here? The confident wide strokes here? Hang on, do you need citations? I—”

“Just keep going,” Gunnar says, but he’s looking straight ahead instead of at whatever’s in her hands.

“Cole writes like your classic handsome, popular teenage boy, I’d say. He writes with friendliness and confidence. In this note to Andie he has nothing to hide. According to the science of graphology, anyway. And here, in this suicide note, it’s the same. See here. Confident, friendly. He has the handwriting of somebody writing a note to a friend, or discussing something he’s interested in. He’s comfortable.”

“Interesting,” Gunnar says, but I can hear the closed-off quality to his voice. It’s not interesting at all. It’s nonsense.

“This is a stretch,” Hero says.

“Yeah,” I agree.

“But his handwriting would very likely be erratic, even a little, if he was writing a suicide note. What if he wrote this for another reason? As a joke? That would line up with the sweet note of friendship for Andie.”

“A joke?” Gunnar repeats, almost at a whisper. Hero pales.

“N-not a joke, but—”

“Thank you so much for trying,” I say softly, reaching past Gunnar to rest my hand on Hero’s knee before she panics too much. “I really mean that. You’re a good person.”

A minute passes. When Gunnar speaks, it’s with some effort. “I think maybe we’ll just never know the whole truth.”

Hero tightly shakes her head once. “I refuse to accept that,” she says. “As a scientist from a long line of scientists.” She stands and reaches out for me. For some reason, I take her hand and let her pull me up. “Here’s my promise: Whether or not the answer is what we want to hear, we will find it.” She points at me and then at Gunnar. “As far as I’m concerned, nothing has changed. There’s something still crazy suspicious about this whole thing, and we owe it to your friend to spend as much time as we need making sure we did everything we could. OK?”

I’m surprised by her forcefulness, and by how much it bolsters my confidence. I wipe my face. And then nod. “Thank you.”

She pulls me in for a flowery hug, rocking me from side to side. At some point while we hug, still silent, Gunnar gets up and walks away.