got that out of your system years ago. Hasn’t your brother’s troubles taught you anything?” I’d been something of a true crime junkie growing up; inhaling episodes of Forensic Files the way most people watched Friends. I even used to fall asleep to them.
“This is different. It’s not just going over what happened, they actually investigate and they’ve even led to retrials, and sentences being overturned.” I realized that I was taking on the role Daniel had played on Friday night, convincing my parents of the podcast’s validity, persuading them towards my view.
“Okay, so what? You want us to listen to this podcast?” Mom asked, looking a little bemused. “Or are you going to start working for them instead of Coleridge and White?”
“No, I’m not leaving my job. But they’re interested in covering Ethan’s case for their new season. And I think it’s a good idea. And so does Ethan.”
I watched as my parents shared a look. A zipped up, private communique that I’d witnessed a thousand times before, and yet still didn’t really know how to decipher. “You’ve spoken to Ethan about this already?” Georgia asked.
“Yeah, I went to visit him yesterday with the host, Kat.”
Both my parents put down their cutlery at the same time, their gazes now firmly locked on me, “That’s not – he thinks it’s a good idea?” Mom asked, a tremor of worry lining her voice.
“Yeah, well I’m still not sure he quite gets what a big deal the podcast actually is, but yeah, he’s on board.”
“I’m surprised at you, Olivia,” Dad said, his voice firm and low, “you know what this kind of attention can cause. We can’t go through all that again.”
“I know, and I thought about that, believe me. But this could really change things, Dad. It’s not just about attention, it could potentially change the outcome. Look,” I said, picking up my phone and googling the name of the first case Shadow of a Doubt had covered, Warren Kincaid, “this guy had filed for appeal three times before the podcast started investigating his case. Now he’s been acquitted.”
Dad took the phone from me, squinting down at the screen. He didn’t say anything for a while, taking his time reading through the article before removing his reading glasses and passing a hand across his face. His shoulders were slumped, exhausted. “I just don’t know, Liv. I’m surprised you even think this is a good idea. You’re the one who changed her name, after all.”
“I know, I know. I just … I’ve done everything I can think of to help him. I’ve filed for retrials, I’ve contacted the Innocence Project every year for almost ten years, I even went to law school for Christ’s sake, but he’s still in there, and I genuinely think this could change that.”
“It’s certainly impressive, this Warren Kincaid story,” Dad said, picking up the phone again and waving it around. “Very different case, though.”
“They’re all different cases, Dad,” I said.
“Would we have to be involved?” Mom asked, her eyes on me as they had been this whole time.
“Not if you didn’t want to,” I said with a small sigh, “Kat wants as many participants involved as possible, and obviously as Ethan’s family we’d help with perspective and giving the show legitimacy, but I spoke to her about it earlier, and she says she’s okay with it just being me and Ethan. It’s not ideal obviously – really what they’d want is to interview all three of you, as well as me, but I think they’d still be interested in going forward with Ethan’s case, even if you didn’t agree to interviews. I don’t think Ethan will give the go-ahead until you gave it your blessing though. What do you think Georgia? You’ve been pretty quiet.”
Georgia was listlessly twisting her fork through some spaghetti squash and didn’t look up when she said, “I don’t know. I’d have to think about it.”
I let the discussion turn to less controversial topics and waited until both of us were getting ready to leave before questioning my older sister. “So, you hate it right? The podcast?” I asked, while pulling on my coat.
Georgia rolled her eyes, “I don’t hate it. I actually like the podcast – I’ve listened to it before. I just think maybe you’ve forgotten what it was like ten years ago. I don’t want to go through all that again, I really don’t want Mom and Dad to go through it all again, and I don’t think you do really either. Do you?”
“No of course not, but we’d be more in control this time. Plus we’d know what to expect, how to prepare for it.”
“We wouldn’t be more in control,” Georgia said, shaking her head, “you think that now, but all it takes is a few Reddit threads, an article in BuzzFeed and the whole thing has run away from us. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t ever want to wake up with pig’s blood on my porch again.”
We’re three weeks into the trial, and despite everything, the end seems to be in sight. It has felt interminable, these twenty days, each one longer than the last, an entire lifetime rolled up into three weeks. But this is the last day of witness testimonies, and then there will be closing arguments, and then the jury will be told to deliberate on whether or not they think my twin brother is guilty of murder. My chest tightens as I think of it, and I force myself to get out of bed. Every time I wake up now, I think of where Ethan is waking up, and the sheer force of the guilt that he is there, and I am here, propels me out of bed.
The day is bright, clear, crisp. Morning sunshine streaming through my window as I draw the curtains open. It’s the kind of day you want to drink in, to bathe in, sunlight warming skin, cool air burnishing the edges. There are sounds of activity coming from downstairs, my parents already up and about. Mom has stopped sleeping, spending nights holed up in the den, reading over documents, poring over anything and everything that might help out Ethan’s case. Her eyes have become bloodshot, and her skin pale. She hasn’t been in the garden in months. Weeds grow in her vegetable patch, choking the life out of formerly lovingly cared for plants and flowers. Heading downstairs I almost slip on the hardwood floor as a strangled scream comes from the hallway, setting me off running. A loud “FUCK!” follows the scream, followed by a sob of frustration and a slam of the front door.
“Do you know what they’ve done?” Georgia screams at me as I get downstairs, her face an abstract painting of red and white blotches, her eyes wide and wild with anger. “There’s blood on the fucking porch, Olivia, BLOOD. How can people be so fucking disgusting.” She rushes through the hallway, back to the kitchen where Mom is waiting, pulling her into a hug and I watch as my normally calm, quiet older sister shakes with rage in our mother’s arms. Walking away from them I open the front door, always needing to see something to believe it. The whole front porch is covered in a thin slick of bright red blood. In some places, it has run so thin it looks pink against the white of the wooden boards. The sun bounces off it, this glittering red pool of accusation and for a reason I can’t quite fathom, I crouch down to stick my finger in it. The blood on my finger glows up at me malevolently, practically neon, and I stand up too quickly, suddenly feeling lightheaded.
I wash my hands in the downstairs bathroom before heading back into the kitchen to silently grab the mop and bucket. I push blood away from me, watching it spill over the edge of the porch, fertilizing the green, green grass below, and then I wash it all away with water. Every so often I feel eyes on me and look up to stare back at whoever is staring at me. Across the street ten-year-old Billy Strong, who I have spent half his life babysitting, watches me the longest, but he’s not the only one. I wonder which of our neighbors did this, which of my friends potentially. The nausea that rippled through me when I first saw the blood disappears as I clean it all away. The firm feeling of the mop handle gripped in my hands reassures me, and as the blood