Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders.
He was with you last night.
Steve was with you.
You told the police that, you told everyone that. It was the only way to keep your sanity, the only way to keep the truth from weaving its way into your brain and suffocating you to death. The truth of the matter would be a secret you would take with you to the grave—one Steve would take, too, but one he would have to face and live with for the rest of his life.
There was something different about him, though—that much was certain. There was a lightness to him that you didn't recognize, an invisible weight removed from his shoulders.
He would never tell you the truth directly, but he didn't have to, because you knew.
You knew him.
Mr. Randle's murder came as a shock, but not so much a surprise. He had plenty of enemies, plenty of people who would be glad to see him dead. He had never been a pleasant man, though there were days when he was more decent than others.
Still . . .
You knew the truth of what had taken place the night of Mr. Randle's murder. You knew Steve was there, you knew they were in a fight only a day prior . . . and you knew one day it would come to this, that Steve would do it—he would murder his father in cold-blood.
You aren't sure if you're as monstrous as Steve for understanding the reason behind what he had done, or if there's a part of you that feels lighter, too.
You knew Steve had dealt with abuse for years at the hands of his father, a lousy few dollars given to him the next day in place of an apology.
But it was never enough.
Even as an adult—a grown man—Steve couldn't bring himself to hate the man. Perhaps that's why he hated himself. You never pushed Steve to talk about it, never wanted to see the monster that was buried inside of him for years bubble to the surface.
Only now it had.
But Steve had been with you last night—all of last night.
The police had nothing on him.
The only fact anyone could produce was that Steve and Mr. Randle never had a good relationship, but then again, nobody you knew growing up had a decent relationship with their parents . . . save for a few lucky ones.
Wednesday, November 6, 1974.
There wouldn't be many that would remember Mr. Randle . . . or his murder.
Two shots fired into his chest had taken his life, suffocated him to death as his lungs collapsed.
They couldn't find the murder weapon, although it was determined to be a .22 Henry Rifle.
Nobody knew.
But you did.
You knew the truth.
You saw the fresh bruise on Steve's right cheek when he'd walked through the door early in the morning, saw the blood stains on his jean jacket, and the dirt caked on his hands and under his nails . . . most likely from burying the rifle used to kill his father.
It had amazed you that Steve could continue to hope that one day he and his father would get along . . . that Mr. Randle wouldn't just see him as a punching-bag, or something to yell at and unload his temper on. That's why he always went back to that house, back to his father—his abuser—the monster that had made him one, too.
You wondered when the day would come that Steve would finally have enough and explode; the monster had been inching closer and closer to the surface for years.
And now you knew.
You disposed of his bloody garments and helped him clean-up, neither of you speaking about the incident, because you didn't have to.
You slept in bed together for the remaining few hours before you both had to get up and go to work like usual, make like everything was normal. Your legs shook, your breathing was heavy, but you forced a smile on your face as you went to the salon and interacted with your co-workers and clients. You told yourself that everything was fine, as it should be.
And then you went home after your shift, swallowing the lump in your throat as you waited for Steve to arrive.
But he never did.
Instead, you get a call from the police station, your eyes squeezing shut as Steve's voice comes through the speaker beside your ear, saying your name in a breathy, anxious tone.
"Evie . . ."
He tells you his father is dead, shot to death, that he found him just an hour ago in his childhood home . . .
The rest is a blur.
He was with you last night.
Steve was with you.
You told the police that, you told everyone that. It was the only way to keep your sanity, the only way to keep the truth from weaving its way into your brain and suffocating you to death. The truth of the matter would be a secret you would take with you to the grave—one Steve would take, too, but one he would have to face and live with for the rest of his life.