Take the Fall(18)

“With parents like his—” She stops herself. “I don’t trust that kid. And he’s not good for business.”

I look at the remaining customers, who still seem restless. Marcus has lived with his grandmother for the past four years. It’s no secret both his parents are in jail on drug charges, but he’s never done anything to indicate he’d be following in their footsteps. He isn’t what I’d call popular, but he wasn’t disliked either before this week. He doesn’t do drugs, doesn’t even drink. He has a few friends, but mostly keeps to himself and his painting. Until he started dating Gretchen, I doubt many people thought twice about his past. He just seemed like someone trying to do better for himself—a lot like me.

“Why don’t you head up to bed,” Dina says.

I nod. My head is spinning and it feels like ages since I left for school this morning. When I reach the top of the stairs, I peek in on my mom, who’s lying in the dark with her head under a pillow. Never a good sign. She hasn’t had a migraine this bad for months. She only gets them when she’s stressed. I close the door carefully and cross the hall to my own room.

I dump my backpack out on my bed, staring at the array of texts and notebooks, but I don’t open any of them. I go straight to my closet and sink to my knees, digging through the sneakers and winter boots beyond Zack & Ken until I unearth a small tin box. I’ve had it as long as we’ve lived here. It’s decorated with snowmen and I think it originally held some kind of holiday candy. Inside, I mostly keep mementos. A gaudy old pin that belonged to my grandmother; a ticket stub to the first concert Gretchen and I ever saw; my first driver’s permit. I sift carefully through the contents until I spot what I’m looking for—a mini SD card tucked in the corner. A pang of guilt shoots through me. It’s something the sheriff would love to see.

I retrieve my phone from my backpack, stick the small plastic rectangle into its slot, and search until I find the right video. Gretchen showed it to me a month ago, the day after she and Marcus broke up. But so much has happened since then, I might be remembering it wrong.

Because the way he looked at me just now . . . for a second it was like the past six months had never happened. It doesn’t make sense.

Marcus is desperate. I just need a reminder. Something to help me be smart about this.

I hit Play, and after a second, the video starts. They’re in the little shed Marcus uses as an art studio behind his house. I skip forward until I reach the place where the camera starts bouncing around.

“You bitch.” Marcus’s voice is venom. He spits the word at the phone.

The shot stays on his furious face—barely recognizable compared to how he looked tonight—until something flies at the camera. A shriek sounds behind the lens. I flinch.

“Out of my face, Gretchen—God, I wish you were dead.”

“Wouldn’t that be convenient?” Gretchen’s voice is steady. My heart aches at the sound. “You could declare your love for Sonia and live happily ever after.”

The camera jerks toward the ceiling, the walls, then a paint-streaked hand closes over the lens.

The sound cuts out and the picture goes black.

I close my eyes. I’d never let on that I was crushing on Marcus, so when Gretchen showed me the footage, I didn’t know what to say. They were her words, not his. Her accusation felt like a huge misunderstanding, and it probably was. But his words are what ring true to me now.

I wish you were dead.

I watch the whole thing through two more times and sit motionless on the floor of my closet, fighting my own regrets. I think of Marcus coming into the diner, sitting there asking for my help. Each time I run through it in my head, the luster fades, and I’m more convinced. His feelings toward me haven’t changed; he’s just looking for an out. A wave of nausea passes through me, but once it’s gone, my whole head seems to clear.

This is exactly what I needed to see.

I’m not sure what kind of “help” Marcus is looking for—but once I find out, maybe I can get close enough to prove he did kill Gretchen.





EIGHT


DINA DROPS ME AT SCHOOL on Tuesday, and from the time I step out of the car, the whispers are practically a roar. I think it’s worse than yesterday. I catch Marcus’s name here and there, but people’s voices drop when I approach and what I do hear is closer to gossip than information.

The SD card is tucked safely back inside the box at the bottom of my closet, but the recording sits in my heart like a shard. On the one hand, it undeniably incriminates Marcus. I just wish Gretchen hadn’t decided to bring my name up. The thought of the sheriff asking me to explain a nonexistent romance with a suspect in her murder makes me sick to my stomach. That’s why I decided not to deliver it to him this morning with his pancakes and eggs.

That, and Gretchen wouldn’t want him to see what else was on the card.

A lot of people wouldn’t.

I pass the guidance office as a girl from the tennis team walks in, sobbing. The grief counselors beckon to me with compassionate faces, making me all too aware of the absence sucking up the air around me everywhere Gretchen ought to be. But talking about my feelings is not going to make me feel better. Ever.

Aisha appears at my side halfway down the main hall. “Hey, heard you had a run-in with Marcus. Did he really threaten you?”