Take the Fall(41)

“You don’t have to,” she says. “It was just an idea.”

“No.” I exhale. “I—I’d like that.”

Her face lights up in a warm smile. “Great.”

I falter at her enthusiasm. This is so different from our conversation outside of Gretchen’s room. I wish I could figure out what’s changed. My stomach twists with guilt when I think of her name on my suspect list, but until now it was easy to imagine Kirsten scratching up my picture. Maybe I can simply rule her out.

“Can I ask you something, though?”

She raises her eyebrows and I struggle to find the words I’m looking for.

“Do you remember taking a picture of me and Gretchen at the party?”

I study her face carefully, but she just blinks like I asked her to name the capital of Europe.

“I don’t remember much of anything from that night. Is it important?”

“Probably not,” I say quickly. “I just found a photo of us in my locker last week.”

“I’ve had a bunch of people send me pictures of her or tag me online.”

“Me too. I guess it just seemed odd, the way it was done . . .”

“How do you mean?”

I pause, not sure I should mention the scratches. If she put it there, wouldn’t she have said so by now? I don’t want to scare her if she didn’t. “I don’t know . . . it just felt like someone was trying to get my attention. I wish I knew why.”

Her eyebrows draw together, uneasy. “Maybe you should take it to the sheriff. He keeps saying even small details are important.”

“Oh—I don’t think it’s that big a deal,” I say quickly. She gives me a doubtful look, but I shrug and clear my throat. “Anyway, when did you want me to come over?”

She smiles so sweetly, I feel bad for wanting to turn her down. “How about tomorrow? I’ll give you a lift after school.”

I manage to return her smile. “Great. I’ll look forward to it.”

She’s gone before I even realize the bell rang, and though we ended on a slightly less awkward note, the invitation still piques my guilt. The masquerade posters lining the walls remind me of the dress hanging in Gretchen’s closet, the one that will never be worn. I push down the hall toward chemistry, avoiding the masks staring at me from the flyers, but by the time I get to class, I’m picturing myself at prom, dancing without a face.





TWENTY


THERE ISN’T A BELL ABOVE the door at the Evil Bean, but it wouldn’t matter if there was. The punk rock music is always turned up so loud you have to yell your order at the baristas. If you don’t mind that, or the staff acting like you ruined their day when you walked in, their lattes are pretty amazing. Marcus has worked here since before he and Gretchen started dating. She used to drag me along to “study” just so she could flirt with him while she ordered and I pretended not to care. A guy with a ring through his nose and a tattoo of a dragon wrapping around his neck shouts my name and places a large purple mug on the bar. An intricate butterfly glides through the foam on a swirling coffee-colored breeze. I say thank you and the guy spits into the sink.

Sometimes I wish I could get away with that at the diner. I drop some change into the tip jar.

This time of day, the mismatched tables and chairs are packed with students from the community college, or people carrying out shady business meetings they don’t want overheard. Small groups cram in front of laptops tethered to overcrowded outlets. I watch a couple guys in business suits pass an envelope under a table. There’s a gas fireplace in the corner that’s never turned on no matter how cold it gets and a couple of lopsided sofas huddled on either side of it like they haven’t abandoned hope. The place is always decorated with artwork for sale and today the whole back wall has been turned into a gallery of bright, colorful abstracts. I recognize them instantly as Marcus’s.

My list of suspects is in my backpack, and I’m anxious to see the names he’s come up with—if there’s any overlap. I also sort of hope he’ll give me more reasons he shouldn’t be included, but I’m trying to stay objective. After I connected Kip to the photo and he told me he’d seen Gretchen in the woods, he became my strongest candidate. But I still hesitate. Maybe I’m too trusting, but threats don’t seem like Kip’s style . . . let alone murder. He just isn’t that calculating. I worry there’s something I’m missing.

I don’t see Marcus when I scan the room, so I pick up my mug and wander awkwardly between the tables, trying not to imagine I’m being watched by each person I pass. Finally, my gaze lands on a familiar hunched form.

The thronelike purple chairs in the corner are nestled so close together, my knee rams into his when I sit down. I overcorrect, trying to sit as far back as possible, but when I do I end up sinking into the cushion until my feet lift off the floor. I pull myself forward to balance on the edge of the seat, which apparently has at least one spring left because it’s poking me in the ass.

“Nice meeting place,” I say.

“Guess you’re serious about the text thing. I wasn’t sure you’d show.” Marcus lifts his head. The swelling under his eye is almost gone and I spend a second too long studying the smooth planes of his face. “Anyway, I figured no one you know would ever come here.”