Take the Fall(77)

I step outside and force myself not to run.

The door of the Cadillac screeches like a wounded animal when I open it. The interior smells like air freshener and an old woman’s cigarettes. Marcus smiles at me from the other end of the red leather bench seat, which would make my heart flutter if he didn’t look just as nervous as I feel. I shut the door, trying to sink out of view as the car shifts into motion.

“Doing okay?” he asks.

“Fine . . . it’s just been a while since I cut class.” I sit up and look back at the windows of the school, as if they’re going to turn red and start flashing to announce my departure. “I only used to do this with Gretchen.”

“And she never got caught doing anything,” he mutters.

The car is warm, but all the windows are down. I don’t bother to ask if the AC is functional. We pass the sign that says Now Leaving Hidden Falls—Come Back Soon! And the space between us fills with the roar of the engine and hefty amounts of apprehension.

I fidget in my seat. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

We stop at a light and he looks at me, surprised. “You were on board last night.”

“I know. I just wish there was another way to do this.” I stare at my lap. “I don’t want to meet the guy.”

“I told you, he might let his guard down talking to us in a way he wouldn’t with the cops. We might get him to slip up.”

“But what if he doesn’t have anything to hide?”

“He already hid Gretchen’s car. And he was the guy in her room.”

I pause. This is all true. But if Gretchen had dirt on him before she died, she wasn’t keeping it on the SD card. We have to come up with something—maybe nothing as incriminating as a recording of him wishing her dead, but everyone seems to agree Alex Burke was bad news. His true interest in her likely wasn’t hearts and flowers.

“Maybe the cops have the timing off,” Marcus says. “They’ve only got footage of him coming back to the auto shop, right? So, what if he attacked you first, then killed her, then went back to her room to cover it up?”

“I guess . . .” When he puts it that way, I’m even more uneasy about meeting the guy face-to-face.

Marcus grips the wheel until his knuckles go white. “He could be threatening you because he’s scared you’ll identify him as your attacker.”

This could actually make sense. “But why would he do it like that? Why would he even have the picture from the party, and how could he get it into my locker?”

He goes quiet. “I don’t know. Unless he’s involved with someone else.”

I sink in my seat, suddenly relieved to be away from the school. I’m afraid this trip might come to nothing, but I don’t know what else to do.

I steal a glance at Marcus, in jeans and a black T-shirt. His face is mild, but he keeps his eyes glued to the road, like a gamer whose sole focus is making it to the next level. I think of everything Gretchen did to him—to us—and I just want to prove it was Alex Burke and not Marcus . . . somehow.

There isn’t much to Jamesville aside from a few roadside antique shops, a small historic district, and the auto garage. Marcus parks the Cadillac on the side of the road rather than pull into the lot. Then he gets out his phone, taps on the screen, and puts it in his front pocket.

“Testing . . . testing . . .” he says aloud.

“What are you doing?”

“I found an app that’s voice activated. It’ll record whatever he says.” He takes the phone back out of his pocket and replays our conversation. I raise one eyebrow and he scratches his head. “Um, I read a lot of detective stories.”

This actually gets me to smile. “Stealthy.”

He reaches for the door, and I glance at the mechanic’s shop. With its dirty windows and junky parking lot it just looks like a place where bad things might happen and no one would notice or care. Where a murdered girl’s car could go unnoticed for weeks. A rough-looking guy with a shaved head peers out the door at us, and suddenly this all feels too real . . . too dangerous. My pulse picks up. I touch Marcus’s hand.

He looks back at me, gripping his keys, his face a reflection of my own. “On second thought, maybe you should stay in the car.”

“No way. I’m going with you.”

He flinches, brushing a lock of hair out of my eyes. “What if he tries something?”

I touch my right pocket. “I brought pepper spray.”

He swallows. “I just . . . I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I’ll be okay.” I weave my fingers between his. “What are you even going to say?”

“I thought I might walk in and ask which one of them killed my ex-girlfriend.” When I stare at him, he cracks a smile, but it’s not quite convincing. “Or maybe something more subtle.”

I slide across the seat. “Yeah, I’m going with you.”

“Sonia . . .”

I gesture to the guy still staring at us from the door. “Pretty sure I’m no safer here, by myself, than out there with you.”

He nods and squeezes my hand, the sensation traveling up my arm and deep into my chest. We climb out of the car together.

There are at least five vehicles in the lot that look like they haven’t been mobile in years. A Rottweiler chained to one of them issues a low growl as we approach, but doesn’t lift its head. The man we saw has disappeared into the small building. When we push through the door into the office, the walls are plastered with pictures of hunting expeditions. Men and boys posing with guns and animal carcasses. I shudder at the deadness of it all. There’s a pinup calendar in the corner. Classical music drifts inharmoniously through the air.