Call It What You Want(86)

He knows I know.

“Come on, Rob,” he says casually. “We can talk it out on the way home.”

I don’t want to. My heart hammers away at my rib cage.

When I don’t move, his eyes narrow a fraction. “Your mother is worried. I know she’s waiting for us.”

Nothing in his words are a threat, but somehow I hear one anyway. He can do whatever he wants to me, but my mother is the last innocent person in this whole thing. She doesn’t deserve this.

I swallow. “Fine.” It’s impossible to keep fury out of my voice. “Thanks a bunch for the ride, Bill.”



Bill drives a Tesla. The door handles pop out as we approach. I’ve been inside it, but before now I never realized how pretentious it makes him seem. The doors seal shut, locking me inside with him. He can’t really lock me in here, and I know that, but the cool silence of the interior makes this feel like a cage all the same.

I’d rather be back in the jail cell.

I don’t trust myself to speak. I don’t have enough details, but I know this man was in on it with my father. I know he should be paying, too.

He says nothing as we pull out of the police station parking lot. As the car accelerates, I’m tempted to grab the wheel and jerk the vehicle into a telephone pole.

Then again, this car cost over $100,000, and I’m sure it’s loaded to the gills with safety features. Bill would probably walk away without a scratch. Hell, it would probably brake automatically.

“I’m waiting,” he says eventually. He delivers these words like I’m a toddler and he’s ordered me to issue an apology.

I turn my head and glare at him. I never liked him much, but right now, I hate every fiber of his being. “For what.”

“For you to explain yourself.”

“Why don’t you go first?”

We’ve come to a traffic light, and he glances away from the road. “Watch the attitude.”

“Fuck you.”

His hand comes out of nowhere and backhands me square across the face.

He’s driving, so it’s not a forceful blow, but he’s bigger than me and stronger than I expect. I feel it in my nose. My lips. Blood is in my mouth, along with a sharp pain between my eyes that draws tears against my will. My breathing hitches more from surprise than anything else.

He’s pointing a finger at me. “I told you to watch the attitude.”

I press fingers against my face. I can’t help it. I feel like I ran face-first into a wall. My nose is bleeding.

“You can hit me all you want,” I say. My voice is nasally. Great. “I know what you did. What you’ve done.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“I know what I heard.”

“Like that matters. You think anyone is going to believe you?” We’re going fast now, but he looks over at me and snorts disgustedly. “Seriously. You think anyone is going to believe you?”

I wipe at my nose, then scrape my hand along the side of my seat. I hope I’m leaving streaks of blood and snot on the tan leather. “Maybe no one. But I’ll figure out a way to make sure—”

“To make sure what? To make sure I’m caught?” He chuckles. “Rob, if the feds didn’t find anything when they came after your dad, they’re not going to find anything now.”

“I don’t care.” I shake my head and spots flare across my vision. “I’ll do whatever I have to do—”

“No. You won’t.” He glances over. “Unless you want your mother to go down, too.”

Those words stop time. I turn my head to look at him, and it’s as if I’m underwater. “What are you talking about?”

“You think she didn’t know? You think she didn’t help? How naive are you?”

This is worse than everyone thinking I knew. At least people leave my mother alone. “She doesn’t! She doesn’t know anything—”

“Come on.”

“You leave my mother alone. Do you understand me? You leave her—”

He reaches out a hand, and I flinch.

He chuckles again, as if that’s amusing. He’s pointing at the glove box.

I hate him. I hate him so much.

“Look in there,” he says. “Look.”

I don’t want to look.

“Look!” he snaps.

I open the glove box. A folded piece of paper sits there. It’s a printed e-mail.

From: Marjorie Tunstall

To: Carolyn Lachlan

Connor said Robbie is working with his dad on weekends. Bill doesn’t think that’s a good idea.

From: Carolyn Lachlan

To: Marjorie Tunstall

Robbie is only handling clerical tasks. He won’t know.

They don’t say anything. It’s not conclusive—at all.

But in a way, it is. That last line is searing my eyeballs.

He won’t know.

I can’t breathe. I feel like I’m burning to ash right here in the passenger seat.

“So, you see,” says Bill. “If you bring me down, I’m bringing your mom down.”

I force myself to swallow.

I can’t speak. I don’t know what to say. I barely register that we’ve turned down the road that leads to my house. I want to get out and sprint through the woods. I want to run until my lungs explode or I catch fire or I rot into nothingness. I’m choking on air. Dry heaving in the front seat of Bill’s stupid, awful car.