One of Us is Lying(25)

And here I’d thought I was in the clear, since I’d taken Mr. Camino’s files last March. What I just don’t get is, if Simon had known, why hadn’t he pounced on it right away?

I knew what I did was wrong, obviously. I even thought it might be illegal, although technically I didn’t break into Mr. Camino’s account since it was already open. But that part hardly seemed real. Maeve uses her mad computer skills to hack into stuff for fun all the time, and if I’d thought of it I probably could have asked her to get Mr. Camino’s files for me. Or even change my grade. But it wasn’t premeditated. The file was in front of me in that moment, and I took it.

Then I chose to use it for months afterward, telling myself it was okay because one hard class shouldn’t ruin my whole future. Which is kind of horribly ironic, given what just happened at the police station.

I wonder if everything Simon wrote about Cooper and Addy is true too. Detective Mendoza showed us all the entries, implying that somebody else might already be confessing and cutting a deal. I always thought Cooper’s talent was God-given and that Addy was too Jake-obsessed to even look at another guy, but they probably never imagined me as a cheater, either.

With Nate, I don’t wonder. He’s never pretended to be anything other than exactly who he is.

Dad pulls into our driveway and cuts the engine, slipping the keys from the ignition and turning to face me. “Is there anything else you haven’t told us?”

I think back to the claustrophobic little room at the police station, my parents on either side of me as Detective Mendoza lobbed questions like grenades. Were you competitive with Simon? Have you ever been to his house? Did you know he was writing a post about you?

Did you have any reason, beyond this, to dislike or resent Simon?

My parents said I didn’t have to respond to any of his questions, but I did answer that one. No, I said then.

“No,” I say now, meeting my father’s eyes.

If he knows I’m lying, he doesn’t show it.





Nate


Sunday, September 30, 5:15 p.m.


Calling my ride home with Officer Lopez after Simon’s funeral “tense” would be an understatement.

It was hours later, for one thing. After Officer Buzz Cut had brought me to the station and asked me a half-dozen different ways whether I’d killed Simon. Officer Lopez had asked if she could be present during questioning, and he agreed, which was fine with me. Although things got a little awkward when he pulled up Simon’s drug-dealing accusation.

Which, although true, he can’t prove. Even I know that. I stayed calm when he told me the circumstances surrounding Simon’s death gave the police probable cause to search my house for drugs, and that they already had a warrant. I’d cleared everything out this morning, so I knew they wouldn’t find anything.

Thank God Officer Lopez and I meet on Sundays. I’d probably be in jail otherwise. I owe her big-time for that, although she doesn’t know it. And for having my back during questioning, which I didn’t expect. I’ve lied to her face every time we’ve met and I’m pretty sure she knows that. But when Officer Buzz Cut started getting heated, she’d dial him back. I got the sense, eventually, that all they have is some flimsy circumstantial evidence and a theory they were hoping to pressure someone into admitting.

I answered a few of their questions. The ones I knew couldn’t get me into trouble. Everything else was some variation of I don’t know and I don’t remember. Sometimes it was even true.

Officer Lopez didn’t say a word from the time we left the police station until she pulled into my driveway. Now she gives me a look that makes it clear even she can’t find a bright side to what just happened.

“Nate. I won’t ask if what I saw on that site is true. That’s a conversation for you and a lawyer if it ever comes to that. But you need to understand something. If, from this day forward, you deal drugs in any way, shape, or form—I can’t help you. Nobody can. This is no joke. You’re dealing with a potential capital offense. There are four kids involved in this investigation and every single one of them except you is backed by parents who are materially comfortable and present in their children’s lives. If not outright wealthy and influential. You’re the obvious outlier and scapegoat. Am I making myself clear?”

Jesus. She’s not pulling any punches. “Yeah.” I got it. I’d been thinking about it all the way home.

“All right. I’ll see you next Sunday. Call me if you need me before then.”

I climb out of the car without thanking her. It’s a bullshit move, but I don’t have it in me to be grateful. I step inside our low-ceilinged kitchen and the smell hits me right away: stale vomit seeps into my nose and throat, making me gag. I look around for the source, and I guess today’s my lucky day because my father managed to make it to the sink. He just didn’t bother rinsing it afterward. I put one hand over my face and use the other to aim a spray of water, but it’s no good. The stuff’s caked on by now and it won’t come off unless I scrub it.

We have a sponge somewhere. Probably in the cabinet under the sink. Instead of looking, though, I kick it. Which is pretty satisfying, so I do it another five or ten times, harder and harder until the cheap wood splinters and cracks. I’m panting, breathing in lungsful of puke-infested air, and I’m so fucking sick of it all, I could kill somebody.