One of Us is Lying(26)



Some people are too toxic to live. They just are.

A familiar scratching sound comes from the living room—Stan, clawing at the glass of his terrarium, looking for food. I squirt half a bottle of dish detergent in the sink and aim another blast of water over it. I’ll deal with the rest later.

I get a container of live crickets from the refrigerator and drop them into Stan’s cage, watching them hop around with no clue what’s in store for them. My breathing slows and my head clears, but that’s not exactly good news. If I’m not thinking about one shit storm, I have to think about another.

Group murder. It’s an interesting theory. I guess I should be grateful the cops didn’t try to pin the whole thing on me. Ask the other three to nod and get out of jail free. I’m sure Cooper and the blond girl would have been more than happy to play along.

Maybe Bronwyn wouldn’t, though.

I close my eyes and brace my hands on the top of Stan’s terrarium, thinking about Bronwyn’s house. How clean and bright it was, and how she and her sister talked to each other like all the interesting parts of their conversation were the things they didn’t say. It must be nice, after getting accused of murder, to come home to a place like that.

When I leave the house and get on my bike, I tell myself I don’t know where I’m going, and drive aimlessly for almost an hour. By the time I end up in Bronwyn’s driveway, it’s dinnertime for normal people, and I don’t expect anyone to come outside.

I’m wrong, though. Someone does. It’s a tall man in a fleece vest and a checked shirt, with short dark hair and glasses. He looks like a guy who’s used to giving orders, and he approaches me with a calm, measured tread.

“Nate, right?” His hands are on his hips, a big watch glinting on one wrist. “I’m Javier Rojas, Bronwyn’s father. I’m afraid you can’t be here.”

He doesn’t sound mad, just matter-of-fact. But he also sounds like he’s never meant anything more in his life.

I take my helmet off so I can meet his eyes. “Is Bronwyn home?” It’s the most pointless question ever. Obviously she is, and obviously he’s not going to let me see her. I don’t even know why I want to, except that I can’t. And because I want to ask her: What’s true? What did you do? What didn’t you do?

“You can’t be here,” Javier Rojas says again. “I’m sure you don’t want police involvement any more than I do.” He’s doing a decent job of pretending I wouldn’t be his worst nightmare even if I weren’t involved in a murder investigation with his daughter.

That’s it, I guess. Lines are drawn. I’m the obvious outlier and scapegoat. There isn’t much else to say, so I reverse out of his driveway and head home.





Chapter Nine


Addy


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


Ashton unlocks the door to her condo in downtown San Diego. It’s a one-bedroom, because she and Charlie can’t afford anything bigger. Especially with a year’s worth of law school debt that’ll be hard to repay now that Ashton’s graphic design business hasn’t taken off and Charlie’s decided to make nature documentaries instead of being a lawyer.

But that’s not what we’re here to talk about.

Ashton brews coffee in her kitchen, which is tiny but cute: white cabinets, glossy black granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and retro light fixtures. “Where’s Charlie?” I ask as she doctors mine with cream and sugar, pale and sweet the way I like it.

“Rock climbing,” Ashton says, pressing her lips into a thin line as she hands me the mug. Charlie has lots of hobbies Ashton doesn’t share, and they’re all expensive. “I’ll call him about finding you a lawyer. Maybe one of his old professors knows someone.”

Ashton insisted on taking me to get something to eat after we left the police station, and I told her everything at the restaurant—well, almost everything. The truth about Simon’s rumor, anyway. She tried calling Mom on the way here, but got voice mail and left a cryptic call-me-as-soon-as-you-get-this message.

Which Mom has ignored. Or not seen. Maybe I should give her the benefit of the doubt.

We take our coffee to Ashton’s balcony and settle ourselves into bright-red chairs on either side of a tiny table. I close my eyes and swallow a mouthful of hot, sweet liquid, willing myself to relax. It doesn’t work, but I keep sipping slowly until I’m done. Ashton pulls out her phone and leaves a terse message for Charlie, then tries our mother again. “Still voice mail,” she sighs, draining the last of her coffee.

“Nobody’s home except us,” I say, and for some reason that makes me laugh. A little hysterically. I might be losing it.

Ashton rests her elbows on the table and clasps her hands together under her chin. “Addy, you’ve got to tell Jake what happened.”

“Simon’s update isn’t live,” I say weakly, but Ashton shakes her head.

“It’ll get out. Maybe gossip, maybe the police talking to him to put pressure on you. But it’s something you need to deal with in your relationship no matter what.” She hesitates, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Addy, is there some part of you that’s been wanting Jake to find out?”

Resentment surges through me. Ashton can’t stop her anti-Jake crusade even in the middle of a crisis. “Why would I ever want that?”

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