One of Us is Lying(84)

We’re all silent for a long minute, until Bronwyn exhales a small gasp. “I’m the omniscient narrator,” she says.

“What?” Addy asks.

“That’s what Simon said before he died. I said there wasn’t any such thing in teen movies, and he said there was in life. Then he drained his drink in one gulp.” Bronwyn turns and calls “Eli!” but the door’s already closing behind Nate’s lawyer.

“So you’re saying …” Ashton stares around the table until her eyes land on Kris. “You think Simon committed suicide?” Kris nods. “But why? Why like that?”

“Let’s go back to what we know,” Bronwyn says. Her voice is almost clinical, but her face is flushed brick red. “Simon was one of those people who thought he should be at the center of everything, but wasn’t. And he was obsessed with the idea of making some kind of huge, violent splash at school. He fantasized about it all the time on those 4chan threads. What if this was his version of a school shooting? Kill himself and take a bunch of students down with him, but in an unexpected way. Like framing them for murder.” She turns to her sister. “What did Simon say on 4chan, Maeve? Do something original. Surprise me when you take out a bunch of lemming assholes.”

Maeve nods. “Exact quote, I think.”

I think about how Simon died—choking, panicked, trying to catch his breath. If he really did it to himself, I wish more than ever we’d found his damn EpiPen. “I think he regretted it at the end,” I say, the weight of the words settling heavy on my heart. “He looked like he wanted help. If he could’ve gotten medication in time, maybe a close call like that would’ve jolted him into being a different kind of guy.”

Kris’s hand squeezes mine under the table. Bronwyn and Addy both look like they’re back in the room where Simon died, horrified and stunned. They know I’m right. Silence descends and I think we might be done until Maeve looks over at the Post-it wall and sucks in her cheeks.

“But how does Jake fit in?” she asks.

Kris hesitates and clears his throat, like he’s waiting for permission to speak. When nobody protests he says, “If Jake isn’t Simon’s killer, he must be his accomplice. Someone had to keep things going after Simon died.”

He meets Bronwyn’s eyes, and some kind of understanding passes between them. They’re the brains of this operation. The rest of us are just trying to keep up. Kris’s hand pulled away from mine while he was talking, and I take it back.

“Simon found out about Addy and TJ,” Bronwyn says. “Maybe that’s how he approached Jake in the first place to get his help. Jake would’ve wanted revenge, because he—”

A chair scrapes noisily beside me as Addy pushes herself away from the table. “Stop,” she says in a choked voice, her purple-streaked hair falling into her eyes. “Jake wouldn’t … He couldn’t …”

“I think we’ve had enough for one night,” Ashton says firmly, getting to her feet. “You guys keep going, but we need to get home.”

“Sorry, Addy,” Bronwyn says with a chagrined expression. “I got carried away.”

Addy waves a hand. “It’s fine,” she says unsteadily. “I just … can’t right now.” Ashton links arms with her until they get to the door; then she pulls it open and lets Addy slip through ahead of her.

Maeve watches them, her chin in her hands. “She has a point. The whole thing sounds impossible, doesn’t it? And even if we’re right, we can’t prove anything.” She looks hopefully at Kris, as though she’s willing him to work more Post-it magic.

Kris shrugs and taps the colored square closest to him. “Perhaps there’s one person remaining who knows something useful.”

Janae seems depressed



Bronwyn and Maeve leave around nine, and Kris and I don’t stay much longer. We gather up the table debris that’s left and deposit it in the trash can next to the exit. We’re both quiet, coming off one of the weirdest dates in history.

“Well,” Kris says, pushing through the door and pausing on the sidewalk to wait for me. “That was interesting.” Before he can say anything else I grab him and press him against the coffee shop wall, my fingers digging into his hair and my tongue sliding between his teeth in a deep, wanting kiss. He makes a sound like a surprised growl and pulls me hard against his chest. When another couple exits through the door and we break apart, he looks dazed.

He straightens his shirt and runs a hand over his hair. “Thought you’d forgotten how to do that.”

“I’m sorry.” My voice thickens with the need to kiss him again. “It’s not that I didn’t want to. It’s just—”

“I know.” Kris laces his fingers in mine and holds our hands up like a question. “Yes?”

“Yes,” I say, and we start down the sidewalk together.





Nate


Wednesday, November 7, 11:30 p.m.


So here’s how you deal with being locked up.

You keep your mouth shut. Don’t talk about your life or why you’re there. Nobody cares unless they want to use it against you.

You don’t take shit from anyone. Ever. Juvenile detention’s not Oz, but people will still fuck with you if they think you’re weak.