Every Last Fear(19)

“Seriously, he’s into you. He only comes on the days you’re here. Like, he’s literally, almost, like, stalking you.”

As with most of their generation, Harper overused like and misused literally. Maggie looked across the Center. It was filled with the usual cast: jocks who were trying to pull their grades up to a C so they could take the field, stoners who’d been given the choice between the Center or detention, and the nerds who tutored them. Well, except Harper, who was what some would call a hot nerd. Eric strutted through the room—that was the word, strutted, high-fiving other boys as he made it over to the check-in table.

Standing before them now, he grabbed the pen to sign the log, then offered a rakish smile.

“Any chance you can help me with algebra?” he asked Maggie.

Her face reddened as she felt Harper’s sideways glance. “Sure.”

Eric smiled again and directed his blue eyes at an empty desk in the corner. He gestured for Maggie to follow.

Maggie tried not to get wooed by his charm. Eric was royalty at their school, literally, as Harper would say, and for once with proper usage. Homecoming king. Maggie’s older brother Matt would call Eric the archetype from an eighties John Hughes movie. She had to admit he was dreamy. Dreamy—what an old-fashioned word. She was starting to sound like her mother.

She sat next to Eric, who flopped open his textbook. “I don’t get rational expressions.”

Maggie tried not to look surprised.

“I know, I know, you were doing this stuff in fifth grade.” His face flushed as if he were actually embarrassed. He was adorable even when he was uncomfortable. The world was not fair.

“No, rational expressions are super hard,” she said, lying. “And they’re pointless. When in life are you ever going to use them?”

“Right?” he said. “But I bet you will at MIT.”

Maggie’s heart fluttered: he knew where she was going to college.She scooched closer, and for the next half hour tried to stay professional while helping him work through some problems. He smelled of cheap cologne and masculinity. But she needed to keep her thoughts in check. Guys like Eric Hutchinson were trouble. And they usually didn’t appreciate girls like her. They would someday, her mom assured her, but it took longer for the male brain to develop.

“I like your shirt,” he said.

Maggie looked down at the vintage AC/DC T-shirt, one of her dad’s favorite bands. “You know tutoring is free, right? You don’t have to flatter.”

“I’m not. It’s cool.”

“All right, focus…” She smiled.

They continued with the problems. Then Eric said, “How’s your brother’s case going?”

This wasn’t as surprising as Eric knowing where she was going to college. Maggie had been a major character in the documentary. The faithful daughter and sister helping chase down leads. It had given her a moment of celebrity at school, but it was more of the pitying variety. Though some of the internet trolls speculated that when she got older—she’d been only twelve when the documentary was filmed—she’d be quite the beauty, like her mother. Or her “hottie” brothers.

Ugh. It was all the world seemed to care about. And in pure hypocrite mode, here she was fawning over handsome Eric.

“We’ve had some setbacks with the case, but I got a great tip the other day,” Maggie said. “Setbacks” was an understatement. The United States Supreme Court wasn’t a setback; it was the end of the road. But Eric likely wouldn’t care about the intricacies of the legal system. Or was she underestimating him?

“A tip? You mean like evidence or something?”

“Yeah, wanna see?”

He nodded as she pulled out her phone.

“I run social media for the case. We get a lot of weirdos and trolls, but also some legit people. And we get tips now and then.” She tapped and swiped as she spoke. “Usually it’s nothing, but then this came in.”

It was a jostling cell phone video, the first two seconds a blur of bodies, music blaring in the background.

“What is it?” Eric said, leaning in closer.

“It’s the party.” She was assuming that Eric, like everyone else, understood the shorthand from the documentary. The night her brother’s girlfriend, Charlotte, was killed, she’d attended a house party. Danny had been there too, like all the seniors. The local police had raided the festivities, and Danny and Charlotte had been separated in the melee. Witnesses reported seeing a very intoxicated Danny later that night at an after-party in a cornfield; Charlotte was never seen alive again.

“It could be him, the U.P.,” Maggie said, pointing at the screen.

“You mean, like, the Unknown Partygoer?”

He’d definitely watched the documentary. The Unknown Partygoer had become a thing—Facebook memes, late-night talk-show bits, even shirts. The filmmakers focused on the fact that the police had identified everyone at the party that night except for one guest. A white male who a witness had aged anywhere from his early to late twenties and who no one seemed to know. The person the documentary suggested was the real killer. Who many believed was a loser named Bobby Ray Hayes, the Smasher. Maggie put the video in slow motion.

Eric looked on, seeming fascinated.

“The date stamp shows it was the night of the party. Phones weren’t as sophisticated then, but we can tell that much.” Maggie directed a finger at the screen. “There’s Danny.” On the tiny screen, her brother was laughing before downing the contents of a red Solo cup. He wore a tank top, showing off his bulging biceps and looking like a bro with a group of boys in letterman jackets. Right before the video turned black, they saw the silhouette of a face.