Legacy (Sociopath Series Book 2)(11)

“Uh-huh.” I lift the screw from its hole, pulling the black plastic panel away. “You?”

“Kinda. I could use a second pair of eyes, though. You want to get some pizza later or something, and swap papers?”

“I promised my mum I’d have dinner with her,” I say, trying to look disappointed. “Sorry.”

Maybe he’s just trying to be a nice neighbor. English people aren’t as forward; perhaps I’m not used to how things are. But we had cable, so I grew up on a solid diet of Nickelodeon, and I’m pretty sure the Boy Next Door who Paid Attention wanted a lot more than pizza and good grades. Since we moved here last year, I’ve accepted Dean’s invitations twice, and both times his parents were out and he invited me up to his room. This boy’s bed sheets are freaking tartan. Yeah. I don’t think today will be three-times-a-lady, even if being his girl toy would double my number of fake friends.

Still. He’s king of the swift recovery. “Another time.” He shoots me the Colgate smile; you can practically here the little ping! sound as the sun bounces off all that white. “Hey—you missed a whole load of drama while you were away.”

He’s losing my interest and thinks gossip will win it back. I’ll pretend that it’s working because it alleviates the awkwardness. Anything, anything, for that. “Oh really…?”

“Fuck, yeah. You know that business dude who’s been all over the TV and stuff? The one who killed his ma. Or, you know, they said he did—”

I sit bolt upright. “The Lore Corp guy?”

He smiles wider. Nods.

“But they let him go. I read about that.”

Dean leans farther over, his voice low and conspiratorial. “You know why?”

“His alibi checked out.” I swallow a chunk of dry air. It tastes like petals, bitter and new. I don’t know why I sound so defensive all of a sudden, but it’s embarrassing; Dean’s noticed. My cheeks grow hotter as I blink.

“They’re saying his alibi was on this street. Like, he was here when he was meant to be choking his ma—his car was in someone’s drive. I was at the club with my dad last weekend and everyone was talking about it, like, we don’t remember a car like that. And you know my dad.” He rolls his eyes, then glances back at the ridiculous garage on the side of his house. “He likes cars.”

My thumb stings. When I look down, I realize I’ve been pressing a small screw right into the pad of it, and the skin is pitted. A white bruise of pressure ringed with starved purple blood.

“So then we’re sitting there, all like, who talked to the police? Because it wasn’t anyone from the club. And we know it wasn’t the Andersons because they’re hardly ever there.”

“We’ve been away too.”

We’ve been away for two weeks. Aeron Lore was arrested nearly two months ago.

Acid curdles at my pulse points. I want to be sick.

“Hey. I know it’s not you.” Dean gives a short bleat of a laugh. “You’re too busy taking apart your computers and shit to pay attention to which cars are pulling into someone else’s drive.”

It’s a video camera. A 2002 Sony, to be precise—it looks as much like a computer as it does a giraffe. I must be glaring at him because he holds up his hands.

“Not like you don’t do other stuff too,” he adds quickly. “Or, you know, I guess you do.”

“They’d need more than a car,” I bite out. “Anyone could be driving a car. Someone must have actually seen him.”

“I guess so, yeah.” He sighs. “But it’s shady. Am I right?”

“You’re saying somebody lied.”

I should not have said that. Some things, you think them, but you must not say them out loud.

Dean presses his lips together. “I’m not saying that. But my dad…yeah. Totally…uh, that’s what he thinks.”

“He can’t possibly remember every car that comes and goes around here.”

“No. Well. That’s why he’s got no case, huh?”

“I’m going to head in.” I scrape up my tools and the camera parts, dumping them in the raffia basket beside the sun lounger. “It’s cold.” My brain is full of dates and times and calculations. Possibilities. Every conclusions stings like a bitch.

“Leo?”

I look up to find Dean frowning, his brow all contorted with…sympathy. It might even be real.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Fine,” I mutter, hauling myself up while avoiding his Nice Boy face. “See you at school.”

Before he can say another word, I fly through the glass doors and pad barefoot through the kitchen, my pulse jumping with every step. I pass the Chanel tote, casually draped over the edge of the kitchen island as if it were bought with money earned the normal way, and my stomach lurches until I can taste the burrito I had for lunch.

My laptop is where I left it, in the dining room atop the brand new mahogany suite. Polished wood, all the smoother for the tears to slide off—I want to cry them, but they won’t come. Instead my belly throbs as I load up the browser to check dates. Because I have to be sure.

Wouldn’t you, if everything you depended on was about to slip away?

Six and a half weeks since Aeron Lore was arrested.