White Rabbit(21)
As soon as we’re back in the Jeep, April straightens up behind us. “What did she say? Did she know anything? Was she lying?”
“She said a lot of things.” I turn around to face my half sister, indignation kindling quickly to life in my breast. “What did you and Fox fight about tonight?”
Even in the dim light, cast sideways through the Jeep by amber streetlamps, I can see April blanch. “I don’t know what you’re talk—”
“Stop.” I cut her off. “Lia said she figured you and Fox were having ‘make-up sex.’ You wouldn’t be making up unless you’d had a fight, so what was it about?”
She squirms. “Nothing. It was just a stupid argument.”
“If it was nothing, why didn’t you tell us about it before?”
“Because it was fucking private!” She glares at me. “And because it doesn’t even matter what we fought about, because I didn’t kill him.”
She slams herself back against the seats, turning her face to the window in a tacit display of resentment. Childishly, I mimic her, facing front with a darkening mood. I try to remind myself that April is the one who expects results out of this pointless enterprise, and if she’s going to withhold information, it’s her own damn funeral. Peter will undoubtedly do whatever he can to bail her out—he’ll probably be mortified by the inevitable publicity and will do what it takes to protect the Covington family name—and maybe I should just let her play these stupid games with him instead. I have my two grand whether this wild goose chase pans out or not, so what do I care?
Only I do care. That’s the problem. Reckless and selfish though she may be, April still has a good heart, and she’s the only branch of my Covington family tree that I’ve never wanted to summarily saw off and burn. “Well, she was definitely lying about stuff.”
“She didn’t kill him, either,” Sebastian interposes sullenly. “Lia couldn’t do something like that.”
“Oh yeah, no, she’s a real sweetheart,” I remark caustically, sounding like an asshole. “By the way, did you happen to notice how she freaked out and lied her face off when I called bullshit on Arlo just letting Fox off the hook?”
“She didn’t want to get him into trouble! That doesn’t mean she killed anyone.”
“I never said she did,” I shoot back, and I can feel ugly demons slipping up through my veins, my personal feelings about Sebastian’s history with Lia Santos swiftly making the disagreement into something entirely other than what it is. Taking a deep breath, I add, in a more level tone, “I don’t care why she lied—the point is that she did, and she did it obviously, which makes Arlo look even guiltier.”
“Do you think she knows he killed Fox?” April asks from the backseat, her curiosity overcoming her resentfulness.
“I don’t know,” I say after a moment. “I don’t think so. She wigged out when we mentioned the drugs and when I talked about Arlo liking to settle scores, but when we talked about you and Fox it didn’t seem to hit any particular nerves. I mean, I don’t think.” Rubbing my face, I sigh. “She was all edgy and upset, so her reactions were hard to gauge. Maybe she thinks Arlo did something, but she doesn’t know what.”
A minute of uncomfortable silence passes in the Jeep as all three of us sulk independently, and then Sebastian cranks the engine to life. “Well, I guess we might as well just go and ask the fucker.”
*
The Rossis live in a narrow Victorian that peaks like a witch’s hat beneath the heavy canopy of a massive oak, its facade decorated with intricate woodwork and a shield of trellises that fence in the front porch. Mr. Rossi is an electrician who actually came out to our house one time when a lightning strike blew several of our fuses, but his home has not a single bulb lit as we coast to a stop out front. Even the curbside streetlamps are utterly defeated by the oak’s overgrown pelt of leaves, and the shadows are so dense, we can barely read the address through the gloom. Arlo’s house is a glaring black gap in the bright smile of the neighborhood.
“Well, shit, he’s obviously the murderer,” April squeals breathlessly. “Look at this place! Frigging Dracula wouldn’t go in there.”
“It’s just a house.” I give her a sharp frown, although I’m not exactly charging up the walk myself. The Victorian looks deliberately uninviting, and I can see no sign of Arlo’s bike anywhere. “Maybe Lia warned him we were coming, and he took off.”
“Maybe,” Sebastian grumps. It’s about as close to a peace accord as we’re going to get on the subject, and I accept it for the sake of the task ahead.
“Only one way to find out, I guess.” With great reluctance, I shove open the door of the Jeep and step out onto the street. The whole block appears deserted, and a gust of wind pushes the paper remnants of a few fireworks up the sidewalk. Peering into the uncompromising darkness beneath the oak’s overhanging branches, I squint at the narrow gap in the trellis that opens at the top of the porch stairs—a forbidding black socket, inside of which hides the front door. April is right: It looks like a haunted house.
The distance between Arlo’s neighborhood and the Whitney cottage can be best measured in tax brackets, and I have to wonder what it must be like for him: a poor kid hanging out with such a privileged clique. What do they talk about? All they have in common is bullying. Is he fascinated by their wealth? Are they fascinated by his blue-collar authenticity? I can’t picture snobs like Fox or Race or Peyton hanging out at a place like this, with its dark, weedy lawn and peeling paint.