White Rabbit(23)

“I think he did it, too,” April interjects in a small, quiet voice. “He’s not like the other guys, you know? He’s always getting into fights and stuff, and he completely loses his shit when he thinks someone is screwing with him. Like, why else would he have grabbed a freaking gun when Lia told him you guys were coming?”

I don’t answer right away, because both of them have excellent points … but a tiny, confounding worm of doubt is slowly nibbling its way toward the center of my brain, nonetheless. Yes, Arlo has a reputation as a brawler, preferring to solve all his problems with fists whenever possible; and even though I hadn’t exactly been expecting a warm welcome, my fairly basic questions about April provoked a disproportionately combative response. This is all true. It’s also true that he advised me to drive out to the lake house—perhaps growing tired of waiting for April to wake up and call the police, already—and that his bare chest has me wondering whether he had to get rid of a shirt that would almost certainly be soaked in blood after stabbing his buddy to death.

But the more I think about it, the less I like it. “I don’t know,” I admit at last, the words escaping in a disgruntled huff.

“What?” April and Sebastian react in unison.

“What are we?” I ask rhetorically. “We’re a nuisance, showing up and pestering him with stupid questions in the middle of the night. We’re not the cops. From his perspective, what could we possibly know that would get him in trouble? And if he killed Fox, then he should want us to be asking about April; he should’ve told us that the last time he saw her, she was taking white rabbits and flipping out and making threats—this was his golden opportunity to start selling the frame-job he set up at the cottage!” I comb my hair back with my fingers. “But he couldn’t wait to get rid of us, and he didn’t want to answer any questions at all about April or Fox.”

“And you think that means he’s innocent?” April’s disgust is plain.

“I don’t know what it means,” I answer honestly, “but I know he didn’t need a rifle to scare us off. That house looked abandoned, you know? He could have just pretended he wasn’t home and waited for us to leave. And—let’s be real, here,” I add, directing this part to Sebastian, “he could have kicked both our asses empty-handed, and we all know it.”

“So what are you trying to say?” Sebastian asks tersely.

“I’m saying maybe we’re not the ones who had him sitting in the dark on his front porch, holding a rifle in his lap. Did you notice that he wouldn’t leave the foot of the steps? That the whole time we were talking to him, he was watching the street, like he expected more people to show up?” I look from one of them to the other, to see if they’ve understood. “Arlo was scared.”

April practically gasps. “Arlo doesn’t get scared.”

“Scared of what?” Sebastian’s incredulous question comes almost simultaneously.

I make a helpless gesture. The answer isn’t likely to be either of the party guests we haven’t spoken to yet. Peyton Forsyth, April’s best friend, is no fragile flower—she’s one of the taller girls at Ethan Allen, and an athlete in her own right—but she’s no physical match for Arlo Rossi; and Race Atwood, marginally closer to the tattooed bruiser’s size, is a notorious pretty boy who’s never been in a fair fight in his life. The thought of Arlo being afraid of either of them, or even both of them together, seems absurd. But if it’s not them, then who does that leave?

“April, are you sure that no one else came to Fox’s party tonight?” Even before I’ve finished asking the question, I know how pointless it is. My half sister is trying to clear her name—and whatever it is that she’s still not telling me, if there were more suspects to consider, she’d have identified them by now.

“I told you, Fox wanted to keep it small. It was just the six of us.” She’s clearly not ready to give up on Arlo. “Maybe he was scared of the cops. Maybe he’s afraid he left some evidence behind, or that I’ll remember him doing it.”

“Maybe.” I take a look at the digital clock display set into the dashboard and feel a tremor of anxiety; it’s late, and Fox is still lying dead on his kitchen floor, the trail growing colder while we waste time with speculation. The longer it takes us to get to the police, the worse things will look. “We still have to talk to Race and Peyton; maybe they’ll tell us something useful.”

“I already texted Race,” Sebastian reports as he navigates the Jeep around a corner and onto a narrow street drenched in darkness by overgrown trees that crowd at the curb like shapeless ogres. “He’s at home. I didn’t tell him what I wanted to see him about, but he says it’s cool to come over.”

“Let’s hope he’s still feeling cooperative once he knows what we want,” I remark pessimistically. “Just out of curiosity, how’s he feel about guns?”

*

Race lives in a sprawling McMansion near Oakledge Park, not far from the shore of Lake Champlain—which seems appropriate, as Race is the McMansion equivalent of a person: pompous, generic, and transparent in his need for admiration. The Atwood home, located halfway along a curving street, is an elaborate mess of sloping, shingled roofs, wooden siding, and pointy dormer windows. There are two chimneys, a widow’s walk, and a three-car garage, with a contiguous row of bosomy, ornamental shrubs hugging the perimeter of the house. Sebastian pulls into the driveway, stopping beside Race’s flashy white Camaro. “He says he’s out back and we can just walk around.”