White Rabbit(33)

“Fox Whitney is dead,” I blurt, and watch as Hayden lazily tugs a soft pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his khaki shorts and busies himself with lighting one.

“So I hear,” he remarks uninterestedly. For a moment, I wonder what he’s doing there. Either Peter made him come as a show of family solidarity for April, or he’s here to take pleasure in watching his sister’s life fall apart. Tucking his Zippo and cigarettes back into his shorts, Hayden takes a long drag, blowing the smoke out in a sideways stream that glows in the lights from the overhang. Then he fixes me with a flat, cold stare. “What the fuck’s it got to do with you?”

“April was supposed to call me.” Obediently, I launch into our cover story. “When I didn’t hear from her, I got nervous, and Race and Peyton said she’d been upset when their party broke up, so I thought maybe I should go out and check on her.”

Wordlessly, Hayden turns his interrogative gaze on Sebastian, who swallows audibly and states, “He didn’t know where Fox’s lake house was, but I’d been there before, so I … I offered to give him a ride.” Seemingly aware of how weak this sounds, he adds, “I was worried about her, too.”

“When we got there, it was … well, it was pretty bad,” I conclude, watching the red ember on the end of Hayden’s cigarette, imagining him flicking it at me—or grinding it into the back of my hand. I know he’s not particular.

I’m not entirely sure why I feel the need to account for my actions to Hayden Covington, of all people. In part, I tell myself, I’m just taking advantage of an opportunity to rehearse the story we’re about to go in and repeat to the cops; and in part, I figure it’s also my safest chance to evaluate my older brother’s behavior with regard to the news of Fox’s death. In my opinion, he still qualifies as a potential suspect.

Lia told us that Fox had been “trying to do something shady” with the drugs he and Arlo were dealing—shadier than just selling them in the first place, I guess—and we knew from April that Hayden had been one of Fox’s customers. It is in fact likely that some of the two grand currently stretching out my shorts pocket originally came from the blond sociopath who’s staring me down right at this particular moment. And Hayden is not someone you pull “something shady” on. If Fox had been running some kind of scam and my older half brother was one of his victims, eleventy million stab wounds was actually Fox getting off easy.

Nothing I’ve learned specifically implicates Hayden, of course—and, with the money in my pocket and April about to speak to the police, it’s thankfully none of my concern any longer—but my curiosity has nevertheless been aroused. Hayden wouldn’t think twice about framing his little sister for murder; he doesn’t care about her any more than he cares about anybody else.

The truth is, though, that I’m gabbling to my brother like a spineless subordinate because I’m fucking scared of him. He’s barely two years older than me, and scarcely three inches taller, but he’s got shoulders like the Lincoln Memorial and a cruel streak that makes Hannibal Lecter seem cuddly by comparison. “We just drove April back to town now.”

“That,” Hayden remarks in a smooth voice, blowing out a ring of smoke that wobbles up into the heavy night air like a poisonous jellyfish, “is a load of bullshit.”

I feel the color drain from my face. Is our lie that obvious? “It’s not.”

“April was supposed to call you? Try again, shit-sack.” Hayden steps closer, and I struggle not to flinch, but he smells my fear and smiles. “Why’d you really go out there? You one of Fox’s customers? Or maybe you were buying for your mom. Was she too busy sucking dicks at the bus station to get it her—”

“She was supposed to call me,” I insist stiffly, my mouth dry, my rage struggling to free itself like a dog chewing off its own leg. Just breathe. Keep it together. “It was about … my mom and Peter. They had an argument.”

It really hurts to admit this out loud, after what he’s just insinuated, but it’s the official story we’ve agreed upon for the police. Amusement glitters in Hayden’s cold blue eyes, and he bares his teeth in another self-satisfied grin. “Still begging for handouts, huh? Guess she’s not turning as many rich tricks anymore, now that her tits are starting to sag. Too bad. Hey, tell her I’ll fuck her if she cuts her rates in half.”

A muscle in my jaw flutters, heat throbbing at my temples, but I refuse to take the bait. It would suit Hayden’s agenda perfectly for me to take a swing at him in front of the cops, Peter, and their family attorney. I’ve long since lost count of how many times we’ve played out this scene: my older brother goading me into a fight, beating me into the pavement, and then telling his parents that I’d been the one to attack him. His toadying friends have always been happy to back him up, to swear that if Hayden fractured my jaw, he’d only done it in self-defense.

Peter, for his part, has never failed to use each occasion as a gleeful bludgeon against my mother, repeatedly threatening lawsuits, police intervention and, typically, my removal to some institution for violent and unstable youths.

When he finally went through with it, it was almost a relief.

I was in the seventh grade when Hayden broke my arm during a fight, and Peter immediately reported me to the cops for assault. Just for good measure, he also filed a lawsuit against my mother for pain and suffering, emotional distress, and—because my half brother had sprained his wrist pounding my face in—Hayden’s medical bills. It was a preemptive strike, offense as defense, and it worked; broke and unable to fight back, my mom had no choice but to sign a one-sided out-of-court settlement wherein the lawsuit would be dropped if my mother relinquished all claims to future child support. We’ve lived in the incident’s shadow ever since.