White Rabbit(40)

“Dude.” Sebastian grips my arm, tense and wide-eyed, as the newscaster drones on with pertinent hotline numbers. “Rufe … that’s the Whitneys’ place. It’s Fox’s house.”

“What?” I stare at him, trying to understand.

Someone set fire to Fox’s house. It doesn’t make any sense. It has to be related to his death; it strains credulity too far to suggest he might have been murdered and his house torched on the same night just by coincidence—but I still can’t fit the two pieces together. The fire was first reported two hours earlier, which means we were probably just pulling up to the Atwoods’ at the time. The blaze couldn’t have been started before Fox died; but why would someone kill him at the cottage and then drive all the way back into Burlington and set light to his empty home? What would be the point?

I’m pondering the question, trying to remind myself that I’ve already fulfilled my obligation where the solving of this puzzle is concerned, when we step out into the parking lot again. It’s just after two in the morning, the stifling heat of the day having finally abated, and the damp night air wraps around me like a tepid embrace. I’m hungry and exhausted, overjoyed at the thought of heading home; but as we start for the Jeep, I catch Sebastian glancing around, his eyes skittering between shadows.

“What?”

“I don’t see Hayden.” He makes the remark sound as casual as he can, and his forced nonchalance speaks volumes. “Guess he was just talking shit.”

“He probably got bored and went home,” I say. “You ask me, the only reason he was here in the first place was to fuck with me and enjoy April’s panic.”

Sebastian is quiet for a moment, and then mumbles, “I didn’t know he could be like that.”

“Really?” I cast him a sharp look. “Because he’s never been like anything else with me, and he’s never done much to hide it, either. Half the school hates him.”

“Yeah, but…” Sebastian won’t look up at me. “I always just figured people were jealous, you know? He’s popular, he’s … well, you know, he’s hot, and … and I mean, sure, he makes fun of people sometimes, but…”

“But what?” I stop walking, determined to make him acknowledge me for this part. “But those people were losers, so they had it coming?”

“I didn’t say that.” His eyebrows draw together. “Don’t put words in my mouth. Hayden makes fun of people, but it’s usually just kid stuff, you know? Trying to be funny, to get a laugh.” It’s preposterous, and I feel a wave of insult cresting inside me; Hayden’s version of “kid stuff” is sticks and stones with actual sticks and stones. But before I’m able to reply, Sebastian continues, “I guess I knew the guy had kind of a dark side, but he’s always been cool with me. I’ve never seen him act the way he did tonight—to be that … intense. Is that … I mean, is that really the way he is with you? All the time?”

“Yes,” I answer shortly, simmering inside, because of course Sebastian has seen Hayden “act the way he did tonight.” He’s seen all his friends act like that at one time or another. “Hayden is a freaking psychopath—like, a textbook one, with no actual conscience—and if you haven’t noticed it before, it’s only because you haven’t wanted to notice.”

And with those words, it finally hits me, and I feel like a moron. It’s easy for Sebastian to be in denial of my brother’s hateful villainy, because this is the first time he’s ever been on the receiving end of it. Throughout the months we were dating, one of the things that terrified Sebastian the most was how his friends would react if they found out about us, what parts of his life would be upended or destroyed as people he cared about assimilated news they might not like. Tonight, for a few precious seconds, he lived his nightmare when Hayden turned on him, and now it’s eating him alive.

Just like that, my anger begins to subside. I have a considerable storehouse of hurt feelings thanks to my ex-boyfriend, for reasons both legitimate and petty, but this is something I simply can’t bring myself to hold against him. His blindness to how awful his friends can be is frustrating, but no one deserves to suffer Hayden Covington’s ruthless schadenfreude; and how many times in the past did I ignore Sebastian’s fears and blithely insist to him that coming out wouldn’t be as bad as he feared? That he wouldn’t endure exactly this kind of treatment? I’ve been just as guilty of willful blindness as he has, and out of the same selfish instinct to polish up an inconvenient turd.

“You know what? Never mind—forget I said anything.” I exhale wearily, rubbing my eyes. “I’m just exhausted, and I want tonight to go away. It’s been a really shitty Fourth of July.”

“No argument there.” Sebastian gives me a meek smile of contrition, and we turn to head for his Jeep again.

There’s no warning—no sound of an indrawn breath or a foot scuffing on pavement, no rustle of leaves or swish of fabric; we make it about two steps, and then a dark figure lunges at me out of nowhere, materializing from the void between two parked cars, and my life flashes before my eyes.





13

“Rufus. We need to talk.”

I stumble backward, hands flying up in self-defense, my brain a typhoon of adrenaline as I blink uncomprehendingly into the darkness before me. The figure stopped short, abruptly, and only now finally steps out of the shadows. Dazed, I watch as moonlight deftly describes the harshly beautiful features of Isabel Covington—Peter’s wife. Even at two in the morning, she is elegant: Clad in dark slacks and a silk blouse, her auburn hair tied back, she looks like she might be on her way to an afternoon business meeting. On a finger of her left hand, a diamond the size of a shrunken head glitters coldly, deliberately. April isn’t the only thing Peter gave his wife in an effort to save their marriage.