White Rabbit(43)

I think about Arlo’s gun and Hayden’s powder keg of violent rage; Peyton’s derisive sneering, Race’s open hostility, and Lia’s withering rudeness. It has been a hair-raising and wildly unpleasant night. Do I really want to go, once more, into that dismal breach? The answer is a resounding, and easy, no.

But then I picture my mom again—asleep in bed with her latest romance novel or self-help guide forgotten beside her—and this time I also see the pile of unpaid, unopened bills spilling off the nightstand and onto the floor. I envision April sitting in an interview room across from a scowling detective, trying to hold it together and tell the lies I scripted for her out of little more than a sense of self-preservation, and wonder if it’s even fair of me to abandon her cause now.

Holding my breath, I meet Isabel’s eyes with a silent prayer for some of that protection that’s supposed to grace fools and children—at the moment, I feel like both. “Okay. It’s a deal.”





14

“Rufus, are you fucking nuts?” Sebastian demands the second we’re back inside the Jeep. Isabel is already halfway to the police station doors, but I glance nervously in the direction of her sensitive ears anyway as my ex-boyfriend continues. “I mean, have you actually lost your damn mind? What the hell were you thinking?”

“I need the money,” I mutter uncomfortably.

“How can you be sure she’ll actually pay you?” He’s becoming belligerent. “I mean, do you even trust that woman?”

“No.” The glum admission doesn’t make me feel any better. In my experience, most adults suffer from a crippling case of selective amnesia, prone to flare-ups any time they’ve made an inconvenient promise to someone under the age of eighteen. In particular, I’ve got absolutely no reason to think or hope that Isabel will decide to honor our arrangement if I manage to give her what she wants; after all, there’s no one to hold her accountable if she chooses to screw me over.

On the other hand, about the nicest thing I can say regarding Isabel Covington is that she doesn’t waste her breath. Peter, when he’s caught up in the ecstasy of his rage, has a habit of guaranteeing hellfire he can’t actually deliver; and half of Hayden’s threats are deliberately empty, because he likes to keep his victims jumping at shadows. But Isabel is too obsessed with her own power to weaken it with empty saber-rattling. When she makes a promise, she follows through, and I just have to hope she’ll consider it a matter of personal integrity to make good on the deal we’ve struck.

“Are you listening to yourself?” Sebastian is still upset, his large, dark eyes probing me angrily through the gloom in the Jeep. “Somebody murdered Fox, Rufus! Murdered him. Let the police deal with it! I mean, this was stupid enough before, when we were going around pretending we didn’t know anything, but what do you think you’re gonna do now? Show up at everyone’s door and say, ‘Hey, by the way, did you happen to stab Fox a million times and frame April for it?’”

I grit my teeth. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” he fumes. “And you’re just gonna, you know, hope that Maleficent Covington remembers to give you four grand when it’s all over—if no one’s killed you by then.”

“Yeah, that’s about the size of it,” I snap back.

“Do you not even see that something is very seriously fucked up in the state of Denmark, here?” His tone is incredulous. “If Mrs. Covington is really worried about April’s life being destroyed, why isn’t she hiring an actual detective? She obviously despises you, Rufus; she didn’t even bother to hide it! So unless she’s got something up her sleeve, why the hell would she ask you to do this?”

“Lots of reasons.” I count them on my fingers. “For one thing, a real private detective might cost her way more than four thousand dollars, and still not turn up anything; for another, if a legit P.I. found out about all the lies you, me, and April told the cops tonight, he’d have to report them or lose his license—and Isabel sure as hell doesn’t want that happening; and for thirds, whether I prove April didn’t do it or I get arrested or killed in the process, it’s a win-win situation for the Covingtons.”

“Oh, well that’s just fucking great.” He sounds disgusted. “What if she’s planning to screw you? You told me yourself that she gets off on seeing you suffer; you don’t even trust her, but you’re willing to maybe put your life in danger because she says she’ll pay you? How do you know she’s not just jerking you around?”

“I don’t.”

“Well, then, what the hell, Rufus? Why did you agree?”

“Because. I need. The money!” I shout furiously. Sebastian’s been to the tiny bungalow where my mom and I live—seen the beat-up old Nissan we share, the refurbished laptop I use, and my mom’s shabby collection of flaking, secondhand paperbacks—but he has zero understanding of how deep our financial troubles go. It isn’t his fault, but he simply can’t relate. For Sebastian, a cash flow problem means he’s spent his allowance and has to wait for the next installment. “We could lose our house, okay? My mom’s business has been eating shit for years, and when Peter stopped sending support payments, she had to start using her savings to cover our bills. We’re really, really fucked, Sebastian, and I can’t afford not to take the chance that Isabel will deliver. I can’t.”