White Rabbit(47)
“Do you think Hayden did it?” Sebastian asks me after a moment, radiating anxious energy. “Do you think he killed Fox?”
“I don’t know. He’d be my first pick, but … I don’t know. It could have been … someone else.”
Sebastian nods slowly. “You still think maybe it was Arlo?”
I mumble something, unable to give him a clear answer. I don’t not think that; Arlo is Suspect Number Two, as far as I’m concerned. And I know I want it to be him or my brother. It would make my heart sing to see either of Ethan Allen’s two biggest assholes go to jail for murder—and Hayden’s arrest based on evidence I discovered would almost be worth the four grand Isabel would thereby never, ever pay me. The unnamed supplier also makes for an excellent suspect—albeit one that inarguably puts the water level of this pitiful investigation well above our heads.
The problem is, there’s yet another person I want to suspect, as well. A sliver of resentment is lodged in my heart that I can’t seem to ignore, no matter how hard I try, and it keeps calling my attention to two little molehills that cry out to be built into mountains.
Molehill the first: Lia hadn’t been very moved by the news of Fox’s death. Sure, she acted pretty rattled when we first arrived, but that was more about Hayden’s threats than the news he’d imparted. The only emotion she exhibited with regard to Fox—one of her closest friends, who had just been murdered in a pretty awful way—was contempt.
Molehill the second: It was twice now that Lia had made a point of seeming to staunchly defend Arlo’s character while simultaneously describing a perfect motive for him to want Fox dead. I can’t figure out if this is a subliminal act of sabotage, like she believes him to be guilty and her conscience is making her betray him without her even being aware of it—or if maybe it’s deliberate misdirection.
But the subject of Lia Santos is booby-trapped for Sebastian and me, and there’s no point in pursuing it further until we’ve finished looking into Hayden and Arlo. One thing at a time. Out loud, I offer a feeble laugh. “Well, I know this for sure: I’ll have a kick-ass ‘What I Did on My Summer Vacation’ essay to write this year.”
Sebastian smiles in spite of the ominous tension in the air. “‘How I Almost Got Shot by a Drug Dealer,’ by Sebastian Williams.”
“‘How My Sister Bribed Me with Blood Money,’ by Rufus Holt,” I rejoin.
“‘How I Learned That a Bunch of My Friends Are Actually Kind of Psychotic!’”
“‘How My Family Is Full of Liars and Possible Murderers Who Still Call Me the Black Sheep!’”
Sebastian pauses for just a moment, and then: “‘How I Finally Got Up the Courage to Tell My Ex-Boyfriend That I’m Sorry for the Way I Ended Things.’”
The Jeep fills with silence, and I feel my smile flop dead on my face. With difficulty, I mutter, “Don’t.”
“Rufus, I—”
“I said, don’t.” I refuse to look at him.
“You have to listen to me,” he insists quietly, and suddenly I can’t wait to get to Arlo’s house and face his rifle again. “The reason I came looking for you tonight was because I need you to know how sorry I am that I hurt you.” His voice is thin and strange, and I can feel his eyes on me, and it takes all my concentration just to keep breathing. “I’ve done a lot of shitty things, Rufe, but the worst thing I’ve ever done was what I did to you. And I’m really, really sorry. I need you to know that.”
It takes an inhuman amount of self-control to remain stoic, my throat tightening convulsively as memories explode open like letter bombs in my brain. My skin is hot and cold all over at the same time, and my eyes swim with tears that I’m quickly losing the strength not to shed.
“I told you I loved you,” I finally whisper, the words ripping holes in my chest as they come out. It isn’t fair. They should be ripping holes in his chest. But I’m the one who hurts; I’m the one who’s suddenly crying. “I said, ‘I love you,’ and you stopped speaking to me.”
*
By the end of May, the city of Burlington had erupted in brightly colored wildflowers, proof that nature was as thrilled as the rest of us that the school year was ending. After the final bell on of one my last Fridays as a sophomore, I asked my mom to drop me off near Church Street—a pedestrian-only stretch of shops and restaurants at the heart of town—and assured her I would get a ride home later.
It was only a ten-minute wait until Sebastian’s Jeep turned the corner and slowed to a stop by the curb. My heart was already beating faster, my mind a whirl of warmth and anticipation, when he rolled down his window, fixed me with a smoldering, sloe-eyed look, and said, “Hey, sexy. Wanna lift?”
We’d arranged the rendezvous in advance, of course—another CIA maneuver allowing us to spend a few hours together off our friends’ radars. Naturally, Sebastian had a party to attend that night, and I had promised Lucy some quality BFF time that would doubtless involve weed, nachos, and a Parks and Recreation marathon on Netflix; but the afternoon belonged to just the two of us, and I couldn’t wait.
The Williamses lived in a rambling colonial within arm’s reach of the Burlington Country Club, a house with two chimneys and about a million windows. Because of Sebastian’s father’s job with the athletics department at the university, and his mother’s position as executive chef at this wildly popular restaurant just outside of town, it was no surprise that theirs was one of the most impressive homes on the block. The first time Sebastian had shown me inside, I’d walked around with the hushed reverence of a churchgoer, awestruck and humbled by the satiny granite countertops, the gloomy oil paintings, the museumy furniture. Everything was so sumptuous, clean, and expensive that I was afraid to touch it.