White Rabbit(49)

“Rufus.” He sounds stricken, horrible, but I will not turn my face to his. “That’s not how it was. I can’t believe you’d think that.”

“You know what? I don’t care.” I force steel into my voice, bite down hard against the thickness that betrays my anguish. For weeks I’ve told myself that the only upside of being ignored by Sebastian is that he’d never get to see how totally he’d destroyed me, that he’d never know how badly I’ve been hurting thanks to him—and now I’ve served the information up on a silver platter. It’s all too much. “I don’t give a shit how it was. You wanted to tell me you’re sorry? Great. Mission accomplished. But don’t wait for me to tell you it’s okay, because I won’t. I will never say that, because I don’t accept your fucking apology.”

“Ruf—”

“Stop the car.”

“Are you fucking joking?” Sebastian is appalled. “Look, I know you’ve got a right to be pissed at me, but there’s no way in hell I’m letting you go do this alone—go risk getting freaking killed just because you’re super pissed at me and you don’t want to give me the satisfaction of helping! You don’t have to forgive me, but I still care about you, Rufus. I still have your back, whether you like it or not!”

“You need to stop the car,” I reply shortly, “because we’re at Arlo’s house.”

In fact, we’re just passing it as Sebastian finally hits the brakes. Along the roadside, streetlamps leach rings of amber into the gauzy fog, soft irises embracing bilious, burning pupils—eyes that glare down at us as the Jeep bumps to a stop at the curb. Arlo’s place remains in deep shadow, a case of black rot that threatens to infect the neighborhood.

Before I can get out of the car, Sebastian tries again. “Please—can you just hear me out for a second? We might be about to get shot or something, and I really need to tell you—”

“I’d rather just get shot,” I fire back, trying to be as hurtful as possible. “You want to give me a bunch of excuses so that you feel better, and that’s not my problem. I don’t have to care how you’re dealing with the way you dumped me.”

With that, I shove open my door and march for the sidewalk. Sebastian sticks doggedly behind me, but I focus on tuning him out, trying to forget all the pain he’s intent on stirring up. Fox’s murderer is still out there—and so are four thousand genuine US dollars, ready to be claimed and sent to the bank, if I can just find a way to make sure April is in the clear. I need to keep my head in the game.

“Arlo?” I call out quietly but clearly in the heavy stillness, as soon as we enter the darkness beneath the towering oak. I want to avoid surprises—especially the kind that go bang—and announcing our arrival seems wise. “We’re back—me and Bash. We’re not looking to start shit or anything, okay? We just want to talk.”

There’s no answer. My voice is swallowed up by dense air, and I can hear nothing from the murky cover of the front porch. The silence is almost oppressive, the Rossi home seeming even more desolate than it was on our first visit. Glancing around, I take in the street, noting with relief that Hayden’s BMW is nowhere to be seen. Maybe Lia’s fears were unfounded.

“Arlo?” I approach the porch steps, Sebastian at my heels, and we start cautiously up them. The Rossis’ door is just discernible in the charcoal smudge of darkness that yawns ahead. “Anybody home?”

The stairs groan under my feet, and twice I ask myself what the hell I think I’m doing—what moves I have planned for when I reach the porch and either find Arlo waiting for me with a rifle, or find no Arlo and have to decide whether I’m going to ring the doorbell and risk having to explain myself to the guy’s father.

My concerns prove irrelevant. As I clear the top of the steps, I trip over something, nearly crashing into the front door before I narrowly regain my balance and look down. Arlo lies on his back at my feet, face placid and arms flung over his head as if he’s just stretched out on the dusty floorboards to take a nap.

But he isn’t asleep. I know it even before I notice the grisly, black fissure that gapes open across his throat like a second mouth—even before I catch the nauseating, metallic stench of blood that hovers in the air like a swarm of blackflies.

Arlo is dead.





16

Jolting back, I slam directly into Sebastian, who has just reached the top of the steps behind me. He grunts in surprise. “Hey, caref—”

When his voice simply cuts off, plunging into ominous silence, I know he’s seen the body. Tonelessly, I say, “Let’s go.”

“Is he … is he dead?” Pushing me aside, Sebastian stumbles forward, his eyes bright with alarm. “Oh shit—”

Without ceremony, I grab his elbow and drag him back again, stopping him before he can instinctively check for a pulse—before he can leave fingerprints at another crime scene. “Forget it. There’s nothing we can do!”

Blood has gushed from Arlo’s brutalized neck, streaking and mottling his inked torso, and it collects beneath him in a spreading, black pool. His eyes are half open, glassy, and vacant, like empty bottles or burned-out bulbs. He is clearly beyond saving.

Sebastian wheels on me. “We can’t just—I mean, we can’t … He’s been killed, Rufus! Look at him! We can’t just leave him—”