White Rabbit(63)
“Why not?” He gives an indifferent shrug, but fear squirms furtively in his eyes all the same. “I mean, if he kicks me out, everybody’s gonna know anyway, right?”
I struggle up onto my elbows, too. “Are you sure, though? I mean … all I wanted was for us to be together—to be real and stuff—but you don’t have to … maybe we should wait and see how things go with your dad, before—”
“Rufus. I think I have to. Now or never, you know. It won’t get easier, and … I don’t want to lose my nerve again.”
Judging by his pallor, I’m not sure he even has the nerve to lose, but I don’t say so; instead, I put my hand on the firm planes of his chest, the smooth, brown skin warm and wonderful to the touch, and smile. “We can start easy—my friends first. And, you know, don’t freak or anything? But my mom figured us out pretty much immediately.”
It’s an optimistic speech. The fact is, the future is still a terrifyingly blank slate. If Sebastian’s dad really does kick him out, where will he go? He might be sent to live with relatives on the other side of the country; he might be dumped at a boarding school, like Eric Shetland; he might even be told that he can just kiss his financial support for college good-bye. There are about a million brick walls our current happiness could smack right into, fates that would obviate both his intentions and his nerve—but I choose to block them all out. I don’t get a lot of Happy, and I want to enjoy it while it lasts.
Our peaceful moment is shattered right on cue by the sudden, loud ping of my cell phone, which fell from my pocket when we barrel-rolled into the backseat. I fish it out from a pile of debris in the footwell, take one look at the display, and shove myself upright. It’s a text from April.
It’s over. The cops are letting me go home.
*
Five minutes later, we’re back on the highway, heading into the city again. It looks deserted, streetlights burning like candles in a cemetery, and Sebastian rolls the windows down to let cool air into the cab of the Jeep. I’m wearing one of his lacrosse jerseys, which he found wadded up in his trunk; it smells a little gamy, and it’s covered in wrinkles—but that’s still way better than being covered in blood, so I keep my mouth shut. Besides, wearing a shirt with his name on it feels really significant at this particular moment, and I pull it tight so that the letters press against my back.
“By ‘over,’” he says, raising his voice to be heard above the slipstream of misty wind rushing by, “does she mean over over? Like, as in, they figured out who did it, and she’s officially off the hook?”
“I’ve got no idea.” I glare at my phone in frustration. “She didn’t write anything else, and now she’s not answering my messages.”
“Do you think they could’ve arrested Hayden? Like, maybe they caught him fleeing from the strip mall after the shootout, and found some kind of evidence in his car connecting him to what happened to Fox and Arlo?”
“Maybe.” I can’t fend off a pensive frown. “You still think he did it?”
Sebastian cocks his head. “You don’t? I mean, the dude is clearly homicidal, Rufe—and you had him figured for the killer even before he started trading bullets with a biker gang.”
“I’m the last person who needs to be convinced that Hayden is a psycho,” I aver, “but you heard him back there—he thought maybe Lyle was behind it all.”
“Or maybe he just didn’t want to admit to a bunch of armed drug dealers that he was out trimming their payroll for them. Would you go up to a guy like Lyle and say, ‘Hey, bro, I just killed two of your boys! What do you think about that?’”
“No, but I only ever use the word ‘bro’ ironically,” I answer and net a dirty look in response. “Seriously, though, why would Lyle care? Fox and Arlo weren’t exactly his buddies and, as far as he knows now, they’d both been cheating him—whoever killed them just saved him the trouble. And even if Hayden wasn’t thinking that far ahead, he obviously also wasn’t even close to being afraid of Lyle. You saw him: He wanted those dudes to think he was this big, tough badass that they shouldn’t mess with. If anything, you’d think he’d act like maybe he was the killer, just so they’d take him seriously.”
Sebastian is unmoved. “None of that means he didn’t do it.”
“Okay, how about this: Apparently, my brother has a freaking gun. So why weren’t Fox and Arlo shot? Why were they both killed with knives?”
“Knives are quieter.”
“Okay, I’m going to ignore how creepy that sounded? And just point out that Fox’s death didn’t need to be quiet. Apart from April, who was unconscious, they were alone in the house, the place is practically in the middle of nowhere, Fox’s music was blasting so loud we could hear it from the driveway, and there were fireworks going off all evening. Even if one of the neighbors did hear a gunshot, they’d have just assumed it was some asshole celebrating Independence Day in his driveway or something.”
“That’s still not—”
“My brother isn’t a subtle guy,” I interrupt with authority, “and Fox wasn’t nearly as tough as he acted. If Hayden pulled a gun on him, Fox would’ve pissed himself and paid the dude back. And if Fox was stupid enough to call Hayden’s bluff, my brother wouldn’t have put the gun away so he could pick out a knife—he’d have either gone right ahead and shot him or, more likely, just stomped on his skull till it exploded like a fucking water balloon.”