White Rabbit(78)
But Dominic Williams is not Peter Covington, and I know my boyfriend doesn’t have to be afraid. “He will. Everything might not be the same as usual right away, but I swear he will. You heard him, Sebastian: He loves you. He wants things to be like always just as much as you do. You guys just have to get past this part first, that’s all.”
My boyfriend nods, although he doesn’t yet appear wholly convinced. “I feel like I’m on stage and nobody taught me my lines.”
“Totally normal.” I search his face—his dark lashes, his full lips, the smooth contour of his cheek swooping down into his jawline—and say softly, “I love you.”
“Thank you, Rufus.” He gazes at me, expression serious. “For staying with me. For cursing at my dad.” A smile flickers across his half-lit face. “Thanks.”
“Cursing at dads is my signature move,” I remark dryly. “Just ask Peter.” Then, with some selfish reluctance, I ask, “Does this mean you’re going home now?”
“Not until we get some answers out of Race and Peyton.” Off my surprised expression, he adds, “I promised to have your back, Rufe, and I’m sticking to my word. I mean, it sort of sounds like any trouble I get into tonight will be kind of a write-off as far as my parents are concerned.”
“Wow.” I give him a sly grin. “Sebastian 2.0 lives on the edge. I like it.”
“Sebastian 2.0 does not have a frigging clue what he’s doing anymore, so take advantage of it while you can,” he answers with a lopsided grin. He’s about to say something else when his cell phone interrupts us, chiming loudly to announce an incoming text. Then it chimes again, and again, and Sebastian frowns with concern as he fumbles it out of his pocket. “It’s Lia.”
The messages are brief and frantic.
Race keeps texting me what do I do?
He says he wants me to MEET with him! He won’t stop writing!
Seriously, Bash, text me the fucking fuck back, I’m freaking out! What if he comes over here?? What if he tries to fucking stab me??
“We’ve got to nail this down fast, dude,” Sebastian breathes worriedly as he types out a reply, his words appearing in all caps as he thumbs them in, admonishing her to ignore Race and make sure her doors are locked. “This isn’t right. She’s losing her shit, and we can’t protect her unless we—”
“Stop!” I order him suddenly, the urgency of my command startling the both of us. His thumbs freeze in midsentence, and he glances up at me with wide eyes. Licking my lips, I say, “Don’t send that message. Delete it. Tell her … tell her to write him back and say she’s willing to meet with him. Right now.”
Sebastian wrinkles his nose, staring at me in disbelief. “Rufe, are you nuts? Race might be the freaking killer.”
“I know. That’s why we’re going to meet with him in her place.”
He regards me for a moment. “You know, Sebastian 2.0 might not know what he’s doing, but he sure as hell knows he doesn’t want to go get his throat cut.”
“It’ll be two against one,” I point out, “and even if he is the killer and he does have a knife on him, he’ll have to realize Lia wanted us to intercept him. We tell him flat out that she’s expecting us to call and tell her we’re safe and sound after the meeting is over, or she’s going to the cops. He won’t try anything.”
Sebastian thinks about it. He looks like he still wants to argue, but eventually he offers a trepidatious nod. Deleting the draft of his message to his ex-girlfriend, he sighs, “I really, really hope you’re right.”
Me too, I think, wiping my sweaty palms on the Jeep’s upholstery.
*
Just more than fifteen minutes later, the two of us walk side by side down a desolate stretch of road south of town, trees lunging out on either side of us, our footsteps like cymbal crashes in the silence. Ahead of us lies Fernwood Park, a vast expanse of lakeside acreage—and the isolated location Race has chosen for the clandestine meeting he thinks he’s having with Lia.
My experience with Fernwood Park is limited, seeing as my last visit was for Field Day in the sixth grade, and so I only have a distant memory of the place—of boxy metal barbecue grills that looked like they’d never been cleaned; weathered, wooden picnic shelters that smelled of tar and resin; and vast, uneven fields spreading between thickets of pine, birch, and maple trees. My vague recollections include the hazy impression of a necklace of rocks surrounding the shoreline, guarded over by weeds and willows, from beneath which the waters of Lake Champlain slowly carve out soil by increments. There’s a modest parking lot as well, but at this early hour it’s off-limits, a metal gate chained shut across the entrance. We’re forced to leave the Jeep ridiculously far away.
The tense drive out from Silverman’s actually took us right by Banfield Crescent and, unable to resist my own morbid curiosity, I instructed Sebastian to turn down the tony avenue so I could see where Fox Whitney once lived.
The air reeked of damp soot and scorched plastic, a hot, sweet stench that left an afterburn in the base of my throat. The remains of the once-stately Victorian mansion, dark and abandoned and ringed with caution tape, stood back from the road like a self-conscious leper. Here and there, intricate woodwork had survived, but still the house appeared totally unsalvageable—a ruined husk remaining upright through willpower alone. Everywhere there were charred timbers and smoke-blackened brick, windows blown out by heat and then haphazardly boarded over, and the garage and roof had been utterly skeletonized by flames. Even the lawn bore the scars of fire, strange loops and lines branded into the earth as if a family of electric eels had been mating on the grass.