White Rabbit(79)

Across the wide, whitewashed front door, scarlet letters spelled out the multitude of Fox Whitney’s sins in bold, streaky spray paint:





LIAR


COCKSUCKER


DRUG DEALER


RAPIST


“‘Rapist’?” I read out loud, alarm staining my tone as I began to wonder if there were dimensions to the guy’s murder we hadn’t even considered yet. Sebastian gave me a bewildered shake of his head in response, his expression making it clear this was something he knew nothing about, and then he turned the Jeep around again.

As we drove away, I thought about the Whitneys. Someone must have gotten in touch with them already; they had to have learned what had happened to Fox and about the arson that claimed their home. I wondered if they were already on their way back to Burlington—and what they would do when they got here. They had two addresses and nowhere to live, one house a hollowed-out wreck and the other a blood-soaked crime scene where their youngest son had been murdered. How could they face either?

Now, as we step up onto the curb, skirting the padlocked gate of Fernwood Park and crossing the empty lot to the grassy expanse beyond, I try to steel my nerves. Before us stretches a gray bank of obliterating fog, punctuated only by the distant burn of an amber lamp that marks an emergency phone lost in the gloom. It’s 5:20 in the morning, and high above us the sky is a gradually fading indigo, stars winking out one by one; where we stand, however, light only reaches us as a whisper of blue in the dark pall of densely gathered mists.

“I wish we’d brought a real flashlight,” I remark, mostly to break the thick crust of tense silence as I use my phone to illuminate a mounted placard showing a map of the park. Walkways squiggle hither and yon over the simplified diagram, and I attempt to figure out which one of them we’re supposed to follow.

“I wish we’d brought a Doberman,” Sebastian mutters. “Or maybe a couple of Navy SEALs.”

Secretly, I have to agree. I can think of only one reason Race might want Lia to meet him all the way out here, and it’s not because he thinks she’s rilly, rilly cute. I still need that money from Isabel, but I’ve put so much effort into convincing Sebastian—and myself—that we have to see things through to the end that I sort of lost my sense of how much danger we could actually be in. Glancing back the way we came, I hazard, “You were right before. We don’t have to do this, I mean. We can always call the police and tell them—”

“No.” Sebastian interrupts decisively. Off my surprised look, he continues, “Look, Sebastian 2.0 can probably explain away coming home late after dropping off his boyfriend—I’m pretty sure my dad won’t want to press me for details—but lying to the cops could result in some serious house arrest. Or regular arrest.” A symphony of frogs and crickets trill around us, underscoring how alone we are. “You were right before, Rufe: strength in numbers. He can’t take both of us, and it’s like you said—we need solid proof if we want to make sure this ends tonight.”

“Look on the bright side,” I suggest, turning away so he can’t see how anemic my smile is. “Maybe Race wants to meet with Lia because Peyton did it and he needs help deciding whether he should turn her in or not.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure the bright side is ‘Maybe he won’t even show up.’”

*

It’s a simple, if stressful, hike to our destination. The knowable universe has shrunk to a terrifyingly small circumference, landmarks only discernible within about ten paces, and every object beyond the obscuring curtain of fog is an armed and dangerous murderer until proven otherwise. Sebastian put the pedal to the floor on the drive from the diner, determined to arrive early in case this was a trap; but the truth is that we’ve got no idea what we might be walking into—we have no idea where Race had texted Lia from. For all we know, he’s already here, waiting and watching …

“There,” Sebastian whispers suddenly, and I nearly leap out of my skin.

Before us looms an elongated picnic shelter fronted by an in memoriam plaque dedicating it to “Jane and August Tidwell”—it’s the meeting spot Race identified in his text messages. Knobby pinewood supports hold up a pitched roof, the beams of which no doubt host a biblical plague’s worth of bats and spiders; and while three sides are open to the elements, a brick wall at the far end masks the plumbing for connected bathroom facilities.

But my knowledge of this wall is distant memory, not direct observation; the shadows and fog render the murk inside the shelter impenetrable, so concentrated I can’t see to the back of it. There’s no way to tell what lies hidden inside, no way to disarm my imagination. Fresh corpses, a bloodthirsty killer, or just a few warped, sticky tables and some forgotten trash abandoned by a bunch of drunken holiday revelers—anything is possible. Yawning before us is a black hole, containing everything and nothing all at once.

“Hello?” I call apprehensively into the void, and my voice bounces back to me. “Race, are you in there?” Water drips somewhere out of sight. “Lia sent us.”

There’s no answer; even the crickets are silent now. Sebastian and I exchange a nervous glance, and I step forward, edging past a dingy wooden column and squinting to sharpen my vision. I sense nothing, hear nothing. Tables butt out of the dark emptiness before me, their planks rough and uneven with age. Could someone be standing back there? Is someone breathing? My tongue feels like a scrap of dried leather in my mouth. “Lia knows we’re here, okay? So if you’re thinking of trying something—”