Lies You Never Told Me(66)

“What the hell is going on? Five-o was at my house last night. I didn’t know what to tell them. I didn’t want to make anything worse.” She picks at one of the holes in her jeans. “So I just said you were a living cream puff who’d never hurt anybody. I don’t think they liked that. They kept bringing up my rap sheet like it invalidated everything I said.”

“Yeah, they wanted all my log-ins and text records and stuff,” Caleb says. “What happened?”

I sit numbly down and tell them most of what happened—about the fire, and the cops, and Sasha’s edited video footage. I leave out what I saw through the window at Catherine’s house.

When I’m done they’re both silent, staring at me. Caleb looks like he’s about to be sick. Irene’s pale with fury.

“I knew she was a bitch, but I didn’t know she was evil,” she says. She slaps her palm on the table. “We’ve got to figure out some way to show them what she’s like. Like, a sting, or something. Get her on tape acting like a psycho. See how she likes a little creative editing.”

“No.” I shake my head.

Irene stares at me. “But . . .”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s over, Irene.”

I don’t have the energy to explain—to make them see. Sasha started that fire—I know it in my gut. And if she’s willing to do that, she’s willing to do anything.

There’s no way to win.

I get up off the table. “I have to get to class, you guys. Thanks . . . thanks for listening. I’m sorry you got pulled into this.”

Caleb rubs his palms against his knees, frowning. “Come on, man, let’s just blow off school today. It’s gonna be ugly up there. You know that.”

“He’s right. It’s going to be a shitshow,” Irene says. “People’ve been going nuts about this. I got about twenty texts from people I don’t even know asking if you’re a psycho or a drug addict or what.”

I shrug. “Yeah, I figured. But it’ll just get worse if I hide.” I pull my backpack on. “I’ll see you guys at lunch, okay?”

I don’t give them a chance to respond. I head back inside, braced for the onslaught.

Except I’m not going to class. Instead, I head for the dance studio.

The Mustang Sallys have an early morning rehearsal before school, and usually, Sasha and her friends hang out there, gossiping and listening to music until the last bell rings. What I’m about to do is beyond stupid. My lawyer, a sharp-faced woman with a pristine crease in her pantsuit, warned me not to go anywhere near Sasha. “Don’t talk to her. Don’t text her. Don’t go to her house. Don’t go within ten blocks of her house. Don’t even look at her, Gabriel,” she’d said, her jawline tight. “You can’t afford any more run-ins with this girl.”

But the lawyer doesn’t understand Sasha the way I do. I can’t afford to avoid her.

It takes me a moment to find her in the crowded studio. It’s still surreal to see her with Catherine’s dark hair hanging limply around her shoulders. She’s not wearing makeup, which is unusual for her. And instead of her form-fitting dance gear, she’s in a sagging pair of sweats and a too-big T-shirt. She’s stretching on the barre, surrounded by her friends, but she seems somehow smaller than usual, more subdued.

My feet won’t move. The sight of her makes my throat seize up; my breath goes hot and panicked in my chest, and for just a heartbeat it feels like I’m back in the burning house. Every muscle in my body is tensed to bolt.

But I have no choice. Because I know now. She won’t stop. She’ll kill someone. Me. My sister, my parents, my friends. Catherine.

I’m the only one who can end it.

Everyone else seems to see me before she does. Silence sweeps over the room as I make my way toward her. Sasha never looks my way as I approach, but it’s an act. I know she’s tracking my movements in the mirror.

“I need to talk to you,” I say softly, when I’m right in front of her.

My heart constricts painfully. The way she lowers her lashes and peers up through them; the way her hair falls like a curtain around her face. It’s almost exactly Catherine’s affect. She’s been studying for this. She’s been practicing.

“Okay,” she says.

She leads me into the little storage area off the main studio, stacked with yoga balls, spare uniforms, and random props. My eyes dart around the room, and I realize that I’m looking for things that could be used as a weapon, just in case. I take a deep breath and force myself to stay calm.

Sasha sits down on an upturned bucket. Even the way she sits is pure Catherine—ankles crossed, shoulders hunched slightly forward. It sends a ribbon of ice down my spine. How long has she planned all this? Has she put on Catherine’s personality piece by piece, without my noticing it? Or did she do it all at once?

She looks demurely up at me. “I heard what happened this weekend. It was . . . so brave of you, Gabe. To save those people like that.”

“Stop it,” I say. I keep my voice low; everyone in the dance studio is probably trying to overhear us. “What do you want?”

She blinks. “You’re the one who wanted to talk to me.”

“You know what I mean,” I say. “I want to end this. Tell me what it’ll take. Tell me what you want.”