Two Can Keep a Secret(80)

“Fuck,” Malcolm says again. “But he—he wasn’t here either. He was in Burlington.”

“Are you sure?”

Malcolm gets to his feet wordlessly and motions for me to follow. He leads me upstairs to his bedroom and shuts the door behind us, then pulls his phone out of his pocket. “He said he had dinner with a guy who used to live here. Mr. Coates. He was my Scout troop leader. I’ve got his number in here somewhere.” He scrolls for a few minutes and presses the screen. I’m standing close enough to him that I can hear a faint ringing sound, then a man’s voice. “Hey, Mr. Coates. This is, um, Malcolm Kelly.” He laughs self-consciously. “Sorry about the blast from the past, but I had a question for you.”

I can’t hear what Mr. Coates is saying, but his tone is welcoming. “Yeah, so,” Malcolm continues, swallowing hard. “I was just talking to my brother, you know, Declan? Right, of course you do. He’s majoring in political science and he’s interested in doing, like, an internship or something. I’m probably not supposed to be doing this, but Peter mentioned he had dinner with you last month and there was a chance you might have some kind of opening in your new firm.” He pauses and waits for Mr. Coates to speak, his cheeks staining a deep red. “You didn’t? On Labor Day weekend?” Another pause. “Oh, sorry. I must’ve heard wrong. I was just, you know, trying to help my brother out.”

Mr. Coates talks for a minute. Malcolm nods mechanically, like Mr. Coates can see him. “Yeah, okay. Thanks a lot. I’ll have him call you. It really— That’ll be really helpful. Thanks again.” He lowers the phone and meets my eyes. “You hear that?”

“Enough.”

“Peter wasn’t there,” Malcolm says. “He lied.”

Neither of us says anything for a beat. When I raise a hand to tug at my necklace, it’s trembling so hard that my fingers knock against my chest.

“Let’s think about this,” I say, in a voice I have to fight to keep steady. “It sounds like Peter was probably here, driving Katrin’s car the night of the hailstorm. But if Katrin wasn’t in the car when it hit something—or someone—why would Brooke be involved? Why would she help get the car fixed if she … Oh.” I grab hold of Malcolm’s arm. The pieces are falling into place, and this time I might actually be right. “Oh my God, Mal. Katrin said Brooke took off during a sleepover once, remember? She thought Brooke was slipping out to hook up with you. What if she was with Peter?”

“That’s impossible,” Malcolm says, with no conviction whatsoever. His eyes are like glass.

“Think about it, though. If Brooke and your stepfather were having an affair—which, ew, but I guess that’s the least of our problems right now—we’ve been looking at everything wrong. It’s not just about the hit-and-run. It’s about keeping everything quiet.” I pull my own phone out of my pocket. “We need to tell Ryan about this. He’ll know what do to.”

I’ve just opened a new text window when the door flies open. It’s like watching some alt-version of my life to see Peter standing there with a gun pointed straight at us. “Your poker face needs work, Malcolm,” he says calmly. His pale hair glints silvery gold in the dim lighting, and he smiles so normally that I almost smile back. “Anyone ever tell you that?”





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE





Malcolm

Thursday, October 10

All these weeks of wondering what the hell was happening around town, it somehow never occurred to me that the guy I trust least of anyone might be involved.

I’m an idiot. And Ellery sucks at solving true crime. But none of that matters right now.

“I’m going to need your phones,” Peter says. He’s still in his polo and khakis, but he’s slipped on a pair of gloves, too. Somehow that’s more chilling than the gun. “This isn’t a drill, kids. Put them on the side table next to the bed. One at a time, please. You first, Ellery.” We both comply, and Peter waves the gun toward the hallway. “Thank you. Now come with me.”

“Where?” I ask, glancing over at Ellery. She’s frozen in place, her eyes trained on Peter’s right hand.

His nostrils flare. “You’re not really in a position to ask questions, Malcolm.”

Jesus. This is bad, colossally bad. I’m only just starting to grasp how much shit we’re in, but I know this much: Peter would never let any of this unfold if he planned on leaving us alive to talk about it. “Wait,” I say. “You can’t— Look, it’s too late, all right? We found the receipt from Dailey’s Auto and gave it to the police. They know something sketchy is going on with Katrin’s car and they’ll figure out you’re involved.”

Peter’s expression flickers with a second’s worth of doubt, then relaxes again. “There’s nothing on that receipt that points toward me.”

“There’s the fact that you’re the only family member who was at home to drive,” I say.

Peter raises his shoulders in a careless shrug. “Brooke borrowed the car and had an accident. Simple enough.”

I keep talking. “I just spoke to Mr. Coates. I asked him about meeting up with you that weekend and he said you never did. He knows you lied.”