One of Us Is Next(37)
“Brandon Weber?” Owen and I both jump as Emma’s voice spikes an octave. “That creep was in our apartment? Why?” I don’t answer, and her expression gradually morphs from horrified to thunderous. “Oh my God. Is that who you’ve been hooking up with lately?”
“Can we not do this right now?” I say, with a pointed glance toward Owen.
But Emma’s face has gone red and splotchy, which is always a bad sign. She yanks her headphones from around her neck and stands up, stalking toward me like she’s about to shove me across my bed and into the wall. I almost flinch before she stops a foot away, hands on her hips. “Jesus Christ, Phoebe. You are such an idiot. Brandon Weber is a piece of shit who doesn’t care about anyone except himself. You know that, right?”
I gape at her, hurt and confused. I thought we were finally getting past the Derek situation, and now she’s mad at me about Brandon? Did she…Oh God. Oh please no. “Were you involved with Brandon too?” I burst out.
Emma’s mouth drops open. “Are you for real? I would never. Can you honestly think—no, of course you can’t. That’s the problem, isn’t it? You don’t think. You just do. Whatever you want.” She goes back to her desk, piling her notebook on top of our laptop and hugging them both to her chest. “I’m going to the library. I can’t get anything done in this shithole.”
She leaves, slamming the door behind her, and Owen stares after her. “Are you guys ever gonna stop being mad at each other?” he asks.
I let my shoulders slump, too tired to pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about. “Eventually. Probably.”
Owen kicks his legs back and forth so his sneakers scuff against the floor. “Everything’s ruined, isn’t it?” he asks, his voice so low it’s barely audible. “Our whole family. We have been since Dad died.”
“Owen, no!” I wrap an arm around his thin shoulders and pull him toward me, but he’s so stiff that he just leans uncomfortably against my side. Everything in me aches as it hits me, all of a sudden, how long it’s been since I hugged my brother. Or my sister. “Of course we’re not ruined. We’re fine. Emma and I are just going through a rough patch.”
Even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re too little, too late. I should’ve been comforting Owen for the past three years, not just the past three minutes.
Owen disentangles himself from my arm and gets to his feet. “I’m not a little kid anymore, Phoebe. I know when you’re lying.” He opens the door and slips through, shutting it more quietly than Emma did, but just as emphatically.
I flop down on my bed and stare at the clock on my wall. How is it only seven o’clock? This day has been going on forever.
A text tone chimes from somewhere in the depths of my tangled comforter. I don’t have the energy to sit up, so I just root around with one hand until I find my phone and drag it a few inches from my face.
Unknown: Tsk, no response from our latest player.
That means you forfeit, Maeve Rojas.
Now I get to reveal one of your secrets in true About That style.
My eyes go wide. Maeve didn’t tell me she’d been picked, even though we’ve been hanging out at school lately. That girl is either seriously reserved or has avoidance issues. Maybe both.
Still, there’s nothing to worry about. Maeve isn’t full of embarrassing secrets, like me. Unknown will probably just rehash that old story about her puking in some basketball player’s basement when she was a freshman. Or maybe it’ll be about her crush on Luis, although that’s so glaringly obvious that it doesn’t really qualify as a secret. Either way, I wish the text would come through so I can stop obsessing over this stupid game.
And then it does.
Unknown’s latest piece of gossip fills my screen. I blink five or six times, but I still can’t believe what I’m seeing. No. No way. Oh no. Oh hell no.
The omg what?!? messages start pouring in, so fast I can’t keep up with them. I bolt upright and scramble to press Maeve’s number, but she doesn’t pick up. I’m not surprised. Right now, there’s another call she’d better be making.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Knox
Tuesday, March 3
The guy in King’s Landing is sweating up a storm. Twitching, rocking, constantly rubbing one hand over his jaw while he talks with Sandeep in the closed conference room. “It’s weird how guilty innocent people can look, sometimes,” I say to Bethany Okonjo, a law student who’s one of Until Proven’s paralegals.
We’re stationed at a desk outside the conference room, collating news coverage about the D’Agostino case. Bethany shrugs and reaches into a drawer for more staples. “And vice versa, right?” she says. “Guilty people can look innocent as hell. Take our friend here.” She holds up a long feature article about Sergeant Carl D’Agostino, accompanied by a picture of him wearing his cop uniform and a big grin. His arm is around a college-aged kid who’s holding a plaque. “Funny how they use this, and not his mug shot,” she adds, tossing her braids over one shoulder. “None of the people he framed got that kind of kid-glove treatment when they were arrested.”
I glance at the caption under the photo. The week before his arrest, Sergeant Carl D’Agostino commended San Diego State University students for excellence in community peer mentoring. “I never really thought about it that way,” I say, scanning the first few paragraphs of the article. “But you’re right. This is all about what a great guy he was until—whoops, major scandal. Like he just accidentally stumbled into framing seventeen people.”