Two Can Keep a Secret

by Karen M. McManus

  Everybody goes still. We’ve heard that before.

  “Sure,” Declan says, a little too casually. We’re all still standing in his cramped little kitchen, and he gestures to the table. “Have a seat.”

  Officer Rodriguez hesitates, his eyes flicking toward me. “I could, or…do you want to step outside for a minute? Not sure if you want Daisy and your brother here, or—” He rocks back and forth on his heels, and suddenly I can see all the nervous bumbling Ellery was talking about. It’s like the guy is regressing by the minute in Declan’s and Daisy’s presence.

  “No,” Declan says shortly. “This is fine.”

  Officer Rodriguez shrugs and lowers himself into the nearest chair, folding his hands on the table while he waits for Declan to sit across from him. Daisy drops beside Declan, and since I can’t think of anything else to do and nobody’s asked me to leave, I take the last chair. Once we’re all seated, Officer Rodriguez focuses his gaze on Declan and says, “Could you tell me your whereabouts the Saturday before last? September twenty-eighth?”

  I feel almost exactly like I did the morning that Brooke disappeared, when I realized I’d have to tell Officer McNulty that I was the last person to see her. This can’t be happening.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Declan doesn’t answer right away, and Officer Rodriguez clarifies, “The night Brooke Bennett disappeared.”

  Panic starts worming its way into my chest as Declan’s voice rises. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he asks. Daisy puts a hand on his arm.

  Officer Rodriguez’s voice is mild, but firm. “No. I am not kidding you.”

  “You want to know where I was the night a girl disappeared. Why?”

  “Are you refusing to answer the question?”

  “Should I?”

  “He was with me,” Daisy says quickly.

  I study her, trying to get a read on whether she’s telling the truth. Her pretty face is suddenly all hard lines and angles, so maybe she’s lying. Or maybe she’s just scared.

  Some emotion flits across Officer Rodriguez’s face, but it’s gone before I can figure out what it is. “Okay. And may I ask where you two were?”

  “No,” Declan says, at the same time Daisy replies, “Here.”

  I still can’t tell if she’s lying.

  It goes on like that for a few minutes. Daisy smiles like her teeth hurt the whole time. A dull red flush creeps up Declan’s neck, but Officer Rodriguez seems to be getting progressively at ease.

  “All right,” he says finally. “If I could switch gears for a minute. Have you ever been to Huntsburg?”

  Daisy’s eyes widen as Declan goes rigid. “Huntsburg,” he repeats. This time he doesn’t state the obvious: You’re asking me if I’ve ever been to the town where Brooke’s body was discovered?

  “Right,” Officer Rodriguez says.

  “No,” Declan growls.

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “Okay. One last thing.” Officer Rodriguez digs into his pocket and pulls out something in a sealed plastic bag that glints under the cheap track lighting in Declan’s kitchen. “This was found in Huntsburg, in the same general area as Brooke’s body. Does it look familiar to you?”

  My blood turns to ice. It does to me.

  The ring is big and gold with the words “Echo Ridge High” etched around a square purple stone. The number 13 is on one side, and the initials “DK” on another. Declan’s class ring, although he never wore it. He gave it to Lacey junior year, and she kept it on a chain around her neck. I haven’t seen it in years. Not since before she died.

  It never occurred to me, until just now, to wonder where it went.

  Daisy pales. Declan pushes back from the table, his face expressionless. “I think we’re done talking,” he says.

  * * *

  —

  It’s not enough to make an arrest, I guess, because Officer Rodriguez leaves after Declan stops answering his questions. Then Declan, Daisy, and I sit silently in the kitchen for the longest minute of my life. My thoughts blur together, and I can’t look at either of them.

  When Declan finally speaks up, his voice is stilted. “I haven’t seen that ring since before Lacey died. We argued about it. We’d been fighting all week. All I wanted to do was break things off, but…I didn’t have the guts to come right out and say it. So I asked her for my ring back. She wouldn’t give it to me. That was the last time I ever saw it. Or her.” His hands are clenched into tight fists. “I have no clue how it ended up in Huntsburg.”

  Daisy’s chair is angled toward him. Her hand is on his arm again. “I know,” she murmurs.

  Damn it all to hell, I still can’t tell if she’s lying. I can’t tell if anyone’s lying.

  Declan hasn’t ever told that story before. Maybe he didn’t remember the ring till just now, either. Maybe he didn’t want to remind anyone of how much he and Lacey had been fighting before she died.

  Or maybe it didn’t happen.

  It’s been creeping up on me for weeks now how little I know my brother. When I was really young he was like a superhero to me. Later, he was more like a bully. After Lacey died, he turned into a ghost. He’s helped me out since Brooke’s body was discovered—but until then, all he’d done was lie and sneak around.

  And now I can’t shut off that corner of my brain that keeps asking, What if?

  “Fuck you, Mal.” Declan’s voice makes me jump. His neck is still brick red, his expression thunderous. “You think I can’t tell what’s running through your head right now? It’s written all over your face. You think I did it, don’t you? You always have.” I open my mouth to protest, but no words come. His face darkens even further. “Get the hell out of here. Just leave.”

  So I do. Because the answer isn’t yes, but it’s not no, either.

  ELLERY

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 10

  “But none of it makes any sense.”

  I’m at Malcolm’s house, curled up on his couch like on homecoming night. He has the Defender movie on again, but neither of us are watching it. He texted me half an hour ago: I need your true-crime brain.

  I’m not sure why he trusts me after my Kyle-Liz theory imploded so spectacularly. But here I am. I don’t think I’m helping, though. Declan being Lacey’s killer has always made sense to me. But being Brooke’s? Never even crossed my mind.

  “What connection is there between Declan and Brooke?” I ask.

  Malcolm’s eyes flash. “None that I know of. Except that he was in town the night she disappeared. If the police had ever looked at my phone, they’d have seen his text.” He takes out his phone and unlocks it, then swipes for a minute. He holds the phone out to me and I’m looking at a message. In town for a few hours. Don’t freak out.

  I read it twice, and when I look back up at Malcolm, his face is the picture of misery. “I thought that…I was trying to help Declan out by not, you know. Telling the police,” he says haltingly. “I thought it was just bad timing. But what if…Christ, Ellery.” He slumps back against the couch, rubbing a hand so hard across his bruised face that it has to hurt. “What if it was more than that?”

  I study Declan’s text again, wondering why I don’t find it more disturbing. After all, I’ve had him at the top of my suspect list for weeks, and this puts him at the scene of the crime. Problem is, it’s not the right crime. “Okay, but…Declan was in the process of moving then, right? Or he had moved? So he had a perfectly good reason for being here,” I say, handing the phone back to Malcolm. “And why would he send you that text if he was planning something? You’d think he’d be more subtle.”

  “Subtle isn’t how Declan rolls. I get what you’re saying, though.” Malcolm brightens a little, then jiggles his phone as though he’s weighing it. “I should let my mother know what’s up. But she’s having dinner with a friend, and s
he’s hardly done that kind of thing since she and Peter got married. I feel like I should let her have a few hours of peace before everything goes to hell again.”

  I think back to my one lunch at Echo Ridge High with Brooke, when she’d said that Malcolm was cute but couldn’t compare to Declan. “Do you think— Could Declan and Brooke have been secretly dating or something?”

  “What, while he was also secretly dating Daisy?”

  “I’m just trying to figure out how the ring could’ve gotten there. Would he have given it to Brooke?”

  Malcolm’s voice is ragged. “Maybe? I mean, you’d think somebody would’ve noticed him sneaking around with a high school girl, but maybe not.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have left Declan’s place. Me and him—I don’t know. It’s always been complicated. We’re not close. Sometimes I’ve almost hated him. But he’s not a…serial killer.” He almost chokes on the words.

  “Do you think Daisy knows more than she’s saying?”

  “Do you?” Malcolm asks.

  I’d had Daisy in mind as a potential accomplice right up to the day she clocked Mia in the head with a candlestick, then spilled her guts after. She’d seemed so sincere and heartbroken that I couldn’t picture it anymore. “No,” I say slowly. “I mean, why would she go through the trouble of looking for Lacey’s bracelet if she were? The case was ice cold at that point. If she were involved, the last thing she’d want to do is get the police thinking about it again. And Declan helped her, didn’t he? Although…well, I guess he’s not the one who gave the bracelet to Lacey, right? Daisy said as much. So maybe he figured it didn’t matter.”

  Malcolm rubs his temple and sighs, deep and weary. “I want to believe him. So much.”

  I’m a little surprised to realize that I do too. “I have to say…look, I guess you know I’ve always had questions about your brother.” I rest my chin in my hand, thinking. “But a dropped ring at a murder site is a little too convenient, isn’t it? And none of it fits with Katrin’s anonymous messages, or what we think might’ve happened with Brooke and her car.”

  “Too many puzzle pieces,” Malcolm says moodily.

  We lapse into silence for a few minutes, watching The Defender until a light knock on the doorframe startles us both. It’s Peter Nilsson, looking casually handsome in a polo shirt and khakis. He has a crystal tumbler in one hand, filled with ice and amber liquid. “You two all right? Need anything?”

  Malcolm is silent, so I speak up. “No, thank you. We’re fine.” Mr. Nilsson doesn’t leave immediately, so I feel like I should make more conversation. Plus, I’m curious. “How is Katrin doing, Mr. Nilsson? We miss her at school.”

  “Ah. Well.” He leans against the door with a sigh. “She’s devastated, of course. It’s good for her to have some time away with her aunt.”

  “Is that her mother’s sister, or yours?” I ask.

  “Mine,” Peter says. “Eleanor and her husband live in Brooklyn. We don’t see them as often as we’d like, but she and Katrin had a nice visit last month.”

  Malcolm stirs beside me on the couch. “They did?”

  “Sure. Katrin went to New York, did some shopping.” Peter’s brow creases slightly. “That was my interpretation, anyway, by the number of bags she brought home.”

  “I don’t remember that,” Malcolm says.

  “You and your mother were on vacation,” Peter says. “It was a last-minute thing. Eleanor’s husband was out of town for business so she flew Katrin down for the weekend. Although she almost didn’t make it. That was the night of that hailstorm, remember? The plane was delayed for hours.” He chuckles and sips his drink. “Katrin kept texting me complaints from the runway. She has no patience.”

  I’m sitting close enough to Malcolm that our arms are brushing, and I can feel him tense at the same time I do. My entire body goes numb and my pulse starts to race, but I manage to speak. “Oh, that’s so frustrating. I’m glad she made it there eventually.”

  Mr. Nilsson’s eyes wander to the screen. “The Defender, huh? That’s your mother’s movie, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. She only had one line, though.” I don’t know how I’m still talking normally when a million thoughts are zipping through my head. “ ‘That does not compute.’ ”

  “At least it’s a memorable one. Well, I won’t keep you from it. You sure I can’t get you anything?”

  Malcolm mutely shakes his head, and Mr. Nilsson turns and retreats back into the dark hallway. We sit in silence, my heart hammering so loudly that I can hear it in my ears. I’m sure Malcolm’s is doing the same. “Fuck,” he finally breathes.

  I keep my voice to the lowest whisper possible. “Katrin wasn’t here on Labor Day weekend. You and your mom weren’t here. There’s only one person in your house who could’ve driven Katrin’s car that night.”

  “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 poke
r 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?”

  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.”