One of Us Is Lying

by Karen M. McManus

  My throat feels like I swallowed something sharp. Do I? Jake waits for an answer, and I mentally shake myself. Of course I do. That’s all I’ve wanted since this happened. “Yes.”

  “Okay. Maybe this afternoon? I’ll text you.” He holds my gaze, still not smiling, and adds, “God, I can’t get used to your hair. You don’t even look like yourself.”

  I’m about to say I know when I remember TJ’s words. You were so…passive. Always agreeing with whatever Jake said. “Well, I am,” I say instead, and take off down the hall before he can break eye contact first.

  Nate

  Monday, October 15, 3:15 p.m.

  Bronwyn settles herself on the rock next to me, smoothing her skirt over her knees and looking over the treetops in front of us. “I’ve never been to Marshall’s Peak before,” she says.

  I’m not surprised. Marshall’s Peak—which isn’t really a peak, more of a rocky outcropping overlooking the woods we cut through on our way out of school—is Bayview’s so-called scenic area. It’s also a popular spot for drinking, drugs, and hookups, although not at three o’clock on a Monday afternoon. I’m pretty sure Bronwyn has no clue what happens here on weekends. “Hope reality lives up to the hype,” I say.

  She smiles. “It beats getting ambushed by Mikhail Powers’s crew.” We had another sneak-out-the-back routine when they showed up at the front of school today. I’m surprised they haven’t wised up to staking out the woods yet. Driving to the mall again seemed like a bad idea given how high our profile’s risen over the past week, so here we are.

  Bronwyn’s eyes are down, watching a line of ants carry a leaf across the rock next to us. She licks her lips like she’s nervous, and I shift a little closer. Most of my time with her is spent on the phone, and I can’t tell what she’s thinking in person.

  “I called Eli Kleinfelter,” she says. “From Until Proven.”

  Oh. That’s what she’s thinking. I shift back. “Okay.”

  “It was an interesting conversation,” she says. “He was nice about hearing from me, didn’t seem surprised at all. He promised he wouldn’t tell anybody I’d called him.”

  For all her brains, Bronwyn can be like a little kid sometimes. “What’s that worth?” I ask. “He’s not your lawyer. He can talk to Mikhail Powers about you if he wants more airtime.”

  “He won’t,” Bronwyn says calmly, like she’s got it all figured out. “Anyway, I didn’t tell him anything. We didn’t talk about me at all. I just asked him what he thought of the investigation so far.”

  “And?”

  “Well, he repeated some of what he said on TV. That he was surprised there wasn’t more talk about Simon. Eli thought anyone who’d run the kind of app Simon did, for as long as he did, would’ve made plenty of enemies who’d love to use the four of us as scapegoats. He said he’d check into some of the most damaging stories and the kids they covered. And he’d look into Simon generally. Like Maeve’s doing with the 4chan stuff.”

  “The best defense is a good offense?” I ask.

  “Right. He also said our lawyers aren’t doing enough to pick apart the theory that nobody else could’ve poisoned Simon. Mr. Avery, for one.” A note of pride creeps into her voice. “Eli said the exact same thing I did, that Mr. Avery had the best opportunity of anyone to plant the phones and doctor the cups. But other than questioning him a few times, the police are mostly leaving him alone.”

  I shrug. “What’s his motive?”

  “Technophobia,” Bronwyn says, and glares at me when I laugh. “It’s a thing. Anyway, that was just one idea. Eli also mentioned the car accident as a time when everybody was distracted and someone could’ve slipped into the room.”

  I frown at her. “We weren’t at the window that long. We would’ve heard the door open.”

  “Would we? Maybe not. His point is, it’s possible. And he said something else interesting.” Bronwyn picks up a small rock and juggles it meditatively in her hand. “He said he’d look into the car accident. That the timing was suspect.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, it goes back to his earlier point that someone could’ve opened the door while we watched the cars. Someone who knew it was going to happen.”

  “He thinks the car accident was planned?” I stare at her, and she avoids my gaze as she heaves the rock over the trees beneath us. “So you’re suggesting somebody engineered a fender bender in the parking lot so they could distract us, slip into detention, and dump peanut oil into Simon’s cup? That they couldn’t possibly have known he had if they weren’t already in the room? Then leave Simon’s cup lying around, because they’re stupid?”

  “It’s not stupid if they’re trying to frame us,” Bronwyn points out. “But it would be stupid for one of us to leave it there, instead of finding a way to get rid of it. Chances were good nobody would have searched us right after.”

  “It still doesn’t explain how anybody outside the room would know Simon had a cup of water in the first place.”

  “Well, it’s like the Tumblr post said. Simon was always drinking water, wasn’t he? They could have been outside the door, watching through the window. That’s what Eli says, anyway.”

  “Oh, well, if Eli says so.” I’m not sure why this guy’s a legal god in Bronwyn’s eyes. He can’t be more than twenty-five. “Sounds like he’s full of dipshit theories.”

  I’m getting ready for an argument, but Bronwyn doesn’t take the bait. “Maybe,” she says, tracing her fingers over the rock between us. “But I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately and…I don’t think it was anyone in that room, Nate. I really don’t. I’ve gotten to know Addy a little bit this week”—she raises a palm at my skeptical look—“and I’m not saying I’m suddenly an Addy expert or anything, but I honestly can’t picture her doing anything to Simon.”

  “What about Cooper? That guy’s definitely hiding something.”

  “Cooper’s not a killer.” Bronwyn sounds positive, and for some reason that pisses me off.

  “You know this how? Because you guys are so close? Face it, Bronwyn, none of us really know each other. Hell, you could’ve done it. You’re smart enough to plan something this messed up and get away with it.”

  I’m kidding, but Bronwyn goes rigid. “How can you say that?” Her cheeks get red, giving her that flushed look that always unsettles me. She’ll surprise you one day with how pretty she is. My mother used to say that about Bronwyn.

  My mother was wrong, though. There’s nothing surprising about it.

  “Eli said it himself, right?” I say. “Anything’s possible. Maybe you brought me here to shove me down the hill and break my neck.”

  “You brought me here,” Bronwyn points out. Her eyes widen, and I laugh.

  “Oh, come on. You don’t actually think— Bronwyn, we’re barely on an incline. Pushing you off this rock isn’t much of an evil plan if all you’d do is twist your ankle.”

  “That’s not funny,” Bronwyn says, but a smile twitches at her lips. The afternoon sun’s making her glow, putting glints of gold in her dark hair, and for a second I almost can’t breathe.

  Jesus. This girl.

  I stand and hold out my hand. She gives me a skeptical look, but takes it and lets me pull her to her feet. I put my other hand in the air. “Bronwyn Rojas, I solemnly swear not to murder you today or at any point in the future. Deal?”

  “You’re ridiculous,” she mutters, going even redder.

  “It concerns me you’re avoiding a promise not to murder me.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Do you say that to all the girls you bring here?”

  Huh. Maybe she knows Marshall’s Peak’s reputation after all.

  I move closer until there’s only a couple of inches between us. “You’re still not answering my question.”

  Bronwyn leans forward and brings her lips to my ear. She’s so close I can feel her heart beating when she whispers, “I promise not to murder you.”

  “That’s hot.” I mean it as a joke,
but my voice comes out like a growl and when her lips part I kiss her before she can laugh. A shock of energy shoots through me as I cup her face in my hands, my fingers grasping her cheeks and the line of her jaw. It must be the adrenaline that’s making my heart pound so fast. The whole nobody-else-could-possibly-understand-this bond. Or maybe it’s her soft lips and green apple–scented hair, and the way she winds her arms around my neck like she can’t stand to let go. Either way I keep kissing her as long as she lets me, and when she steps away I try to pull her back because it wasn’t enough.

  “Nate, my phone,” she says, and for the first time I notice a persistent, jangly text tone. “It’s my sister.”

  “She can wait,” I say, tangling a hand in her hair and kissing along her jawline to her neck. She shivers against me and makes a little noise in her throat. Which I like.

  “It’s just…” She runs her fingertips across the back of my neck. “She wouldn’t keep texting if it weren’t important.”

  Maeve’s our excuse—she and Bronwyn are supposed to be at Yumiko’s house together—and I reluctantly step back so Bronwyn can reach down and dig her phone out of her backpack. She looks at the screen and draws in a quick, sharp breath. “Oh God. My mom’s trying to reach me too. Robin says the police want me to come to the station. To, quote, ‘follow up on a couple of things.’ Unquote.”

  “Probably the same bullshit.” I manage to sound calm even though it’s not how I feel.

  “Did they call you?” she asks. She looks like she hopes they did, and hates herself for it.

  I didn’t hear my phone, but pull it out of my pocket to check anyway. “No.”

  She nods and starts firing off texts. “Should I have Maeve pick me up here?”

  “Have her meet us at my house. It’s halfway between here and the station.” As soon as I say it I kind of regret it—I still don’t want Bronwyn anywhere near my house when it’s light out—but it’s the most convenient option. And we don’t have to go inside.

  Bronwyn bites her lip. “What if reporters are there?”

  “They won’t be. They’ve figured out no one’s ever around.” She still looks worried, so I add, “Look, we can park at my neighbor’s and walk over. If anyone’s there, I’ll take you someplace else. But trust me, it’ll be fine.”

  Bronwyn texts Maeve my address and we walk to the edge of the woods where I left my bike. I help her with the helmet and she climbs behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist as I start the engine.

  I drive slowly down narrow, twisty side roads until we reach my street. My neighbor’s rusted Chevrolet sits in her driveway, in the exact same spot it’s been for the past five years. I park next to it, wait for Bronwyn to dismount, and take her hand as we make our way through the neighbor’s yard to mine. As we get closer I see our house through Bronwyn’s eyes, and wish I’d bothered to mow the lawn at some point in the last year.

  Suddenly she stops in her tracks and lets out a gasp, but she’s not looking at our knee-length grass. “Nate, there’s someone at your door.”

  I stop too and scan the street for a news van. There isn’t one, just a beat-up Kia parked in front of our house. Maybe they’re getting better at camouflage. “Stay here,” I tell Bronwyn, but she comes with me as I get closer to my driveway for a better look at whoever’s at the door.

  It’s not a reporter.

  My throat goes dry and my head starts to throb. The woman pressing the bell turns around, and her mouth falls open a little when she sees me. Bronwyn goes still beside me, her hand dropping from mine. I keep walking without her.

  I’m surprised how normal my voice sounds when I speak. “What’s up, Mom?”

  Bronwyn

  Monday, October 15, 4:10 p.m.

  Maeve pulls into the driveway seconds after Mrs. Macauley turns around. I stand rigid, my hands clenched at my sides and my heart pounding, staring at the woman I thought was dead.

  “Bronwyn?” Maeve lowers her window and sticks her head out of the car. “You ready? Mom and Robin are already there. Dad’s trying to get off work, but he’s got a board meeting. I had to do some maneuvering about why you weren’t answering your phone. You’re sick to your stomach, okay?”

  “That’s accurate,” I mutter. Nate’s back is to me. His mother is talking, staring at him with ravenous eyes, but I can’t hear anything she’s saying.

  “Huh?” Maeve follows my gaze. “Who’s that?”

  “I’ll tell you in the car,” I say, tearing my eyes away from Nate. “Let’s go.”

  I climb into the passenger seat of our Volvo, where the heat is blasting because Maeve’s always cold. She backs out of the driveway in her careful, just-got-my-license way, talking the whole time. “Mom’s doing that whole Mom thing, where she’s pretending not to be freaked out but she totally is,” she says, and I’m half listening. “I guess the police aren’t giving much information. We don’t even know if anyone else is going to be there. Is Nate coming, do you know?”

  I snap back to attention. “No.” For once I’m glad Maeve likes to maintain broiler-oven temperatures while driving, because it’s keeping the cold inching up my spine at bay. “He’s not coming.”

  Maeve approaches a stop sign and brakes jerkily, glancing over at me. “What’s the matter?”

  I close my eyes and lean against the headrest. “That was Nate’s mother.”

  “What was?”

  “The woman at the door just now. At Nate’s house. It was his mother.”

  “But…” Maeve trails off, and I can tell by the sound of the blinker that she’s about to make a turn and needs to concentrate. When the car straightens again she says, “But she’s dead.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “I don’t—but that’s—” Maeve sputters for a few seconds. I keep my eyes closed. “So…what’s the deal? Did he not know she was alive? Or did he lie about it?”

  “We didn’t exactly have time to discuss it,” I say.

  But that’s the million-dollar question. I remember hearing three years ago through the grapevine that Nate’s mother had died in a car accident. We lost my mom’s brother the same way, and I felt a lot of empathy for Nate, but I’d never asked him about it back then. I did over the past few weeks, though. Nate didn’t like to talk about it. All he said was he hadn’t heard anything about his mother since she flaked on taking him to Oregon, until he got news that she’d died. He never mentioned a funeral. Or much of anything, really.

  “Well.” Maeve’s voice is encouraging. “Maybe it’s some kind of miracle. Like it was all a horrible misunderstanding and everybody thought she was dead but really she…had amnesia. Or was in a coma.”

  “Right,” I snort. “And maybe Nate has an evil twin who’s behind it all. Because we’re living in a telenovela.” I think about Nate’s face before he walked away from me. He didn’t seem shocked. Or happy. He looked…stoic. He reminded me of my father every time Maeve had a relapse. As though an illness he’d been dreading had come back, and he was just going to have to deal with it now.

  “We’re here,” Maeve says, pulling to a careful stop. I open my eyes.

  “You’re in the handicapped space,” I tell her.

  “I’m not staying, just dropping you off. Good luck.” She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. All of it.”

  I walk slowly inside and give my name to the woman behind the glass partition in the lobby, who directs me to a conference room down the hall. When I enter, my mother, Robin, and Detective Mendoza are all already seated at a small round table. My heart sinks at the absence of Addy or Cooper, and at the sight of a laptop in front of Detective Mendoza.

  Mom gives me a worried look. “How’s your stomach, honey?”

  “Not great,” I say truthfully, slipping into a chair beside her and dropping my backpack on the floor.

  “Bronwyn isn’t well,” Robin says with a cool look toward Detective Mendoza. She’s in a sharp navy suit and a long, multistrand necklace. “This
should be a discussion between you and me, Rick. I can loop Bronwyn and her parents in as needed.”

  Detective Mendoza presses a key on the laptop. “We won’t keep you long. Always better to talk face to face, in my opinion. Bronwyn, are you aware Simon used to have a companion website for About That, where he’d write longer posts?”

  Robin interrupts before I can speak. “Rick, I’m not letting Bronwyn answer any questions until you tell me why she’s here. If you have something to show or tell us, please get to that first.”

  “I do,” Detective Mendoza says, rotating the laptop so it faces me. “One of your classmates alerted us to a post that ran eighteen months ago, Bronwyn. Does this look familiar?”

  My mother moves her chair next to me as Robin leans over my shoulder. I focus my eyes on the screen, but I already know what I’m about to read. I’ve worried for weeks that it might come up.

  So maybe I should have said something. But it’s too late now.

  News flash: LV’s end-of-the-year party isn’t a charity event. Just so we’re clear. You’d be excused for thinking so, though, with frosh attendance at an all-time high.

  Regular readers (and if you’re not one, what the hell is wrong with you?) know I try to cut the kids some slack. Children are our future and all that. But let me do a little PSA for one new (and fleeting, I’m gonna guess) arrival to the social scene: MR, who doesn’t seem to realize SC is out of her league.

  He’s not in the market for a puppy, kid. Stop with the following. It’s pathetic.

  And, guys, don’t give me that poor-little-thing-had-cancer crap. Not anymore. M can put on her big-girl panties like anyone else and learn a few basic rules:

  1. Varsity basketball players with cheerleader girlfriends are OFF THE MARKET. I shouldn’t have to explain this, but apparently I do.