Brandon is dead.
Brandon Weber is dead.
Brandon.
Weber.
Is. Dead.
I can repeat the words a dozen times in my head, a dozen different ways, and it still doesn’t seem real.
“It must have been a terrible shock,” Liz says.
Sean nods, his head still down. I can’t tell if he’s crying or not. “It was,” he says.
“Did you understand immediately what had happened?”
“We couldn’t really see into the…under the roof. But we knew it was bad when he fell through.”
“And what happened with the second boy? The one who’s injured?”
“That kid—he was in shock, I think. He ran straight for the edge after Brandon, and all I could think was that he was gonna fall through, too. I panicked. I did the only thing I could think of to stop him in his tracks.” Sean finally looks up, his mouth twisted in a regretful grimace. “I punched him. I think I ended up hurting him kinda bad, and I’m sorry about that. But at least he stopped, you know? At least he’s safe.”
“Bullshit,” Knox says quietly.
We all turn toward him. “Is that not what happened?” I ask.
Knox touches the bandage at his temple and winces. “I…don’t actually remember,” he says haltingly. “Everything’s a blur from the time I left Phoebe until I woke up with somebody shining a light in my face. But I can’t imagine myself chasing after Brandon when he just fell through a roof. I mean, I’ve been around construction sites my whole life, you know? That’s not the kind of thing I’d ever do.”
“Maybe you weren’t thinking straight,” Addy says. “I wouldn’t be.”
Knox still looks skeptical. “Maybe. Or maybe Sean is lying.”
Addy blinks. “Why would he do that?”
Knox shakes his head, his face tensing as though the movement hurts. “I have no idea.”
Sunday, March 15
REPORTER: Good evening, this is Liz Rosen with Channel Seven News. I’m live in the studio with special guest Lance Weber, whose sixteen-year-old son, Brandon, died tragically at the abandoned construction site behind the Bayview Mall just ten days ago. Mr. Weber, my heartfelt condolences for your loss.
LANCE WEBER: Thank you. My wife and I are beyond devastated.
REPORTER: You’re here tonight, you told our producers, because you want answers.
LANCE WEBER: That’s right. I’ve been a businessman for more than half my life, Liz, and in business the bottom line is accountability. Yet I can’t get any of the entities involved in this horrible tragedy—the construction company, the mall, even town officials—to step forward and provide details about what I am sure are multiple instances of negligence that contributed to my son’s death.
REPORTER: Are you saying that you believe one of those organizations—or perhaps all of them—are at fault?
LANCE WEBER: I’m saying that something like this doesn’t just happen, Liz. There’s always a responsible party.
One Day Later
Reddit, Vengeance Is Mine subforum
Thread started by Darkestmind
Where the hell are you Bayview2020?
ANSWER. MY. CHATS.
Don’t you dare fucking ghost me.—Darkestmind
This isn’t a joke.
I know where to find you.
And I’m not afraid to let this whole thing go up in flames.
I’ll do it just so I can watch you burn, too.—Darkestmind
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Phoebe
Monday, March 16
“I really appreciate the ride,” Knox says.
Emma buckles her seat belt and shifts the car into reverse. “No problem.”
It’s been a week and a half since Brandon died, and nothing in Bayview feels quite the same. On the plus side, Knox and I have been hanging out more, enough that Emma and I drive him home from school sometimes. On the far, far worse side, Jules and Sean are a couple all of a sudden. I thought I was hallucinating the first time I saw them making out in the hallway. “The trauma brought us together,” I heard her tell another girl in English class. Her eyes had the glazed devotion of a cult member. “We need each other.”
From what I’ve heard around school, it looks as though the Truth or Dare game ended with the Knox/Maeve bombshell—which makes me wonder if the whole point of the game was to mess with her. After all, she’s the one who turned the tide against Simon last year. Maybe one of his acolytes decided to get his revenge. If so, job well done, because she and Knox are still barely speaking and it’s making her miserable. Which sucks, but at least nobody at Bayview is talking about that stupid game anymore.
Another possibility, I guess, is that Brandon was behind the game all along and used it to help his friends win popularity points while messing with people he didn’t like. But since the game kicked off with an ugly secret about me while Brandon and I were hooking up, I can’t think about that for too long without wanting to throw up.
Meanwhile, Sean’s started up a weird little bromance with Knox. He’s suddenly calling Knox “my man” and yelling at anyone who tries to make a limp dick joke. Which is confusing for people, since he’s the one who started them in the first place. Knox still can’t remember what happened at the construction site the day Brandon died.
And Brandon—Brandon is buried and gone.
His funeral was last weekend, the first one I’d gone to since my father’s. I’d never felt such a confusing mash-up of emotions—shock and disbelief and sadness, but also some anger still. It’s strange, mourning someone who’d been legitimately horrible to you. When the priest eulogized Brandon, I felt like he was talking about a boy I’d never met. I wish I had, because that guy sounded great.
So much potential, wasted.
“Am I taking you to Until Proven, Knox?” Emma asks. She’s back to being calmly polite toward me, and hasn’t mentioned Derek once since Brandon’s funeral. Maybe his death shocked her out of her anger, or maybe it’s just that I finally have a friend she likes. She doesn’t even mind giving Knox the occasional lift to San Diego.
“No, I’m not working,” Knox says. I glance at him in the rearview mirror, cataloging the state of his bruises like I do every day. The ring around his eye is still purple, but his cheek and jaw have calmed down to a yellowish color. If he wore makeup, he could totally cover it up with the right foundation. “Just home, thanks.”
“You should come over,” I say impulsively. “Play that Bounty Wars game Owen keeps asking about.” My brother has been subdued lately, picking up on the sad vibe running through our house since Brandon died. A video game session with someone new would be the perfect way to cheer him up.
“Yeah, sure,” Knox says. Then he frowns and leans forward. “Does the car feel kind of—lopsided to you guys?”
“Always,” I say. “It’s ancient.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” Emma says. “Something’s not right.” She turns in to the parking garage beneath our building and pulls into our assigned spot. I grab my bag as she climbs out and steps backward to look at the driver’s-side front tire.
“It’s going flat,” she groans as I get out.
Knox crouches down and examines the tire. “Looks like you picked up a nail,” he says.
I pull out my phone, only to see the power drained to nothing. “Emma, can you text Mom to call Triple A?” I ask. “I’m out of battery.”
My sister shakes her head. “I lost my phone, remember?”
Emma lost her phone almost a week ago. Mom had a fit and said she couldn’t afford a new one and Emma would have to pay for it out of her tutoring money. So far, Emma hasn’t replaced it, which is unfathomable to me. I can’t go an hour without my phone, let alone a week. But Emma acts like she doesn’t even miss it.
“Really?” I ask, surprised.
Knox flushes as he opens the trunk. “Don’t look so shocked. I’m not completely useless.”
“I didn’t mean that,” I say quickly, moving beside him to give his arm a reassuring pat. “I’ve just never met anybody who knows how to change a tire before. I thought it was a lost skill.” Which is true, but also: if I’d been asked to guess Knox’s car repair abilities on a scale of one to ten, I would’ve said zero. He doesn’t need to know that, though.
“My dad wouldn’t let me and my sisters take driver’s ed until we learned. It took me a month but whatever.” He pulls on a latch in the trunk I didn’t even know was there and slides away part of the floor to reveal a tire beneath. “Oh wow, it’s even regular size. Old cars are the best.”
Knox changes the tire, so slowly and painstakingly that I debate sneaking upstairs to charge my phone so I can call Mom and plead for an assist from AAA, but eventually he finishes. “You still need a new tire, but this will get you to a repair shop,” Knox says. It’s kind of cute how nonchalant he’s trying to sound when he’s obviously proud of himself.
“Thanks so much,” Emma says with genuine warmth in her voice. “You’re the best.”
“It’s the least I can do,” Knox says as we walk to the elevator. “You guys have been carting me all over town.”
“Well, you’re injured,” I say, pressing the Up button.
“Nah, I’m fine now. Doctors gave me a clean bill of health at my last checkup,” Knox says, leaning against the wall while we wait. His bruises look worse under the harsh fluorescent light of the garage. “Anyway, according to my dad it serves me right.”
Emma gasps as the doors open and we step inside. “What?”
Knox instantly looks regretful. “That came out wrong. Those aren’t his exact words or anything. He’s just mad that I tried to cut through the construction site.”
I frown. “He should be glad you’re alive. Mr. Weber would trade places with him in a heartbeat.” Brandon’s father has been on every major San Diego news channel recently, threatening to sue the mall, the bankrupt construction company that started the parking garage, and the entire town of Bayview. “Did you catch him with Liz Rosen last night?”
“Yeah. He was really ranting,” Knox says. The elevator stops on our floor and we all step into the hallway, which smells faintly of caramel and vanilla. Addy must be making cookies again. “I guess you can’t blame him, though. I mean, that construction site is a hazard. My dad’s been saying so for months. Plus Brandon’s an only child, so it’s like their whole family is gone all of a sudden. You know?”
“I know,” I say with a pang of sadness.
Emma’s been quiet since we got off the elevator. When we get into the apartment she mutters a muted “Gotta study” and heads for our bedroom, shutting the door behind her.
Knox holds up his hands, streaked black from tire grease. “Where can I wash these?”
I lead him to the kitchen sink and turn on the faucet, pouring dish detergent into his outstretched palms. “I like your place,” he says, gazing at the large windows and exposed brick.
“It’s all right,” I say grudgingly. And it is—for a hip young couple with no kids. I’ll bet Knox wouldn’t find it so charming if he tried to squeeze his entire family inside, though. “Do you want something to drink? I’m getting a ginger ale. Owen won’t be home for another ten minutes or so.”
“Yeah, that’s great. Thanks.” Knox dries his hands on a dish towel and perches on one of our kitchen island stools while I grab a couple of glasses. It occurs to me, suddenly, that Knox is the only guy from Bayview High who’s ever been in this apartment besides Brandon. I don’t invite a lot of people over, especially not boys. And of course, I hadn’t invited Brandon.
But he came anyway.
“You okay?” Knox asks, and I realize I’ve been frozen in place holding two glasses for I have no idea how long. I give myself a little shake and put them on the island.
“Yeah, sorry. I just—zone out sometimes lately. You know?”
“I know,” Knox says as I pull a bottle of ginger ale out of the refrigerator. “Last night there were blueprints all over our kitchen table and I almost had a heart attack when I realized they were from the parking garage site. My dad’s been helping investigators piece things together. They’re trying to understand why the roof collapsed on Brandon and nobody else. People have been taking that shortcut for months.”
I pour us both a half glass of ginger ale, letting it fizz to the top and then recede before I pour some more. “Well, Brandon is—he was—a lot bigger than most kids at school.”
“Yeah, but the landing should’ve been engineered to bear more weight than that.”
“Have they found anything?”
“Nothing my dad’s told me about. But he probably wouldn’t, anyway.” Knox rubs his bruised jaw absently. “He doesn’t really share work stuff with me. He’s not like Eli.”
I hop onto the stool next to him and sip my drink. “Do you like working with Eli?”
“Love it,” Knox says, instantly brightening. “He’s great. Especially when you consider the amount of crap he has to put up with on a daily basis.”
“Like what?”
“Well, with the kind of law he practices, he’s just constantly hounded. By other lawyers, cops, the media. Plus people who either want him to take their case, or are mad because he took someone else’s.” Knox takes a long gulp of ginger ale. “He even gets death threats.”
“Seriously?” I ask. My voice shakes a little on the word. Eli is always treated like a hero in the media, which I thought was a good thing. It never occurred to me that that kind of visibility could be dangerous.
“Yeah. Another one came in yesterday. Seems like it’s from the same person, so they’re taking it a little more seriously. Sandeep—that’s one of the lawyers who works there—says they’re usually one-offs.”
I put my glass down with a clatter. “That’s horrible! Does Ashton know?”
Knox shrugs. “I mean, she must, right?”
“I guess.” A shiver inches up my spine, and I give way to a full-body shudder to get rid of it. “Ugh, I’d be so scared. I get creeped out by random Instagram messages.”
Knox’s brow knits. “Are you still getting those? From, um…” He glances toward my closed bedroom door and lowers his voice. “Derek, or whoever?”
“Not lately. Here’s hoping he’s given up.”
Our lock jangles noisily, for so long that I get off my seat and cross to the door. “Owen, despite the fact that he recently rewired a toaster, still hasn’t fully mastered the art of the key,” I explain, flipping the deadbolt and pulling open the door so my brother can enter.
“I heard that,” Owen says, dropping his overloaded backpack onto the floor. “Who are you—oh, hi.” He blinks at Knox like he’s never seen him before. “Wow, your face is…ouch.”
“It looks worse than it feels,” Knox says.
“Knox is here to play Bounty Wars with you, Owen!” I say cheerfully. “Doesn’t that sound fun?” Knox furrows his brow at me, like he can’t figure out why I’m speaking to my preteen brother like a toddler. I can’t, either, so I stop talking.
“Really?” Owen’s face lights up with a shy grin when Knox nods. “Okay, cool.”
“You want to show me your setup?” Knox asks.
The two of them disappear into Owen’s room, and I feel a strange mix of appreciation and regret as I watch them go. I have a sudden image of myself ten years from now, running into Knox on the street when he’s gotten cute and has an amazing job and an awesome girlfriend, and kicking myself for not having been able to see him as anything but a friend in Bayview.
I finish my ginger ale and
rinse my glass. My hair hangs heavy around my shoulders, begging for a ponytail. I start gathering my curls back and head for the hallway, cracking open our bedroom door. “Emma? I’m just getting an elastic.”
Emma is sitting on her bed, sipping from a giant Bayview Wildcats tumbler cup. I walk to my dresser, stepping over a pile of clothes on the floor, and root around in the top drawer until I find a sparkly pink elastic. “I think I’ve had this since third grade,” I say, holding it up to Emma. Then I notice the tears slipping down her cheeks.
I close my drawer and cross to her bed, shooting her a nervous look as I perch lightly on the corner edge. Even though we’ve been getting along better lately, I’m still never one hundred percent sure she won’t tell me to get lost. “What’s the matter?” I ask.
“Nothing.” She swipes at her face, upsetting her balance enough that liquid from the cup sloshes over her hand. “Oopsie,” she mutters, lifting the tail of her shirt to dab at the spill. There’s something familiar and yet not familiar about the fumbling motion. Familiar, because I’ve done it dozens of times. Not familiar, because she hasn’t.
I stretch my hair elastic between two fingers. “What are you drinking?”
“Huh? Nothing. Water.”
Emma doesn’t drink alcohol—not at parties, because she doesn’t go to them, and definitely not at three o’clock in the afternoon in our bedroom. But she slurs the last word so badly that there can’t be any other explanation. “Why are you drinking and crying?” I ask. “Are you feeling sad about Brandon?”
“I didn’t even know Brandon,” she mutters into her cup, her eyes filling again.
“I know, but—it’s still sad, right?”
“Could you go?” Emma asks quietly. I don’t move right away, and her voice gets even lower. “Please?”
Emma hasn’t said please to me in a while, so I do what she asks. But it feels wrong to click our bedroom door shut behind me—like even though I’m giving her what she wants, it’s not what she actually needs.
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