“Fine. I’ll just call the police right now then.”
He pulls the phone out of his pocket.
“No! Stop!”
He puts the phone down.
“Are you ready to stop talking and listen for a minute? Your dad was right, you know. You really need to work on putting your pride aside.”
His words snarl my anger, but I can’t lose control again. I have to protect Jackson. “Fine, okay. Let’s talk. What do you want?”
“First, you completely break off contact with him. If I hear of you seeing him, or anyone else for that matter, even by accident, even from a distance, even at a baseball game or something, I go straight to the police.”
Life without Jackson? Not possible.
“Second, you have to make an effort to make things work between us. We go out on Friday nights. We sit together at church. You go to prom with me.” The problem to Mike isn’t whether I love him or not. It’s whether other people think I love him.
“For how long?” Am I considering this? Am I actually considering this?
“For until I say how long. You’re not exactly in a position to negotiate here.” He stands up straighter, crosses his hands over his crotch like he’s in the military. “So that’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
“I can’t,” I say. Can I?
He looks at me, shocked. “Think before you talk for once, Emma. Think very hard.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.” It sounds whiny, like something a child would say. I know the minute I say it that it doesn’t matter. Right now the truth doesn’t matter at all.
“Tell that to the police,” he says.
“Just let me think about it, okay?”
He steps back, considers.
“You have until tomorrow morning, or I call the police.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I DECIDE TO WALK home instead of going with Mike to meet the other kids. It will take me an hour, but it’s better than sticking around. I need time to think. I make my way across the parking lot and toward the streaks of cars on Westlake Road.
Mike left Paige while they were getting the soda to find a hand truck. And he was on his own when he returned it. He could’ve killed June at either point. He had the time. The police don’t know it, but he did. Do I really believe he’d be capable of something like that?
I don’t know. Looking at his face tonight, red and fuming, I—I don’t know.
Maybe. Maybe under the wrong circumstances. If he was provoked, angry, if he lost his temper. Maybe we’re all capable of something like that if we’re provoked. But what could June have possibly done to provoke him? He barely knew she existed. I can’t think of a single reason Mike would have to hurt her.
I shiver. The spring hasn’t yet given up to summer, and despite the sunny days the nights are see-your-breath cold. I have no jacket; it’s still in my mom’s car. Surrounded by all the others, I was perfectly warm. But alone out here is different. I pass under a street light and see that my fingernails are blue. It’s an effort not to give in to the shivers.
There’s a Starbucks a few blocks down so I go inside, order a tea, and warm up in a corner near the fireplace. Eventually, the tea heats me from the inside out, and I start to think more clearly.
All I want is to see Jackson. It’s a bad idea; I know it is. Mike might still be watching. Besides, we agreed not to see each other until all this blows over. But I need him right now. So much has happened, and he knows nothing about it. I might not get another chance to tell him for weeks.
I look around, glance out to the parking lot to make sure I don’t see Mike’s car, and pull out my phone.
“Can you come get me?”
It only takes Jackson fifteen minutes to get here. I’m waiting outside for him. It feels like I haven’t seen him in weeks, and I want to wrap myself around him, feel his arms around me, but I don’t do it. What if Mike is hiding somewhere out in the shadows?
Jackson leans in for a kiss when I get in, but I stop him.
“Don’t,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’ll explain later.”
“God, I’ve missed you.”
I clutch his hand. “Me too.”
“Where are we going?” he asks.
“Our place? I’ve got at least an hour.”
He smiles that smile. Jackson, my Jackson, the boy of all boys. The rest of me, the part the tea couldn’t reach, is warm again.
“So what gives?” he asks. “Are your parents letting up already?”
“Not exactly. I needed to—there are things you need to know.” I tell him everything. The police, the lawyer, and eventually…Mike.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he says. His jaw sets; his eyes turn to laser beams. He crosses two lanes to u-turn, head back the way we came.
“What are you doing?”
“Where does that asshole live?”
“It doesn’t matter where he lives.”
The car speeds forward.
“I dropped you near there once, didn’t I? When you were spending the night with Paige? Over on Elm?”
“He’s not even home right now.”
“Then we’ll wait until he is.”
“Baby, please. Turn the car around.”
“It’s not okay, Em. He’s totally manipulating you. And using you. And just being a general dick.”
“I know, but he kind of has all the cards right now.”
“He’s just trying to get you back. He’s not going to talk to the police. He’s full of shit.”
“You don’t know him like I do. He’ll do it. He’s not going to give up on this.”
“Guys like that don’t deserve to—“
“Jackson, stop the car right now. I’m serious.”
He turns toward me but doesn’t slow.
“Let’s at least talk about it first, okay? After that, if you want to go over there and punch him in his stupid face I won’t stop you.”
Jackson takes a deep breath and pulls over to the side of the road. “I can’t stand this,” he says. “All this secrecy and sneaking around? It’s not worth it.”
“I’m just trying to protect you,” I say.
“I don’t need to be protected.” He looks right at me. “I can take care of myself.”
“You scare me when you talk like that. I don’t want you falling on a sword for me. That would only make things worse. How do you think I’d feel if they found out you were there? You were there because of me.”
“It’s not your fault, Emma. You didn’t do anything wrong. And neither did I.”
“But that’s not the way it would look to them. You weren’t supposed to be there. None of the other kids in the church have a record like you do. I lied to them. We had plenty of time alone. It’s gonna look bad for both of us. Really, really bad.”
“So we just give in to his demands?”
“Look, I don’t want to play his little games any more than you do. But if he goes to the police, we could be in serious trouble. One of us, maybe both of us, could go to prison for the rest of our lives. We might never see each other again.”
He shakes his head, looks out the window.
“But if we do what he says?” I say. “It’s just over a month until we graduate. I play nice for the police until they figure out I’m innocent. Then we go. I have enough saved up to get us through the summer. And once we’re gone who cares what he says? They’ll probably find the real killer by then anyway.”
He seems to be calmer, listening.
I take his hand in mine. “So the real question is whether we can risk never seeing each other again in exchange for the possibility of a few more weeks together. That’s the only question.”
“I hate this,” he says.
“Me too,” I say. “But honestly, has anything really changed? It’s basically the same situation it was a week ago, only now he knows.”
“Things are different now, Em, and you know it. Before, I don’t know. I never liked it, but I tried to b
e chill for your sake. But now? I can’t stand it.” He grows quiet. “I don’t share.”
“Hey,” I say, catching his eye. “Neither do I. I’m all yours, okay?”
He turns to me, nods, but I can see he still doesn’t like this. I don’t either. I can’t stand the idea of not being with him for even a day. Or of giving Mike exactly what he wants. But what else can we do?
“Will you take me to our spot?” I ask. “If we’re not going to see each other for a while, I’m going to need a proper goodbye.”
Jackson drives me home. We take a lap past the house to check. There are no lights on. My parents aren’t home yet. They probably went out to dinner with some of the other parents.
Jackson drops me off a couple blocks away just to make sure the neighbors don’t notice. I kiss him through the window before he drives away. My whole body feels emptier when he goes. Who knows when we’ll be able to see each other again?
Inside, the house feels colder than usual. I turn on all the lights in the kitchen and pump up the thermostat. Then I realize how hungry I am and make a sandwich. As I finish eating, I pull out my phone and text Mike the only two words he really wants to hear:
You win
He must be waiting for it, because I get a text back right away.
Glad 2 hear u came to ur senses
The whole thing makes me feel dirty. I put my dishes in the dishwasher and head upstairs to my bedroom to take a shower. I try to picture Jackson as I take my shirt off in the hall, try to imagine him here with me, to remember the way he touched my skin tonight.
I don’t see it until I’m already through the door.
Cold air twitches the curtains. My window is wide open. The room is destroyed—mattress tossed off the bed, drawers emptied onto the floor, the contents of my closet strewn everywhere.
Someone was here. Or still is.
I hold my shirt against my chest and peer into the shadows, but I can’t tell what’s really there and what my mind is making up. There’s a shape in the corner. A man crouching with a knife?
I back up, slowly, toward the door, fingers vibrating with fear. I flip on the light switch and jump from the shock of it.
The man in the corner isn’t a man at all. It’s a pile of stuff, pulled out of my closet haphazardly. What would someone want in my closet?
The realization strikes me. My savings. The cash we’re using for New York. I hid it under my bed, along with my acceptance letter and a course catalogue from NYU. Nearly five thousand dollars, saved from birthdays and Christmas and Easter cards, and an early graduation present from Grandma Wellington. It’s absolutely every cent I’ve gotten over the last year.
I scramble to the floor and dig out the shoebox. Something clunks, loose inside of it.
I open the box.
And there, instead of my money, instead of my papers from NYU, is a gun.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I DON’T TOUCH IT. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but I’m not that stupid. I leave it in the box where my fingerprints can’t mark it. I peek inside again to make sure my mind isn’t playing tricks on me, but it’s still there. A gun, a real gun, with something screwed onto the end of it. A silencer?
This can’t be just any gun. It must be the gun.
The thought of it in my room, in my hands, pricks my skin with a thousand needles. I’m alert, aware of every part of my body. But not in the good, present way. I feel my bones stretching like they’re too big for my skin. Adrenaline pumps into my too-small heart, beating it to wildness like horses spooked by a rattlesnake.
I hear a creak and jump.
Then the familiar whir of the garage door rising. My parents. They can’t see this.
But where can I put it?
I only have seconds, moments, before they’re inside.
Where won’t they look?
I throw my shirt on and race downstairs, down to the storage room in the basement.
The old toy chest.
I hurl it open, shove the shoebox under dolls and puzzles and stuffed animals, then slam the lid shut.
I run back upstairs, just in time to see my mother walk through the mud room into the house.
“Didn’t think we’d beat you home,” my dad says, right behind her.
But my mom has stopped. She’s reading my face. There must be terror written all over it.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“Somebody broke into the house.”
“Are they still here?” my dad asks, fear in his eyes.
“I don’t know.”
“Gloria, go outside and wait in the car. You too, Emma.”
“Come on, honey.” My mom leads me back to the garage. I look back and see my dad pulling his hunting rifle from the hall closet.
“Go on, Emma. Outside with your mother,” he says. “Everything will be fine.”
In the garage, Mom fumbles with the key fob, then beeps the car awake. We sit inside, doors locked, garage open, waiting for my dad. She takes out her cell, dials.
“Yes, this is Gloria Grant at 227 Hawthorne Lane. We’ve had a breakin.” Even in a panic, her tone is even, controlled. Only someone close to her might notice the slight waver.
“I don’t know,” she says. “My husband is checking now.”
I hear talking on the other end, then she turns to me, “Did you see anyone when you came home?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so or you didn’t?” she asks.
“I didn’t,” I say.
“She says no. Yes, thank you.” She turns back to me. “They’re on their way.”
When the police finally arrive, my dad has let us back inside, claiming the house is clear. The officers, young guys that look like they’re not much older than me, ask us to stand outside and wait while they check the house again, and dust for fingerprints.
My heart stops as I watch them. The housecleaner was here yesterday afternoon, and I know she gave my room a good wipe-down, but what if they find Jackson’s fingerprints? He was here just yesterday. But my worries are warrantless. They find nothing. Even I haven’t been in there long enough to leave a mark.
And the only thing missing is my stash of money and NYU papers, which I can’t exactly tell them about. Soon we’re all huddled in the living room, Mom bringing us hot tea and coffee, while they ask their questions.
“So you came inside. Then what?”
“Like I said, it felt cold, so I turned up the thermostat, then ate a sandwich and went upstairs.”
“And then?”
Before I have a chance to answer, there’s a knock at the door, and it opens. Detectives Simms and Boyer step inside without invitation. I’m actually glad they’re here. Maybe they’ll finally understand that I have nothing to do with this.
“Hi, folks. Sorry to hear about your troubles tonight,” Detective Simms says. Boyer is silent, taking in the scene, the usual scowl twisted on her mouth.
“Officer Handler? Could we speak to you?” Detective Boyer asks.
The officer who was talking to us goes to them.
“Excuse us for a moment,” Simms says.
They step outside. Bits of their muffled conversation seep through the door. …and you don’t think?, …okay, sure, …any signs of?, …what about? Puzzle pieces drifting in the air, but no picture to match them against.
Finally they’re back in.
“Could you show Officer Handler and myself the room, Mr. Grant?” Simms asks.
“Of course,” Dad says, and the three of them go upstairs. What if they had found it? What if they had seen that gun under my bed? I would have been arrested tonight.
“I know you’ve gone over this already, but if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to hear it straight from you.” Boyer says, straight-faced and unsympathetic.
“Do you think this has anything to do with the murder?” Mom asks.
“It might.” Boyer says. “You got any more coffee back there, Mrs. Grant?” Boyer asks.
“Certainly,” Mom says.
When she’s gone, Boyer turns to me. “So you’re the only one home when, suddenly, somebody breaks in?”
“That’s not how it happened.”
“Okay, how did it happen?”
“I think they were here before me. I think they left before I got home. I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone.”
“Neighbors didn’t see anyone either. You close to your neighbors?”
“Sort of. I don’t know.”
“How about security? You know those guys? The ones your parents pay a fortune to patrol around their little gated community?”
“No. I mean, I’ve seen them before, but I don’t know them.”
“Cause they didn’t see anyone either. Seems weird to me that in a neighborhood like this no one sees any sign of an intruder, don’t you think?”
“Not really.”
“Also seems strange all this happened when your parents were out.”
“We were at the vigil. Tons of people saw us there. The guy would have known we’d be out.”
“What makes you say it was a man?”
“I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”
“So this man breaks in, messes up your room, and only your room, but leaves no fingerprints and takes nothing, right?”
She’s looking at me like she knows about the gun. How could she know?
“I haven’t had a chance to really look.”
“But your computer’s up there, your jewelry, your TV, your iPad, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so I’m a thief, right? What kind of stuff do you think I’m after?”
“All that stuff, probably, which is why I don’t think it was a thief.”
“Who do you think it was?” She leans in, pretending to be interested.
“I think whoever broke in is the same person who killed June. I think they were trying to hurt me too.” I say.
Boyer leans back like she’s blown away by what I said, then she crosses her arms over her chest.
“Do you think someone has a reason to want to hurt you?”
“Do psychopaths need a reason?”
“So a random psychopath killed June, then broke into your bedroom to try to kill you too?”
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