by Julie Cross
My feet slow while I’m still a good distance from them.
“The parking lot surveillance from June fifteenth shows Ellie getting out of his car,” I hear Jack say.
June fifteenth. The night of the spring formal. The night Simon died.
“I can’t believe they’re going back to Ellie after all this time, after closing the case,” Aidan says.
My whole body turns to ice. Months ago, I was told those video files were corrupted. Like several other Holden Prep students, I went through hours of questioning with the FBI.
“No one is accusing Ellie; her alibi checked out fine,” Jack assures him, but lines of worry crease his forehead. He rubs the dark scruff on his cheeks.
“What about the Thomas kid? They’ll see him on the footage, and that doesn’t check out with his story.”
Both of them must have felt my presence. They turn suddenly. My heart is off on a sprint, but I keep my face cool and calm.
Aidan forces a tight smile. His buff arms fold over his chest, showing how much bigger he is than his boss. “All done?”
“Yep.” I nod toward Miles. “Hope you don’t need to buy any toilet paper. They’re probably sold out.”
They both walk nearer, closing the gap between us, and then Jack offers me a high five. “How’s the algebra going? No more tantrums, I hope.”
“I did not throw a tantrum.”
Aidan laughs, but turns it into a cough when I glare at him. Okay, so maybe throwing a textbook and a graphing calculator at my bedroom wall might constitute a tantrum. But I was frustrated. Enter Jack. Someone who obviously left the shooting range long enough to learn some math.
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Jack says, then he turns to Aidan. “Meet me in my office tonight. I’ll get you that stuff you needed.”
He heads for his car, and with Jack gone, I’m desperate to ask Aidan what the hell is going on. But I can feel Miles looking at me. I try to ignore him while we walk to Aidan’s car and climb inside, but it eventually gets to me and I snap around to face him in the backseat. “What?”
“Nothing. Just excited. That I found your weakness.”
“My weakness?” And yeah, I panic a little. Even Aidan seems caught off guard by the comment, because he glances at Miles through the rearview mirror.
“Algebra,” he says.
I laugh, trying not to sound surprised. How did he hear that from twenty feet away? “Obviously you haven’t seen me play field hockey yet.”
“Field hockey?” Aidan turns out of the parking lot and onto the road, then he looks at me to see if I’m serious.
“Ellie’s trying to impress a guy with her aerial pass,” Miles says, all calm.
“What guy?” Aidan says at the same time I say, “What the hell is an aerial pass?”
I nod toward Miles. “No guy. Don’t listen to him.”
Yeah, that’s my defense tactics. My head is somewhere else. Probably trying to figure out how this video footage suddenly surfaced. Does this mean they’ll be investigating me again? Especially since I was the last person to see Simon. Except now there’s another Holden Prep student in the mix, if Jack is right about Bret Thomas being in the parking lot that night. At least my story checks out.
I spot a Honda Accord pulled to the side of the road, its owner struggling to change a tire, and take it as a sign. “Look!” I shout as I point out the windshield, causing Aidan to slam on his breaks. Hard.
“Sorry,” I say to Aidan when he gives me the death glare. “I just thought he might need some help. Two strong guys ready to help…”
Aidan rolls his eyes but pulls to the side of the road, in front of the Honda. “Miles, coming?”
“Sure,” he says, flinging open his door. He’s Mr. Polite again.
When they’re out of sight, greeting the guy trying to remove a lug nut, I grab Aidan’s cell from the console between us and quickly type in his password. He knows I know it and still hasn’t changed it. What’s wrong with him?
He trusts me. That’s what.
Guilt hits me but doesn’t stop my fingers from typing. My cousin Denny showed me how to set a phone to forward a copy of new incoming texts and emails to another number. I’m almost done when the car door to the backseat opens. I cancel out the setting and drop the phone back onto the console.
It’s just Miles, not Aidan, but still my heart is up in my throat. What the hell am I doing? Aidan trusts me. It can’t be his privacy I invade. Anyone but Aidan.
I sink back into my seat, relieved that I didn’t go through with it and ashamed that the idea had gone all the way to putting my fingers in motion.
When Aidan slides back into the driver’s seat, I look him over. He’s got a grease stain on his shirt. “Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yep, he’s all set.” He turns on the radio as he steers the car back onto the road and then immediately flips to my favorite radio station. His least favorite.
God, I’m horrible.
Back at home, after Miles carts his gallons of milk and toilet paper to his apartment, Aidan stops me before we go inside, where my sister is probably waiting for us with a pizza she expertly ordered.
“You heard me and Jack,” Aidan states, not a question.
I hesitate but eventually nod. “Is everything okay? Is the case reopening?”
“It’s not,” Aidan says right away.
To my expert ears, it’s clear he’s not lying, but the tiniest hint of deception hides beneath the truth. Maybe he’s unsure, or maybe he’s just worried it might reopen. “And there’s video footage of me getting out of Simon’s car?”
“It’s not completely clear that it’s you,” Aidan admits. “But there isn’t any reason Simon and some other girl would be in our parking lot. It fits the story you told to the police, the one Harper corroborated when she stated what time you arrived home that night.”
“And where does Bret Thomas fit into this story?”
Aidan’s eyebrows lift, and then a crease forms between his eyes. “I was hoping maybe you could tell me?”
“No idea.” But the wheels are already spinning quickly inside my head, recalling everything I do know about Simon’s death. “Any chance I can see that video?”
He’s conflicted, obviously debating this from every angle. But finally Aidan nods. “Once. And only once. Jack would kill me if he knew I showed you this.”
We head over to the table near the pool, and Aidan messes with his phone for a minute and then hands it to me. I watch the dark parking lot pop up on the screen, and eventually Simon’s black Audi pulls into the one empty space. It’s obvious that the passenger is wearing heels and a dress but not obvious what color dress or hair or anything really.
“Where is Bret?” I ask.
Aidan leans toward me and points to a car only partially visible, hovering far off to the side. “It’s just his front plate.”
“You can’t see Simon.” The video ends, and I hand Aidan back his phone. “We don’t even know if it’s Simon driving Simon’s car.”
Of course I know because I was there, but from an investigator’s perspective, it’s not seamless. Especially if the investigator is someone searching for the truth, not just a simple way to fit a bunch of puzzle pieces together.
“Who else would be driving Simon’s car?” Aidan presses.
I lift my hands, frustrated. “I don’t know, a murderer.”
“Ellie,” Aidan says so gently I’m sure he’s about to dive into another “here is why it has to be suicide” lecture, and I don’t want or need to hear it again.
“Okay, I get it.”
“Still no idea why the Thomas kid was there?” Aidan prompts. “It’s like he’s popping up everywhere now, three months in the past.”
Everywhere? What else has surfaced and why does it seem like Aidan and Jack are working to cover up some of the evidence? They wouldn’t do that, would they?
“Still no idea,” I confirm. “But I’m gonna find out.”
I aba
ndon Aidan and head for my room. I snatch the first notebook I see piled on my desk.
THINGS I KNOW ABOUT SIMON’S DEATH
1) He dropped me off in the parking lot of our complex at 11:36 p.m. on June fifteenth
2) He went home to an empty house; his parents were at a fund-raiser
3) Around 2 a.m., Senator Gilbert and his wife found Simon dead in their sunroom
4) A gun was involved. More specifically, a gun killed Simon.
And now I can add one more detail.
5) Bret Thomas’s car was in the parking lot at the same time Simon dropped me off.
I don’t know if Simon left a note, if he went anywhere besides home after dropping me off. I assumed I was the last one to see him, since he went home to an empty house, but what if I wasn’t? That would change everything. What if Bret followed him and they pulled over and got into a fight or, I don’t know…could be a million scenarios to fill the space between 11:36 p.m. and 2:00 a.m. when his parents found him. That preppy privileged asswipe is clearly hiding something.
A million possibilities, but now one very logical place to start: Bret Thomas.
CHAPTER 7
Growing up, I was taught a strategic, multistep process to approach any long con. My family lives by this process the way other families live by church or religion. And I use the term “family” loosely because we often traveled in large groups. I’m not related to most of those people. So this idea of mine to invade Bret Thomas’s privacy—it’s not something I’m walking into blind. It requires planning and a bit of prep work—mostly getting to know the source and figuring out how to establish trust.
I haven’t actually planned the exact moment of contact with Bret, just that it would be today. Saturday. At field hockey tryouts, if the opportunity presents itself. I want his phone. I want to know what he’s been up to, past and present. But first I need him to like me, to trust me. And if things go well, he’ll likely offer access to his private space.
“Miss Ames, I see you took my advice?” Coach Haskins (the P.E. teacher who supervises girls’ bathrooms for strange activity) says when I walk onto the field. “Ditching debate team for a new extracurricular?”
I decide not to tell her that I’ve never been on the debate team. “Yep, field hockey. I just know it’s my new thing.”
“That’s the attitude!” She looks over my outfit—P.E. uniform and gym shoes—and then adds, “We’ll need to at least find you some shin guards before you can play.”
I glance around at the girls entering the field. Everyone has her own stick, plus shin guards, fancy socks over them, and special shoes. Several girls have gloves on, too.
I almost chicken out and take off before this gets any further, but then Bret Thomas walks out of the gym toward the field, and I’m reminded why I’m here in the first place.
“Mr. Thomas,” Coach shouts at Bret. “Can you help Miss Ames find some shin guards and a stick in the equipment closet?”
Guess being unprepared has its benefits.
Bret hears Coach and turns and heads back toward the gym. I jog over to him, and he’s already holding the door open for me.
We walk across the gym and over to a supply closet. Bret unlocks the closet and points to a bucket of shin guards and a row of field hockey sticks mounted to the wall. “Take your pick.”
While I’m sorting through to find a matching pair of shin guards, I can feel his eyes on me. And I know it’s my moment. The one where I leave a mark on the target.
He’s not into girls who are too forward, too flirtatious. That seems to reek of desperation to Bret, and he’s the type to stomp on anyone with that kind of weakness.
And right now, knowing he’s definitely checking me out, the door has opened a crack. I spin around to face him, a pair of shin guards now tucked under my arm. “Eyes up, buddy.”
His eyes widen, and he lifts his hands in surrender. “Sorry.”
“Now I get why you wanted to help coach a girls’ team.” I snatch a stick from the wall and exit the closet.
Bret locks the door and shuffles up beside me. “Just a reflex. I’m professional ninety-nine percent of the time.”
“Okay, I’ll forgive you,” I say, heading outside again. “But you’re gonna have to get me a spot on varsity.”
“Oh really?” Bret looks at me, one eyebrow cocked. He’s good-looking, in that preppy, blond, rich-boy-with-a-tan way. “Just like that? I haven’t even seen you play. And by the looks of it, I’m not sure you have played before.”
“Then be prepared to have your mind blown.” I swing the stick like a baseball bat. “I’ve watched eight YouTube videos, so I’m pretty much professional level. There is professional field hockey somewhere, right?”
Bret laughs and covers my hands with his, stopping the stick from swinging. “Be careful. You’re gonna kill someone.”
I catch Justice Kimura, queen bee of Holden’s junior class, glance our way, and I immediately step out of Bret’s personal space.
Bret shakes his head like he’s trying to figure me out. “Just keep that stick down on the ground.”
I flash him my best smile. “Thanks, Coach.”
He’s still watching me when I join the group and listen to Coach Haskins go on and on about teamwork and effort over talent. She explains that we’re going to warm up, do some basic drills while Bret takes notes for her, creating a scoring system, then we’ll play a scrimmage game. And Monday she’ll post the list of who’s cut and who’s not. Hopefully I won’t succeed in making this team.
My goal is just to catch Bret’s attention, and I’m well on my way to succeeding.
I watch Justice the whole time Coach is talking. She looks beautiful and exotic thanks to her Japanese heritage. But the more I watch, the more I see her slip back from her usual confident queen-bee self. She ties and reties her dark ponytail way too many times, pretends to examine her well-manicured hands but then proceeds to bite her nails. I don’t know her very well, but I do know that Simon had a big crush on Justice. It was what brought him and me together in the first place. The three of us had biology together last spring.
“Do you want her to know you’re into her?” I said to Simon after a week of watching him devote most of his attention to the lab table in front of ours instead of to the mutilated fetal pig spread out before us. “Because it kinda seems like you do.”
He turned bright pink instantly, his mouth falling open, preparing words of protest. Back then, I’d still been playing the role of regular high school student rather than living it. And for some reason I’d decided that my part would include having a guy BFF.
“And that’s totally fine,” I’d told him regarding his Justice obsession. “But there is a window on these things.” I stabbed a pin into our pig’s abdomen, pulling back the skin to reveal the intestines. “After that expires, you slip into the creepy stalker category.”
Simon looked up at me, dead serious as he usually was, and said, “How long is this window? Think it’s expired already?”
I jotted some notes onto our worksheet. “You blew past it about three days ago.”
“Shit,” he mumbled under his breath.
And that was the moment I knew I wanted Simon Gilbert as my friend. I’d never met anyone so polar opposite of me. So purely honest and humble. So trusting. And yeah, for one split second, I debated whether he was conning me. Whether I’d become the mark for a change. But my gut told me no. And I’d always had a pretty reliable gut.
Less than an hour later, Bret and Dominic had breezed past me in the hallway, arguing over inviting Simon to that party. But I was too into playing my part, and I didn’t think Simon’s gal pal would know how to get revenge on those assholes. But I should have done it then. While he was still alive to enjoy it. But then again, that would have meant telling him that they were using him.
The whistle blows, and I shake off the memory of Simon staring at the back of the head I’m now staring at while we jog up and down the field.
<
br /> After an entire hour of drills and running and chasing around that stupid ball, I’m now aware of the fact that despite my lack of field hockey expertise, Justice Kimura is way worse. I’m not sure it’s field hockey specifically; she may just lack athletic ability in general. Still, when I end up a captain for our scrimmage, I pick her first to be on my team. She gives a smug look like she’d expected that, then she takes over choosing the rest of the team, muttering snide remarks about certain girls under her breath.
I really did watch videos on YouTube, and in one of those videos, players were shoving each other with their shoulders in order to get control of the ball. So I figure I’ll try out that technique. After Macy Leonard steals the ball from Justice—smirking the whole time, I should add—I chase after her, use my shoulders to knock her flat on her face, then I take off for the goal. I’ve already swung and sent the ball flying into the net when Coach H. blows her whistle several times in a row.
“Ames, you can’t play that way here! Let’s keep it clean.” She bends over to check on Macy and then gives me a pointed look.
“Sorry!” I yell from across the field. “Should I get ice?”
Justice slides up beside me. “She totally had that coming.”
I give her a tiny smile and then return to looking clueless and apologetic. Macy herself is too proud and badass to admit defeat. She stands, her fingers pinching the ends of her nose. “I’m good! No worries.”
Guilt washes over me the second I see the blood on her shirt. Okay, no more cheap shots. And Jesus, that girl better make the team. Coach Haskins swaps me out for another girl, and I end up on the sidelines beside Bret. He just looks at me, surprise on his face, and shakes his head.
“What?” I say, all innocent.
“Nothing.” He marks down a few things on his clipboard, sneaking glances at me every couple of seconds. “Just remind me not to get on your bad side.”
You have no idea, buddy.
“It was an accident. I got carried away,” I argue. “I’m competitive.”
“Me, too.” He opens his mouth to say something else, but Justice interrupts us.
