by Julie Cross
Good boy.
“I’m new at Holden so I don’t really know much about the case,” he continues, and I flinch internally at his use of the word “case.” Clueless bystanders wouldn’t have stated it that way. “Except the research I did for my sociology project. I’m kind of a true-crime nerd.” He whips out a tiny spiral notebook from his shirt pocket and flips to a blank page. “Maybe when Ellie’s done with her thing, I could ask you a few questions about evidence?”
There you go. Five recovery points for the rookie.
“So just you, Eleanor?” Agent Riley asks, and I nod. “And who showed you the photos?”
The door to the interview room opens and another agent, a woman, takes a seat beside Riley but says nothing.
“Um…” My gaze bounces between the two agents. “I don’t know his name. Some freshman…Donnie, maybe?”
“I thought you said Joey?” Miles argues. “I could have sworn—”
“Dark hair, I think?” I say, interrupting Miles.
“The kid you pointed out in the hall was definitely blond,” Miles states.
The female agent who just entered the room holds her hands up, stopping both of us. “Okay, so the crime scene photos are floating around Holden Prep and you’re not sure who had them first, is that right?”
I give her a satisfied nod. “Exactly.”
“And the Thomas kid told you that he saw Simon and Dominic DeLuca”—Agent Riley shifts in his chair—“physically involved the night Simon committed suicide.”
“Allegedly,” Miles corrects. When Riley lifts an eyebrow he adds, “Allegedly a suicide.”
“Yes,” I say. “Bret told me that.”
“And Dominic DeLuca admitted to being harassed”—Riley glances at his notepad in front of him—“with photos of the incident the Thomas boy witnessed from the all eyes on you email address.”
Miles scratches the back of his head. “Yeah, so he was kind of drunk when he told me that. Not me, though, I wasn’t drinking. Doubt he’ll come clean about it to you guys, but I saw the picture. He got up to pee, and I forwarded one of the emails to myself.”
He pulls out his phone, gets Agent Riley’s email address, and sends it to him. He must have gotten a hold of Dominic’s phone or email password recently. What else are you holding out on me, Miles?
Both agents hover over the email for a few moments and then Riley looks up, offering a tight smile. “Thanks for the information.” He turns to address me. “We’ll be in contact if we have any more questions.”
I sigh with relief that Miles has proven useless to them beyond forwarding that email. But then I realize that they don’t seem ready to jump on investigating any of our theories. “So…it’s possible someone else saw Dominic at Simon’s place that night, right? Maybe that’s why they’re harassing him, to say hey, I know what you did?”
The two agents exchange a look, and then the woman speaks up, “Dominic DeLuca has an airtight alibi at the determined time of Simon’s death.”
Agent Riley flips open a folder beneath his notepad and glances down at it. “Justice Kimura claimed to be with him that night. They stopped at a convenience store and bought a few items. A clerk identified them and backed up their story.”
“Which store?” Miles drills. “Do you have security footage of them?”
Shit. He’s losing his grip. It’s too personal for him. I turn to face Miles. “Quit turning this into your very own Sherlock Holmes moment. Simon might be a name on paper to you but he was my friend!”
Miles looks startled by my outburst. Or by his, maybe. He swallows, looks away from me. “Sorry.”
“Its okay.” I shift my gaze to the agents seated across from me. “But seriously? If Simon was suicidal, why would he need ice cream? Or two spoons for that matter? Could the ice cream have belonged to anyone else? Were Simon’s fingerprints on the container?”
“It was half eaten,” Riley says.
So that’s a yes.
The woman clears her throat. “Three sets of prints. Simon’s, the housekeeper’s, and the checkout clerk at IGA’s.”
“Then it’s possible,” I say.
“What’s possible?” the woman says. “That Simon Gilbert would eat ice cream before shooting himself in the head or that Dominic DeLuca was invited into his home, offered ice cream, and managed to shoot Simon at an unbelievably close range leaving no prints or DNA on the weapon, all while upholding an alibi with two witnesses, one with zero personal connection to Dominic or the DeLuca family?”
Well, when you put it like that…
Beside me, Miles shifts in his chair, and I brace myself for an outburst. He’s due for one. Instead he reaches over and takes my hand from the arm of the chair, holding it tightly in his. “Promise you’ll at least look into it?”
The stone-faced agents both turn sympathetic and Agent Riley says, “Absolutely. You have my word.”
Back in the car, Miles shoves the keys into the ignition and takes off driving but pulls over once we’re a few blocks away and cuts the engine.
“Did you know he was with Justice?” Miles asks quietly.
“No.” I glance at him. “I take it you didn’t know about Dominic’s alibi, either?”
He shakes his head. “All we’ve seen is the police report. Within twenty-four hours, the FBI took over the investigation. There’s probably a lot we don’t know.”
“Yeah.” I sink back into the passenger seat, wishing I didn’t agree with him.
Warm hands slide up my arms and then rest on my face. Miles leans in and looks me over. “It’s still technically the weekend, right?”
Before I can answer, he kisses me. My heart pounds; warmth spreads over me from head to toe. And somewhere, far in the back of my head, a voice is telling me that I’m falling. Way too fast.
Even still, I reach across the center console wanting—needing—to touch more of him. My hands slide inside his jacket. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I’ve lost perspective. I’ve let myself believe I’m worthy of Miles, but deep down, I know the truth is there, ticking like a bomb that will inevitably go off. It’s just a matter of time. And I’m too far gone in Junkie Mode to see the explosion at the end of our story.
CHAPTER 42
ME: any luck finding our all eyes friend?
CONNIE: Not even a bread crumb. But I’ll keep looking
ME: I noticed something in those pics you gave me.
CONNIE: what?
ME: 2 spoons
CONNIE: Shit. You’re right. Why didn’t I notice that? This changes things
ME: Glad u think so. The fbi was unimpressed
...
“No,” Miles says for the hundredth time.
He lifts my arm, showing me again how to block his fist from hitting my face. He waits until I look ready before taking another swing at me. I can’t turn off the panic, the urge to duck, when his fist comes at me again, and then I take too long to decide what to do and end up half ducking, half blocking. He stops his fist from hitting me, but barely.
“No,” he repeats. “Keep your eyes on me. Lift your arm.”
It’s not just the panic of these fake attacks messing me up, it’s all the comments I’m forced to bite back per Miles’s self-defense rules. Like why the hell do we have to do this at six in the morning? And what is making the school wrestling mats smell like that? Do I really have to lie on said mats and risk ringworm?
And what if I have the urge to kiss you again? It’s Monday. Is that allowed?
Miles drops his arms with a sigh. “When I made you promise to be serious and focus, I didn’t mean silent and distracted.”
I chew on my thumbnail. “Sorry.”
“You need to leave everything outside the door.” Miles waves a hand at the doors to the school gym. “Just you and me and this lesson. Think of it as being free of all those burdens…free of competing against yourself for the most witty sarcastic retort.”
“Don’t forget the sexual innuendos,” I ad
d.
He gives me that grin that brings me back to the kissing question, so I do what he’s suggesting and shed it. All of it. It’s messy and complicated, and this is physical and two-dimensional.
“Ready?”
I nod and wait for Miles to try to punch me again. When he does, I keep my eyes on him, lift my arm to block him.
“Yes. Just like that.” He backs away, preparing to repeat the move. “Again.”
A little while later, I emerge from the girls’ locker room after showering, and Miles is waiting for me in the hall. We’ve still got nearly thirty minutes before homeroom, but I hadn’t expected him to suddenly start hanging out with me at school. “You want to grab a bagel from the snack bar?”
I lift an eyebrow. “This sounds like a breakfast date. Is it?”
Color rises to his cheeks, but he looks me right in the eye. “Maybe.”
Okay, this is new. “I guess I could eat.”
He leads the way to our school’s coffee bar, while I work on braiding my wet hair. He orders a plain bagel with cream cheese and a coffee. Black. Then glances at me before saying, “And a chocolate chip bagel. Peanut butter and jelly on the side. Large coffee with at least six inches of room for cream and sugar.”
“Have you been recording my orders?” I tie the end of my braid and lean in closer to Miles to whisper, “You’re supposed to order the bagel plain, then come back up later and say that they forgot the peanut butter and jelly. Saves me fifty cents.”
The school coffee bar is expensive as hell. I only buy food every once in a while. Miles grins and pulls a twenty from his wallet. “It’s all right. I got this.”
“You’re buying, too?” I fake shock. “This must be a date.”
He rolls his eyes. “You really know how to make a guy feel comfortable.”
We take our breakfast to a nearby bench. I’m not really hungry, so I watch Miles’s precise method of spreading cream cheese on his bagel. I’m surprised he only ordered one. “Did you talk to Dominic last night?”
“Yeah.” He sets the plastic knife aside and presses the two bagel halves into a sandwich. “Nothing new. Same as always. You think maybe I should push him more?”
“You want my opinion?” I say, and when he nods I’m even more surprised.
“It’s kind of your thing, I think,” he says. “Getting people to talk without making it change everything. You did it with Jacob and Bret. With the FBI agents yesterday. They were on information lockdown when I pushed them, but then you got in there and suddenly they were talking about whose prints were on that ice cream.”
I take a minute to form my thoughts, wanting to offer Miles my best. “It’s one of the things that you can’t plan for. Not completely. You have to feel it out, dance around the perimeter, and be able to recognize a cracked door. The way in is different with everyone.”
He gives me one of his blazing looks. “How so?”
“Bret respects people who surprise him, who can outsmart him. But Jacob is completely different… I tested him a bit to see if he liked to gossip—not much. And I already knew he had plenty of insecurity. I knew he’d be afraid of me ruining him and that he could keep a secret.” It’s weird putting this into words. It sounds so calculated, so inhumane. How do normal people manipulate others? “You have to know what or who they love, what’s important to them.”
He’s quiet for a full minute, taking a bite of his bagel and chewing slowly. “You’re wrong about Jacob. He’s not afraid of you. Or he wouldn’t have confided in you about what Chantel told him. He respects you because you’re willing to dig for the truth and do what’s right.”
I choke on my coffee. Me doing what’s right? Yeah, no. “See? You’ve got it figured out. You don’t need my help. Besides, Dominic has opened up to you about plenty. He won’t speak more than two words to me.”
“He could be playing me,” Miles says. And I hear what he doesn’t say: he could be a murderer. “What about Justice? What’s her deal?”
“Justice…” I snatch a napkin from the stack resting between me and Miles. “She tries her best to be a mean girl and appreciates that quality in others, but really, she’s not. Confrontation scares her—”
As the words tumble out, I spot Justice across the hall heading toward her locker and it occurs to me that I know exactly how to get her to talk.
I dump my uneaten bagel and condiments onto the bench and jump to my feet. “Thanks for breakfast,” I tell him before slinging my bag over my shoulder and heading after Justice. I’m a terrible breakfast date, but whatever. Junkie Mode and all.
“Justice,” I half yell.
She stops in front of her locker but takes her time turning around to face me. “Hey, Ellie.”
“Look,” I say. “I’m sorry about homecoming. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine.” She shoves her precalc book into her locker, avoiding eye contact. “Miles is hot and all, but it’s not like we were in love. And like you said, he’ll be gone soon.”
God, as if I need a reminder. “Still, I want things to be cool with us, you know? Like before. I could use a friend.”
“Not sure I’m the kind of friend you want.” She looks away again, finding more to stuff in her locker. “I usually draw the line way before making out with my friend’s dates.”
“Did you actually see us making out?” I ask.
She laughs. “Um, no, but it was obvious.”
“I was upset, you know? The last dance I went to was with Simon and it was also the night he died. And all that caught up to me. Miles was there…” I shake my head. “Not exactly an excuse but, the truth nonetheless.”
She lets down her guard just a bit. “Okay, thanks for telling me.”
“And as far as Miles goes, I wouldn’t fault him too much,” I say. “Sometimes we do stuff we probably shouldn’t because we feel bad for someone. Like how you told the FBI that you were with Dominic the night Simon died.”
In the length of a heartbeat, she stiffens and drops an invisible wall between us. “What else would I have told them?”
“Maybe that Dominic wasn’t really with you,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Maybe that he was meeting up with Simon after the dance and you were covering for him.”
“It wasn’t like that,” she hisses at me. Justice reaches for one of her books, and her hand shakes. She quickly pulls the shaking hand behind her back.
“No?” I wait for her to explain, and when she doesn’t I add, “I’m not the only one who knows that Simon drove to Dominic’s house after dropping me off. Thought you deserved a warning.”
I don’t think I could have ever orchestrated a better exit than what coincidently follows. Right as I leave Justice, several black SUVs pull up in the bus circle. Half a dozen agents hop out of the three cars. I search the group and spot both Aidan and Jack. They’re all stone-faced, intense.
Jacob and Chantel appear beside me, both curious about the arrival of Secret Service. I catch Justice’s eye—I’m now several feet away from her—and lift a brow. She swallows, her eyes wide with panic.
Chantel elbows me in the side and nods in Aidan’s direction. “Isn’t that—”
“My sister’s boyfriend? Yep.”
“Whoa,” Jacob says, “No wonder you know how to—”
I take a note from Chantel and elbow Jacob in the side. “Recite the constitution. But I thought we weren’t going to talk about that.”
“Seriously?” Chantel laughs. “God, that’s weird.”
Aidan and his crew breeze past me. He’s staring straight ahead, doesn’t even see me. The dean comes out of the office and meets them in the hallway. Jack steps forward, does the communicating, while the others hang back, standing like statues.
Homeroom is now minutes away, and the hallways are filling quickly. I start to head away from the entrance doors, but stop when I see the dean pluck Bret Thomas out of the sea of students. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Bret’s eyes are wide. Panic. He’s panic
ked. One of the agents points down the hall, toward the science wing, and then Bret follows him.
Justice has closed the gap between us and is now clinging for dear life to the sleeve of my uniform sweater.
People are slowing down to take in the scene. The dean plasters on a grin and claps his hands together, telling everyone to get to class. He heads back in his office and the agents immediately split up, half heading inside the office and the other half—including Aidan—going down the hall, toward the science wing.
I turn around and look behind me again, squinting into the sun. Across the street, several news and media vehicles are parked. It’s a familiar sight from the last few weeks of sophomore year, but that had ended with the school year. I’m about to text Miles again when two freshman girls breeze past us, their phones out while they whisper loud enough for me to hear.
“If he didn’t kill himself, I wonder who murdered him?”
The hair on my arm stands up, goose bumps prickling my skin. Jacob fumbles around with his phone, swears under his breath before flashing the screen toward Chantel, me, and Justice. Right on CNN’s website the headline reads: Senator Gilbert’s Son Murdered: New Evidence Contradicts Suicide Conclusion. Case Reopens.
I look around for Miles, needing to see his face. Did we do this? Is it really happening? But before I can spot him or even process that this is the Secret Service, not the FBI, and the FBI is who we talked to yesterday, I’m yanked from the hall into the bathroom by Justice.
She checks under the stalls before saying a word. “What the hell is going on, Ellie?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly.
“Bret told you about Dominic and Simon, didn’t he?” she demands, but doesn’t even let me answer. “I knew he knew! God, what a liar.”
“I take it you weren’t really with Dominic after the dance.” I try my best to play it cool. But holy shit. This means—I can’t even think it despite the theory we dumped on Agent Riley yesterday.
“Don’t look at me like that, Ellie.” Her eyes widen even more. “Dominic didn’t do anything to Simon and even if he did, I had no idea—I wasn’t covering up that.” She covers her face with her hands and exhales. When she looks up again, there is desperation in her eyes. “You have to help me. I know you’re good at this stuff. You helped Jacob, plus you’ve got connections with your sister’s boyfriend.”
