White Rabbit

by Caleb Roehrig

  As soon as we’re back in the Jeep, April straightens up behind us. “What did she say? Did she know anything? Was she lying?”

  “She said a lot of things.” I turn around to face my half sister, indignation kindling quickly to life in my breast. “What did you and Fox fight about tonight?”

  Even in the dim light, cast sideways through the Jeep by amber streetlamps, I can see April blanch. “I don’t know what you’re talk—”

  “Stop.” I cut her off. “Lia said she figured you and Fox were having ‘make-up sex.’ You wouldn’t be making up unless you’d had a fight, so what was it about?”

  She squirms. “Nothing. It was just a stupid argument.”

  “If it was nothing, why didn’t you tell us about it before?”

  “Because it was fucking private!” She glares at me. “And because it doesn’t even matter what we fought about, because I didn’t kill him.”

  She slams herself back against the seats, turning her face to the window in a tacit display of resentment. Childishly, I mimic her, facing front with a darkening mood. I try to remind myself that April is the one who expects results out of this pointless enterprise, and if she’s going to withhold information, it’s her own damn funeral. Peter will undoubtedly do whatever he can to bail her out—he’ll probably be mortified by the inevitable publicity and will do what it takes to protect the Covington family name—and maybe I should just let her play these stupid games with him instead. I have my two grand whether this wild goose chase pans out or not, so what do I care?

  Only I do care. That’s the problem. Reckless and selfish though she may be, April still has a good heart, and she’s the only branch of my Covington family tree that I’ve never wanted to summarily saw off and burn. “Well, she was definitely lying about stuff.”

  “She didn’t kill him, either,” Sebastian interposes sullenly. “Lia couldn’t do something like that.”

  “Oh yeah, no, she’s a real sweetheart,” I remark caustically, sounding like an asshole. “By the way, did you happen to notice how she freaked out and lied her face off when I called bullshit on Arlo just letting Fox off the hook?”

  “She didn’t want to get him into trouble! That doesn’t mean she killed anyone.”

  “I never said she did,” I shoot back, and I can feel ugly demons slipping up through my veins, my personal feelings about Sebastian’s history with Lia Santos swiftly making the disagreement into something entirely other than what it is. Taking a deep breath, I add, in a more level tone, “I don’t care why she lied—the point is that she did, and she did it obviously, which makes Arlo look even guiltier.”

  “Do you think she knows he killed Fox?” April asks from the backseat, her curiosity overcoming her resentfulness.

  “I don’t know,” I say after a moment. “I don’t think so. She wigged out when we mentioned the drugs and when I talked about Arlo liking to settle scores, but when we talked about you and Fox it didn’t seem to hit any particular nerves. I mean, I don’t think.” Rubbing my face, I sigh. “She was all edgy and upset, so her reactions were hard to gauge. Maybe she thinks Arlo did something, but she doesn’t know what.”

  A minute of uncomfortable silence passes in the Jeep as all three of us sulk independently, and then Sebastian cranks the engine to life. “Well, I guess we might as well just go and ask the fucker.”

  * * *

  The Rossis live in a narrow Victorian that peaks like a witch’s hat beneath the heavy canopy of a massive oak, its facade decorated with intricate woodwork and a shield of trellises that fence in the front porch. Mr. Rossi is an electrician who actually came out to our house one time when a lightning strike blew several of our fuses, but his home has not a single bulb lit as we coast to a stop out front. Even the curbside streetlamps are utterly defeated by the oak’s overgrown pelt of leaves, and the shadows are so dense, we can barely read the address through the gloom. Arlo’s house is a glaring black gap in the bright smile of the neighborhood.

  “Well, shit, he’s obviously the murderer,” April squeals breathlessly. “Look at this place! Frigging Dracula wouldn’t go in there.”

  “It’s just a house.” I give her a sharp frown, although I’m not exactly charging up the walk myself. The Victorian looks deliberately uninviting, and I can see no sign of Arlo’s bike anywhere. “Maybe Lia warned him we were coming, and he took off.”

  “Maybe,” Sebastian grumps. It’s about as close to a peace accord as we’re going to get on the subject, and I accept it for the sake of the task ahead.

  “Only one way to find out, I guess.” With great reluctance, I shove open the door of the Jeep and step out onto the street. The whole block appears deserted, and a gust of wind pushes the paper remnants of a few fireworks up the sidewalk. Peering into the uncompromising darkness beneath the oak’s overhanging branches, I squint at the narrow gap in the trellis that opens at the top of the porch stairs—a forbidding black socket, inside of which hides the front door. April is right: It looks like a haunted house.

  The distance between Arlo’s neighborhood and the Whitney cottage can be best measured in tax brackets, and I have to wonder what it must be like for him: a poor kid hanging out with such a privileged clique. What do they talk about? All they have in common is bullying. Is he fascinated by their wealth? Are they fascinated by his blue-collar authenticity? I can’t picture snobs like Fox or Race or Peyton hanging out at a place like this, with its dark, weedy lawn and peeling paint.

  Sebastian comes around the front of the Jeep, and we share a wordless glance before starting up the cement walkway. We barely make it five feet before a figure materializes out of the black shadows of the porch, looming into view at the top of the front steps. “I don’t know what’s going on with April, and I don’t care, so you two dipshits can just fuck right off.”

  Arlo’s voice is so loud against the still night that it actually causes me to jump; my heart is done no favors, either, by the object the guy has casually propped across his shoulder. His booted feet resound heavily against the wooden steps as he descends to the walkway, and there he stops—feet apart, one hand holding a cigarette, and the other wrapped possessively around the stock of a hunting rifle.

  “Is that meant for us?” I squeak stupidly, nodding at the weapon while just managing not to pee myself.

  “Depends.” Arlo gives me a sharp-toothed grin. He’s added a few more tattoos since the last time I saw him; bare-chested and muscular, his arms and torso are wallpapered with a hodgepodge of images—daggers and roses, sugar skull girls, frigates under sail—and a metal stud shows like a bulbous growth beneath his bottom lip. “Are you planning to ask me a whole bunch of dumb-fuck questions about where I was tonight?”

  Obviously, he got the memo from Lia. His posture is casual, the firearm pointed vaguely skyward—but there’s a menacing tension in his stance that’s impossible to disregard. Licking my lips, I venture, “Look, I’m just worried about April, okay?”

  “I don’t give a shit what you’re worried about,” he retorts. As my vision continues to adjust, I notice Arlo’s eyes moving as he speaks; he’s looking past us, at the road, scanning left and right along its desolate length as if he suspects we might have backup on the way. “I’m not gonna help you two, so piss off.”

  “C’mon, man. She’s his sister,” Sebastian intercedes on my behalf.

  “Barely,” Arlo snorts, “and I still don’t give a shit. What are you doing hanging out with this faggot, anyway, Bash? Lia mess you up that much when she dumped your sorry ass?”

  It’s a schoolyard taunt, crude and unimaginative; but it’s also the very question my ex-boyfriend was always the most terrified of having to answer, and it shuts him up. For my part, I’m not exactly fond of being called a faggot, and I’d love to try to take one of Arlo’s tattoos home with me as a trophy—but even though it wouldn’t be the first time I’d given in to my anger and picked a fight with someone I had no hope of beating, I’m not quite reckless enough to take a swin
g at someone toting around an actual fucking rifle. Instead, I take a deep breath and struggle to remain focused. Breathe and take a step back.

  “Lia said you two were the last to leave Fox’s cottage tonight. Did you happen to notice what sort of shape April was in at the time?”

  “Man, I could not give less of a fuck what Lia told you!” He chucks his cigarette to the ground, swings the rifle down off his shoulder, and grips it with both hands; the barrel nudges in our direction, and Sebastian and I both take an unconscious step backward. “You’re so worried about April? Go drive the hell out to South Hero and see what she’s up to. But leave my ass alone. And get the fuck out of my yard, too.”

  “Or what?” I challenge, my intelligence ebbing as my anger mounts. “You’ll shoot us? I’m trying to make sure my fifteen-year-old sister didn’t OD at a coke party you and your business partner were throwing, and all you’ve got to say is ‘fuck off’?”

  He takes one step forward, eyes flashing, and points the rifle at me. “What I’ve got to say is, get off my property, you pussy-ass faggot, or I will blow you off it.”

  “Well, thanks for all your help, man.” Sebastian reanimates swiftly, grabbing me by the shoulders and dragging me back to the Jeep on legs that are suddenly surprisingly cooperative. “Enjoy the rest of your night. Happy Independence Day!”

  He practically shoves me into the passenger seat, then darts around, jumps behind the wheel, and takes off from the curb with a high-pitched squawk of the tires. I can just barely make out Arlo’s pale figure in the gloom at the foot of his porch steps, the rifle trained lazily on Sebastian’s taillights as we drive out of sight.

  7

  “Are you out of your fucking mind, Rufus?” Sebastian demands as soon as we’re out of the Rossis’ neighborhood. He hurls me a look full of furious disbelief. “Were you trying to get yourself killed back there?”

  “He wasn’t going to shoot me,” I mutter with far more conviction than I feel. The truth is that Arlo, I am fairly certain, would love to use me for target practice—and wouldn’t require much incentive to go for it. But at the moment, I need to hear somebody say out loud that I hadn’t actually been in mortal danger. “I mean, if he killed Fox, the last thing he wants right now is to attract attention from the police.”

  “Or maybe he could figure he’s got nothing to lose by upping his body count a little, so why the hell not?” Streetlights flash across Sebastian’s angered features, gold flecks sparkling in his dark eyes. “And what the hell do you mean ‘if he killed Fox’? Were we talking to the same guy? Because the guy I was just talking to was a homicidal whack-job who threatened to shoot us in the face.” He takes a breath. “I mean, I’ve known Arlo for a while, and dude is definitely a little messed up in the head, but he’s never gone fucking Westworld like that on anybody before. This is next-level shit, Rufus! You said yourself the guy is a ‘score settler’—your words—and now he’s threatening to kill people just for asking about where he was tonight? Sounds guilty to me!”

  “I think he did it, too,” April interjects in a small, quiet voice. “He’s not like the other guys, you know? He’s always getting into fights and stuff, and he completely loses his shit when he thinks someone is screwing with him. Like, why else would he have grabbed a freaking gun when Lia told him you guys were coming?”

  I don’t answer right away, because both of them have excellent points … but a tiny, confounding worm of doubt is slowly nibbling its way toward the center of my brain, nonetheless. Yes, Arlo has a reputation as a brawler, preferring to solve all his problems with fists whenever possible; and even though I hadn’t exactly been expecting a warm welcome, my fairly basic questions about April provoked a disproportionately combative response. This is all true. It’s also true that he advised me to drive out to the lake house—perhaps growing tired of waiting for April to wake up and call the police, already—and that his bare chest has me wondering whether he had to get rid of a shirt that would almost certainly be soaked in blood after stabbing his buddy to death.

  But the more I think about it, the less I like it. “I don’t know,” I admit at last, the words escaping in a disgruntled huff.

  “What?” April and Sebastian react in unison.

  “What are we?” I ask rhetorically. “We’re a nuisance, showing up and pestering him with stupid questions in the middle of the night. We’re not the cops. From his perspective, what could we possibly know that would get him in trouble? And if he killed Fox, then he should want us to be asking about April; he should’ve told us that the last time he saw her, she was taking white rabbits and flipping out and making threats—this was his golden opportunity to start selling the frame-job he set up at the cottage!” I comb my hair back with my fingers. “But he couldn’t wait to get rid of us, and he didn’t want to answer any questions at all about April or Fox.”

  “And you think that means he’s innocent?” April’s disgust is plain.

  “I don’t know what it means,” I answer honestly, “but I know he didn’t need a rifle to scare us off. That house looked abandoned, you know? He could have just pretended he wasn’t home and waited for us to leave. And—let’s be real, here,” I add, directing this part to Sebastian, “he could have kicked both our asses empty-handed, and we all know it.”

  “So what are you trying to say?” Sebastian asks tersely.

  “I’m saying maybe we’re not the ones who had him sitting in the dark on his front porch, holding a rifle in his lap. Did you notice that he wouldn’t leave the foot of the steps? That the whole time we were talking to him, he was watching the street, like he expected more people to show up?” I look from one of them to the other, to see if they’ve understood. “Arlo was scared.”

  April practically gasps. “Arlo doesn’t get scared.”

  “Scared of what?” Sebastian’s incredulous question comes almost simultaneously.

  I make a helpless gesture. The answer isn’t likely to be either of the party guests we haven’t spoken to yet. Peyton Forsyth, April’s best friend, is no fragile flower—she’s one of the taller girls at Ethan Allen, and an athlete in her own right—but she’s no physical match for Arlo Rossi; and Race Atwood, marginally closer to the tattooed bruiser’s size, is a notorious pretty boy who’s never been in a fair fight in his life. The thought of Arlo being afraid of either of them, or even both of them together, seems absurd. But if it’s not them, then who does that leave?

  “April, are you sure that no one else came to Fox’s party tonight?” Even before I’ve finished asking the question, I know how pointless it is. My half sister is trying to clear her name—and whatever it is that she’s still not telling me, if there were more suspects to consider, she’d have identified them by now.

  “I told you, Fox wanted to keep it small. It was just the six of us.” She’s clearly not ready to give up on Arlo. “Maybe he was scared of the cops. Maybe he’s afraid he left some evidence behind, or that I’ll remember him doing it.”

  “Maybe.” I take a look at the digital clock display set into the dashboard and feel a tremor of anxiety; it’s late, and Fox is still lying dead on his kitchen floor, the trail growing colder while we waste time with speculation. The longer it takes us to get to the police, the worse things will look. “We still have to talk to Race and Peyton; maybe they’ll tell us something useful.”

  “I already texted Race,” Sebastian reports as he navigates the Jeep around a corner and onto a narrow street drenched in darkness by overgrown trees that crowd at the curb like shapeless ogres. “He’s at home. I didn’t tell him what I wanted to see him about, but he says it’s cool to come over.”

  “Let’s hope he’s still feeling cooperative once he knows what we want,” I remark pessimistically. “Just out of curiosity, how’s he feel about guns?”

  * * *

  Race lives in a sprawling McMansion near Oakledge Park, not far from the shore of Lake Champlain—which seems appropriate, as Race is the McMansion equivalent of a person: p
ompous, generic, and transparent in his need for admiration. The Atwood home, located halfway along a curving street, is an elaborate mess of sloping, shingled roofs, wooden siding, and pointy dormer windows. There are two chimneys, a widow’s walk, and a three-car garage, with a contiguous row of bosomy, ornamental shrubs hugging the perimeter of the house. Sebastian pulls into the driveway, stopping beside Race’s flashy white Camaro. “He says he’s out back and we can just walk around.”

  It’s a fancy address, but in the shadowy silence of the blind avenue, it’s no less foreboding than Arlo’s place was as we get out of the car and shut the doors. April watches us apprehensively from the backseat of the Jeep while we set off to navigate our way to the rear of the property, her expression haunting. I can see that the awful night is taking its toll on her, the circles under her eyes darkening by the minute, and I hope for all our sakes that it will be over soon. I can still smell the tangy, metallic odor that filled the lake house, and Fox’s body flashes in front of me every time I blink—like an afterimage burned into my retinas—and I’m starting to feel guilty about leaving him there.

  I need this to be over soon.

  As Sebastian leads the way to a tall gate tucked out of sight behind the house, I steal a glance at my phone. There are eleven missed texts, all of them from Lucy, and I feel something deflate in my chest. Not two hours ago, I was hanging with my best friend, having a great time and congratulating myself on how much I wasn’t thinking about my ex-boyfriend. Now I’m troubled and moody again, following him onto the Atwoods’ rear patio, an irregular peninsula of sandstone pavers that juts out into the lushly quiet backyard. There’s an enormous propane grill off to one side, a covered hot tub off to the other, and a straight-from-the-showroom cluster of expensive outdoor furniture grouped around a glass-topped coffee table dead center. Ensconced on a sofa of weatherproofed wicker and stain-resistant cushions, we find—conveniently enough—both of the remaining people on our list.