by Paula Stokes
Parvati shudders audibly. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I knew Pres liked taping stuff, but I had no idea how far it went. I swear to you, all the feelings I had for him are in the past.”
“I just don’t get why you both felt the need to lie. I talked to him before I asked you out, and he said you guys had never been together.”
Parvati’s voice goes hoarse. “Probably because to him we never were. I’m fairly certain he only saw me as a casual hookup.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure what to say to that. Parvati is smoking hot, but the thought that someone could appreciate her sexiness but not get totally sucked in by how fun, and smart, and strong she is baffles me.
“Are you going to forgive me?” Parvati asks. “Or are we . . . breaking up?”
Did I mention her straightforwardness? “I don’t know, I mean, jeez, what do you want me to say?”
“Say you forgive me for lying to you. Give me another chance.”
“It’s not that easy, P. I never lied to you. Ever. Let’s say I do forgive you. That doesn’t mean I’m not still pissed.”
“I understand. Just don’t make any decisions yet, okay? Maybe we can talk more tomorrow?” she asks. “Are you going to the funeral?”
This is the first I’ve heard about a funeral. “Preston’s death is finally public news, huh?”
“Yeah,” she says. “It was on TV this morning. The funeral is tomorrow at four p.m.”
It all feels so . . . final. But if DeWitt actually killed his son, I guess it makes sense he’d want to bury the body before anyone started asking the wrong questions.
“Do you think Preston could have been blackmailing his own father?” I ask.
She hmms. “I wouldn’t put it past him. Why?”
“The guy who bailed me out said that DeWitt was being blackmailed.”
“Who bailed you out?”
“Just this guy,” I say. “He works for Preston’s dad.”
“I think I know the guy you’re talking about,” she says wryly. “Talk, dark, and creepy?”
“That’s the one. Do you think it’s possible Pres got carried away blackmailing his dad and DeWitt or some of his thugs killed him?”
“His own son? They never seemed close, but that would have to be some serious blackmail.”
“Well,” I say, “you know politicians. Most of them have a lot of skeletons in their closets.” I fill her in on what I learned about Adam. “Somehow, Preston is connected to this kid. I’m thinking DeWitt had an affair with Violet, and Adam and Pres are half brothers. Maybe the three of them decided to blackmail the senator about his kid out of wedlock.”
“So when Preston told me his parents gave him money because of the adoption, he was talking about this other kid, a brother he never got to know.” I can almost see her nodding her head, her black hair swishing forward. “It all kind of works.”
“Well, if it’s true, I have to find the information Preston was using for blackmail, because that’s the only way I can clear my name. Either that or find Adam Lyons, if he’s even still alive.”
“But if DeWitt did it, why would he report Preston’s disappearance to the police?” she asks.
“Probably so he didn’t look guilty when they found his body.”
“And why bail you out?”
“Good question. Maybe as bait. Maybe they think Adam’s still out there and might go to one of Pres’s friends for help.” I shiver as I think about how Langston and Marcus could have killed me, or how easily they could finish setting me up to get convicted for Pres’s murder.
“It makes sense, in the most screwed-up way possible.” Parvati pauses. “You should come to the funeral. Pres would want you there And we can talk more afterward. My father won’t make a scene in front of the whole town.”
“You don’t think?” She’s got more faith in her dad than I do. “I don’t know if I’m going to go. I feel like time is running out, you know? I’m the only suspect and McGhee and Gonzalez seem sure I did it. I probably only have a day or two before the forensics report comes back from Violet Cain’s house.”
“So?”
“So they found my shark’s tooth there.”
She sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh my God.”
“I know, right? I thought I lost it in the ocean, but I guess I left it in my car. Whoever put the phone in my trunk must have taken it at the same time.”
“I hate that you’re going through this alone. Will you at least meet up with me tomorrow night?” Parvati pauses. “We don’t have to talk about us. I want to help you figure this out, Max. I’m not going to let you go to jail for something you didn’t do.”
“Okay. I could use your help.” I sigh. “And we can talk about whatever.” Maybe it’s her voice, or the news of the funeral, or the stuff Darla said to me slowly sinking in, but suddenly part of me wants to give her another chance.
I can’t help it. I miss her.
THIRTY-THREE
December 10th
I DECIDE TO GO TO Preston’s funeral after all. The cemetery is on the other side of Vista Palisades, a ten-minute bus ride or a thirty-five-minute walk. I loiter at the closest bus stop, but when the bus pulls up, it is full of people I know: classmates, teachers, the guy who rents kayaks in front of The Triple S. Their faces are ghostly white circles pressed close to the windows, monsters with blurry features distorted by the smudgy glass.
I decide to walk.
Cars line one side of the road leading into the cemetery, and both parking lots are full. Mrs. Amos’s Honda is parked in the north lot, right inside the gates. I suddenly remember the restraining order. I hope the Colonel won’t freak out and attack me in the middle of the service—I don’t want to do that to Preston’s friends and family. But at the same time, Pres was one of my closest friends, regardless of the secrets he kept. I deserve a chance to grieve for him.
The gravesite is on the far side of the grounds, near the south parking lot. I hang back along the fence, away from the crowd, so I can say good-bye without causing Parvati’s dad to have a meltdown. I inch closer until I can see clearly. A mix of high school students and important political types stand gathered around a gaping hole in the earth. A priest gestures with one hand as he speaks. There are faces in the crowd I don’t recognize—private security guards for DeWitt and his political friends, students from Bristol Academy. I look around for Langston and Marcus, but if they’re here then they’re keeping a low profile.
Astrid and the other All-Stars are huddled together at one end of the crowd. Quinn and Amy stand off to the side with some of the student council and a handful of Vista P teachers. Even David Nephew, the kid Preston cheated with in calculus class, is here, although he’s standing at the very back of the mourners, as if he thinks the popular kids might push him into the grave if he gets too close.
The coffin is made of dark wood with shining trim that occasionally catches the sun and sends light bouncing around the pale tree branches. Preston would like it. What a weird thought. There are flowers piled on top. Lilies, maybe, or orchids. Some kind of blossom with big floppy petals.
Looking at that rectangular box of death makes it all feel real for the very first time. Preston is gone. We will never go surfing together again. He will never throw another New Year’s Eve party. I will never get to confront him about his past with Parvati or about him spying on us.
My eyes move from the coffin back to the mourners. Parvati is standing between her parents. It’s easy to pick her out because she’s wearing white. It’s tradition in India to do this at a funeral. I don’t know how I know that, but I do. The wind billows the loose fabric of her sari around her like wings. She looks like an angel floating in a dead gray sky.
The coffin begins to descend into the ground. All of the women in the front row are holding roses. They drop them into the open grave one at a time, starting with Preston’s mom. Parvati is last. I watch the red rose fall from her fingertips, like a single drop of blood.
The
pallbearers begin to scoop dirt onto the coffin. The crowd starts to disperse. Half of the people head for the south parking lot, where their drivers are waiting. The students break apart into smaller clusters, some following the politicians, some heading in my direction. I retreat farther, toward the strip of woods that forms the western boundary of the graveyard, away from the winding stone path that connects both parking lots.
My breath catches in my throat as I peek through a layer of branches. I know what happens next. After everyone leaves, the graveyard caretaker will dump the rest of the soil on top of Preston’s coffin with a backhoe. It just seems so undignified. Like he’s nothing more than a hole to be filled in by a construction team.
I lean up against a tree trunk and wait for Parvati and her parents to pass by. I just want one tiny glance. I’m nervous about seeing her later. She needs to say something huge, something that will make me think I can learn to trust her again. Otherwise our relationship is over.
I don’t want it to be over.
Everyone who passes by is wearing black. A lot of the girls look more like they’re dressed for a fancy night out than for a funeral, their tiny velvet dresses looking strangely formal next to their mothers’ frumpy suits and skirts. I crane my neck to see through the milling herd. No one in white. No Parvati. Maybe that wasn’t her mom’s Honda just inside the gates. Maybe her parents parked over at the south parking lot, with the politicians. I creep back through the trees and duck behind a tall obelisk monument. I peek around it, at the gravesite. Parvati is still standing in front of the hole in the ground. Her parents are nowhere to be seen. She must have asked for a moment alone.
I wonder if I can make it to her side before her mom or the Colonel notice. I maneuver closer, ducking between the tall gravestones to hide myself from anyone in either parking lot.
Parvati spins around as if she can sense me. The tail of her sari flaps in the breeze. She smiles tentatively.
But then something severs the connection between us. She flicks her head over at the woods. Her back arches as her neck cranes forward. I follow her gaze. A shadow moves among the trees.
Danger. The feeling comes out of nowhere, a fly slamming into a spider’s web.
“Parvati,” I say. It’s just a whisper. I start running. She moves toward the tree line, clearly in pursuit of someone or something.
I can’t see what she sees. She takes another step. And then another. My feet are flying across grass and graves. I want to call out to her, but I’m afraid her father will hear me if I do.
She moves with purpose. No looking back. The fir trees begin to swallow her.
She’s half a girl.
One-quarter.
She’s just a ribbon of white flying through the woods.
THIRTY-FOUR
“PARVATI,” I YELL. “WAIT.”
She doesn’t wait. The white of her sari disappears completely into the foliage. I veer off the path and head toward the tree line. Boots thud on the hard ground behind me.
It’s the Colonel. “Cantrell, you little shit! You’re not supposed to be anywhere near my daughter.”
I duck through the first layer of branches just as he catches up to me. He grabs my shoulder and spins me around. My feet get tangled up and I stumble. I fall backward, my head slamming against a knot on the nearest tree trunk. I end up on the damp ground.
“What did you say to her?” the Colonel thunders. “Where did she go?” Typical overprotective dad—attack first, ask questions later.
I clamber back to my feet. “Nothing. I don’t know.” I suddenly have the urge to vomit. I double over and then stagger to the side. Reaching out for the tree that assaulted me, I collapse against the trunk. My skull feels like it got hit by a rocket-propelled grenade.
The Colonel advances on me. “If something happens to her, I’ll kill you myself.” His face contorts into a snarl.
Now there are two of him, dancing before me like a pair of prizefighters. Blinking spots float lazily through my field of vision. Yellow-black-yellow-black. “Not me,” I say. It takes everything just to point in the direction that Parvati went. “Someone else. She went after someone. Go find her.”
The Colonel turns away from me and crashes through the brush like a wild animal. He’s probably carrying at least two loaded guns. I don’t know what Parvati saw in the trees, but if whoever killed Preston lured her into the woods, right now her father is my best chance to get her back.
I want to go after him. I want to help too, but it’s not just the spots that are blinking before my eyes now. The trees are blinking in and out, and so is the sky. From somewhere far away, I hear Parvati’s mom say, “Oh, Max. Why does trouble seem to follow you everywhere you go?”
I try to answer her, but my tongue is thick and the words come out slow and garbled. I feel the rough tree bark pressing through my T-shirt. It scrapes its way up my back as I slide down the front of the trunk. My legs fold under me as I slump to the hard grass.
Rough hands shake me awake. My mouth is still dry and my whole skull is throbbing. When I reach up and touch the back of my head, my fingers come away red. Parvati’s dad is looking down at me. His expression is bleak. Broken. Something pale flutters in the breeze. A torn triangle of white fabric embroidered with a repeating pattern hangs from the Colonel’s right hand. It’s a piece of Parvati’s sari. She’s gone.
I want to go look for her, but when the Colonel hauls me to my feet, my wobbly legs can barely support my weight. The ground spins slowly and yellow circles float in front of me like amoebas on a microscope slide. I think that bastard gave me a concussion. Well, him and the tree. Talk about a lethal tag team. I scan the shrubbery for any sign of movement, once again fighting the urge to throw up.
Nothing.
“Did you see which way she went at least?” There is a raw, animal-like quality to my voice that I have never heard before.
The Colonel shakes his head. “I didn’t see her at all.” He holds up the scrap of white fabric. “I found this hanging from a bush. It looks like she was moving fast and it just got caught.”
The fluttering cloth reminds me of all things bad—surrender flags, ghosts, burial shrouds. “Call up your goons,” I say. “Combat guys. Navy SEALs. Whoever. They need to tear these woods apart today, now, before it’s too late.”
“It doesn’t work like that, Max,” he says. “First we need to call the police.”
What the hell happened to the guy who grabbed me? Where is the animal-like desperation in the Colonel’s voice? He is all coolness and collectedness now, like he activated some sort of mission switch in his brain. I am shaking, sweating, on the edge of losing it completely. “The police are idiots,” I protest. “So are the feds.”
Parvati’s mom has appeared from somewhere behind me. “He needs to go to the hospital,” she tells her husband. “He might have a concussion.” Mrs. Amos’s lilting accent reminds me of the day Parvati called herself in sick.
“Idiots or not, they’re going to want a statement,” the Colonel says. “Do you want to wait here or should I tell them to find you at the hospital?”
I imagine hanging out here with Parvati’s dad, the two of us standing next to each other, awkwardly making small talk about sports and the weather. The cops would arrive and start doing their insanely slow cop things. Marking off the area with yellow tape, dusting tree trunks for fingerprints, collecting invisible fibers in plastic bags. No thanks. I’ll go insane.
“I’ll go to the hospital,” I say, even though I have no intention of doing so. Five hours in the ER? Worse than waiting for the police to finish their slow-ass procedures. Even if I do have a concussion, it won’t magically fix itself because I see a doctor. Preston got plenty of concussions on the football field. You just have to wait it out, he always said. Don’t go to sleep.
I can wait out a head injury, just not Parvati’s disappearance. I’ve got to do something about that right this second. I don’t know what, but something. I’ll figure it out on t
he way home. “Tell the cops not to screw around.” I turn toward the parking area. My legs buckle slightly.
“If you’re going to the hospital I’ll drive you, of course.” Parvati’s mom steers me in the direction of her car.
“Okay.” The hospital is on the way back to my house, at least. I let her tuck me into the passenger seat and sit hunched over and mute as she pulls out of the cemetery parking lot. How can she be so calm? Why is she not flipping out?
Mrs. Amos glances over at me. “Her father and I, we taught her to take care of herself, Max,” she says. “The universe will bring her back. You just have to have faith.”
I nod, but don’t answer. Faith seems to be something people develop when their lives are going good. It’s always been in short supply for me.
When Mrs. Amos pulls into the ER parking lot, an ambulance is there unloading a gurney. Even though we both know it can’t be Parvati, we don’t say anything until the wheels hit the pavement and we see the pasty, wrinkled body of an old man, his face partially obscured by an oxygen mask.
“Would you like for me to wait with you?” Mrs. Amos asks. “Or call your parents while you check in?”
“I’ll call them,” I say. Man, the lies are really rolling off my tongue today. “You should go back to the cemetery.”
She looks dubiously at the back of the open ambulance, at the big glass doors that slide open to admit the paramedics and the man on the gurney. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”
“Absolutely,” I say. One more lie.
THIRTY-FIVE
I PASS THROUGH THE SLIDING glass doors and pretend like I’m heading up to the front desk of the ER. Instead, I turn toward the waiting area, hoping my head wound isn’t totally obvious. I grab a magazine from a low metal table and flip through it.
“Can I help you?” the girl behind the counter asks in a chirpy voice. She’s wearing black scrubs with gold embroidery on the pocket. It’s probably supposed to look staid and official, but it just makes her look like an undertaker.
