by McKayla Box
“And that's all you need?” Bridget asks.
I pick up the burrito. “That's all I need, yeah.”
“I mean, honestly,” Maddie says. “He was the first person I thought of, too. But it didn't really make sense.”
Finally. A fucking ally.
“Why not?” I ask.
She rips a piece of tortilla off her burrito and pops it into her mouth, then washes it down with water. “So, Derek leaves after Brett hits him with the bottle, right? Then Trevor, Brett, and Jake leave. They go in the same direction. Then they come back. I get how it looks.” She shakes her head. “But there are some things missing.”
“Like?” Gina asks.
“Like why didn't we hear anything?” Maddie asks. “If they went down there and brawled with them, don't you think someone would've heard something and gone running? You know how people act likes moths to flames with fights. The point isn't that far up the beach. Someone would've heard something.”
It's a good point.
“Also, we saw them when they came back,” Maddie continues. “Did it look like they'd been in a fight? I don't remember their clothes being torn or seeing blood or any of that shit. Wouldn't we have seen something like that?”
I nod. It's another good point.
Actually, it's a great point and I'm pissed I didn't think of it first.
“They would've been totally jacked up,” Bridget says. “Sweating, bleeding, whatever. You're right. They weren't.”
“From what I've heard, Derek is really fucked up,” Maddie says. “They couldn't have done anything to him that fucked him up that badly and then just came back to the party and not have any of us notice. At the very least, their hands would've been cut up or something. There would've been blood. And they came back and we were there for awhile still. We didn't leave right away. So that would've meant they left him on the beach and all of those people that were still there never saw Derek's sorry ass laying in the sand. And that would mean no one else at the party walked up to the point?” She shakes her head. “No fucking way I believe that. If they'd done it to him, he would've been there, and someone would've found him then.”
“You're a regular fucking Sherlock Holmes,” Gina says. “Jesus. You just convinced me.”
“I'm not trying to convince anyone,” Maddie says. “I'm just stating facts. If Trevor had done that to Derek, we would've known almost as soon as it happened.”
She's right and I'm again jealous that she thought of all that before I did. I'd been doubtful right from the start, but the points Maddie makes are all dead on right. There's no way Trevor did it. I was naked in bed with him later that night. I would've seen something.
“You're right,” I say, staring at my burrito.
“What?” Maddie asks. “You weren't sure?”
“No, I was,” I say, then I shake my head. “I don't know. I believed him when he said he didn't do it, but I just was...thinking it was possible? I don't know. But what you just said? It all makes sense.” I look across the table at her. “He didn't do it.”
Maddie shrugs. “We've known Trevor for forever and we've all seen him do some crazy ass shit. But he's not stupid. He knows if he did anything like that he'd be fucked. It just doesn't make any sense. People aren't thinking straight.”
We eat for awhile in quiet. The ocean is gorgeous under the morning sun, a mixture of white foam and navy blue water. The seagulls are hovering above us, hoping we leave scraps behind.
“Who was he with?” I finally ask.
“Who was who with?” Bridget asks.
“Derek,” I say. “Who were the two guys with him?”
“Matt Wheeler and Bobby Hill,” Gina says. “I don't know Bobby, but I made out with Matt one night during junior. Think I gave him a hand job, but can't remember. That doesn't bode well for him.”
Maddie and Bridget laugh, but I'm already thinking.
“They were with Derek,” I say. “So they have to know something, right?”
“Probably,” Maddie says. “Unless they left or something and Derek was there by himself.”
I frown. “You think?”
She shakes her head. “Probably not. I'd think they would've left together or whatever. But I don't know.”
“So they'd know,” I say. “They'd know who did it to Derek. And they'd know it wasn't Trevor.”
“If they were there,” Bridget says.
“Right,” I say. I look at Gina. “You have his number? Matt's?”
“Most likely,” she says, fishing in her purse for her phone. “They throw them at me like candy after I give them the Gina experience.” She pulls her phone out and starts scrolling. “Now I remember. I definitely gave him a handy. He was not...impressive.”
Maddie and Bridget laugh again, but I'm focused, waiting on the number.
“I got it,” Gina says. “I'll text it to you. I'm sure he's on Snap, too.”
I stare at my phone, waiting for Gina's text to come through. When it does, I add the number to my contacts. “Do you know where he lives?”
“I think he's a couple blocks over from me,” Bridget says. “I don't the address, though.”
“Can you take me there?” I ask. “After we're done here, I mean.”
“You wanna go talk to him?” she asks.
I nod.
“Sure,” she says, shrugging. “I guess so.”
I'm not sure whether it's guilt or what, but I feel like I owe it to Trevor to find out exactly what happened. I should've believed him from the start, but I didn't. Maybe I can make it up to him by finding out exactly what happened.
My phone vibrates against the table and I look down at it.
Brett's name is on the screen.
My stomach knots.
I slide my finger over the screen and open the message.
And my heart stops.
“What is it?” Maddie asks. “Presley? What's wrong?”
I pick up the phone and read the message again.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
“What's wrong?” Bridget asks.
I look at each of them. “It's from Brett. He says they just arrested Trevor down at the beach.”
SIXTEEN
I call Brett, but get his voicemail. I text him and ask him to call me when he gets the message. My hands are shaking as I type.
I ask Bridget to take me home and we leave Juanito's. I stare at my phone the whole time, willing it to ring.
It doesn't.
She pulls into my driveway. “You want me to come in with you?”
I shake my head. “No. I'll be okay.” I push the door open. “Thanks.”
“Presley, I can come in,” she says. “If you don't want to be alone. I can just hang out.”
I shake my head again as I get out. “No, it's fine. I'm gonna call my dad and see if he knows anything.”
She frowns, but nods. “Okay. Call me if you need anything. Anything. I mean it. Okay?”
I nod. “Yeah. I will. Hey. Will you do me one favor?”
“Anything,” she says.
“Text me Matt Wheeler's address when you get a second.”
She hesitates, then nods. “Okay. I'll drive my his house and get the number, then send it to you.”
“Thanks,” I tell her.
I shut the door and she's still idling in the driveway when I walk inside my house.
I walk to the fridge, get a glass of water, and down it. My hands are still shaking and I lay them on the counter to try and steady them. After a minute, I grab my phone, and call my dad. The call goes straight to voicemail. I text him and ask him to call me as soon as he can.
I feel helpless. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. And I'm scared.
I'm just fucking scared.
I need to do something and I need to know what's going on.
I grab my car keys off the counter, get in my car, and head to the police station.
I park the car and as I'm walking toward the entrance, Trevor walks out with his dad
and another man that I don't recognize. Trevor is still in his board shorts and a white rash guard. They literally pulled him out of the ocean to arrest him.
He slows when he sees me.
“Brett texted me,” I say when I reach them. “What's happening?”
He shrugs. “They're saying I did it.” He laughs and shakes his head. “They're saying I did it, so they arrested me.”
“Who's saying it?” I ask.
“The cops,” he says. “I don't even know.” He shakes his head. “I have no idea.”
“But you didn't do it,” I say.
“Presley, I don't mean to be rude, but we need to get moving,” Mr. Robinson says. Then he gestures at the man on the other side of him. “This is Albert Braun, one of our lawyers. Albert, this is Presley Baxter, Trevor's girlfriend.”
The man gives me a curt nod. “Pleasure.”
I nod back, then look at Trevor. “You didn't do it.”
He laughs. “I know that. But I guess no one else does.”
I look at his father. “He didn't do it. I was with him that night. A bunch of us were. We would've seen it.” I grab Trevor's hands. “And look at his hands. If he'd punched someone, his hands would be cut or bruised or something. There's nothing on them.”
Mr. Robinson forces a smile. “Your devotion to Trevor is admirable, Presley. Really. But...he's in a difficult spot right now. And we need to figure out exactly how to address all of this.” He glances at Trevor. “So that it doesn't get worse.” He looks at me again. “We need to get going.”
“Go ahead,” Trevor says. “I'll be there in one second.”
Mr. Robinson frowns, then nods. He and Braun walk toward Mr. Robinson's Land Rover.
“What the fuck is happening?” I ask. “This is insane.”
“I know,” he says, shaking his head. “It's all bullshit. They've already made up their minds.”
“But Maddie and I were just talking about it,” I say. “It's not just your hands. We saw you guys later that night. You weren't in a fight. You weren't bloody or messed up. And if you had done it, someone else would've seen him before he was found on the beach, someone from the party. It makes no sense.”
He looks away for a second, then nods. “Yeah, you'd think all that would be enough.” He pauses. “But it's not when someone is saying it was you and that they saw you do it.”
It takes a second for me to process that. “Wait. What?”
He laughs again and shakes his head. “Yeah. I have no fucking clue. But they have someone saying it was me. Or that's what they're saying anyway. I don't know.” He looks toward the car. “I gotta go. He's already pissed enough.”
I grab him and hug him. “We'll figure it out,” I tell him.
“I don't know anymore, Pres,” he says. “I'm sort of ready to just give up.”
I pull back from him. “Don't give up. This is bullshit and we know it. We'll figure it out.”
He looks down at me. “Maybe. I don't know.”
I watch him walk to the car. His shoulders are slumped and the life is just gone from him. I've never seen him like this. He looks defeated.
And that might be the scariest thing of all.
SEVENTEEN
I sit in the parking lot for a long time, thinking.
And trying not to throw up.
Again, I feel helpless. I don't know how to help him. I don't know how to stop whatever is happening from happening. And I'm not sure everyone is on his side. He's positive his dad isn't. I don't know about the lawyer. But I'm worried that everyone is going to start treating him like he's guilty.
I don't want that.
So I need to do something.
And I know what it is.
I shove the key in the ignition and leave the police station. I drive toward the beach and it takes me awhile to navigate the narrow streets and find the house I'm looking for, but I finally find it. It's been almost a year since I've been there, but I recognize it as soon as I see it.
Derek Morgan's house.
I pull the car to the side of the road and shut off the road. My stomach is a jumble of knots as I stare at the house. I remember all of the details so vividly from that night and they come rushing at me like punches to the face.
Riding with Shanna, Jessica, and Lisa.
Walking with Derek to the pool house.
Feeling like I'm going to pass out.
Shanna leaning down in my face.
Holly Nicholls slapping me.
I remember all of it.
I flex my fingers around the steering wheel, then push open the door and get out.
I can smell the ocean as I walk to the front door. My hands are shaking and I shove them in my pockets, trying to make them stop. My heart pounds inside my chest. There's a button next to the door. I pull my hand from my pocket and stick my finger on the button before I can talk myself out of it. The bell chimes inside the house and I wait.
I hear footsteps behind the door.
The knots in my stomach tighten.
The door opens and a woman in her sixties is standing there. She's Hispanic, with long dark hair, broad shoulders, and a towel in her hands. “Yes?”
“Uh, hi,” I say. “I'm looking for Derek?”
Her thick eyebrows furrow together. “Derek is sick.” She speaks with a slight Spanish accent. “He is not well.”
“Yes, I know,” I say. “I...I go to school with him. I heard what happened to him. I wanted to come by and see him.”
“He is...he is not really feeling very good,” she says. “I don't think he is supposed to have visitors. His parents told me that. I am their housekeeper and I am at home with him today.”
I've lucked out. I'm sure his parents would recognize me if they were there, but this woman has no clue who I am. I don't want to lie to her or get her in trouble.
But I really want to see Derek.
“I promise I won't stay long,” I tell her. “I just want to see him and see if there's anything I can do for him. We all heard what happened and we knew everyone shouldn't come over, so we decided it would be just me. I promise I won't stay long.”
She frowns and glances over her shoulder, wiping her hands on the towel.
“I won't even sit down,” I tell her. “I'll just say hello, let him know we are all thinking about him, and then I'll leave. If he's not feeling well or he doesn't want me to stay, I won't. Please.”
She purses her lips, sighs, then nods. “Alright. But, please. Do not stay long. He is supposed to rest and talking is hard for him with his jaw.” She steps out of the way. “Please come in.”
The butterflies clang around in my stomach as I step into the entryway.
She closes the door behind me.
I look at her. “His room is...upstairs?”
“It is, but he's not up there,” she says. “It was too hard for him to make it up the stairs.” She points to the back of the house. “He's out there.”
I realize where she means.
“The pool house,” I say.
She smiles. “Yes. You've been here before?”
I turn and look toward the pool house. “Yes. I have.”
EIGHTEEN
She walks me to the back door and again reminds me not to stay too long. I assure her I won't, pull open the sliding glass door, and walk outside.
Just walking along the pool is enough to start my hands shaking again. I remember walking with him. I bite the inside of my cheek and try to clear my head, to focus on why I'm there.
I reach the door to the pool house, knock once, and open the door. I step into the hallway and close it behind me. My ears buzz and I fight off the bad memories.
Someone grunts in the front room.
I walk down the hallway, listening to my own breathing. I hear the blood pulsating in my ears. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck.
I can do this.
I reach the room and stop.
Derek is in the bed, flat on his back, pillows propped up behind his
head. The flat screen on the far wall is turned on to ESPN. He doesn't immediately look over and I'm able to get a good look at him.
His eyes are swollen, the skin beneath them purple and ugly. There's a cut over his left eye and his entire jaw is puffy. His left arm is in a sling, resting across his stomach, and there's some bruising on his neck.
Someone, indeed, beat the shit out of him.
He tries to look over, but immediately winces in pain.
I walk further into the room so he can see me.
His eyes narrow.
“Hi,” I say. “Just like old times, right?”
He doesn't say anything.
“I don't know what happened to you and I wish I didn't care, but I do,” I tell him. “Because Trevor didn't do it.”
He stares at me with his swollen eyes. His lips are swollen, too.
“Did you tell the police he did this to you?” I ask.
He swallows hard and his lips part just enough so that I can see he's missing a tooth.
“Fuck you,” he whispers.
His mouth barely moves, though, and I realize his jaw is wired shut.
“He didn't do this,” I say. “If you're lying about it, we're going to be able to prove it.” I hold up my own index finger and tap one of my front teeth. “Your tooth is missing. If he hit you, his hand would be cut up from that.” I shake my head. “There isn't a mark on him.”
He swallows again, then says something I can't understand.
I lean closer. “What?”
“Never saw him,” he says. “From behind.”
I process that. “You were jumped from behind?”
He nods slowly.
“So you never saw who did it?”
He nods again.
“Then why did you tell the police it was Trevor?” I ask. “What the hell?”
He closes his eyes and tries to shake his head, but that effort alone seems to exhaust him. He leans back into the pillows for a moment, catching his breath and trying to gather his strength. He opens his eyes and looks at me. “Wasn't me.”
“Wasn't you?” I say. “I'm not following.”
He glances at the nightstand next to the bed. “Water.”
I follow his gaze. There's a large cup with a straw in it. I pick it up and hold the straw to his lips. He struggles to get his mouth open wide enough to get the straw into it, wincing as he does it. He sucks on the straw for just a second, then falls back into the pillows.