He does, and I hold it to my ear. “Hello, help, I don’t know what to do next,” I say shakily. “I got her on her side and she threw up so she’s not choking anymore, but she’s also not moving. She’s hardly breathing and I can’t, I don’t know—”
“All right, honey. You did good. Now listen so I can help you.” The voice on the other end is no-nonsense but soothing. “An ambulance is on the way. I’m gonna ask you a few questions, and then we’ll know what to do until they get there. We’re in this together, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. Tears start slipping down my cheeks, and I take a deep breath to steady myself. I try to focus on the woman’s voice, instead of fixating on the two questions that keep rattling around in my brain.
Mine: How could you do this?
And Owen’s: Who poisoned her?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Maeve
Friday, March 27
My sister is crushing me, but in the nicest possible way.
It’s Friday afternoon, and I’ve only been home from school for half an hour. Bronwyn, who just took a Lyft from the airport, has her arms wrapped around my shoulders while I press my phone to my ear in my bedroom, trying to make sense of what Phoebe is telling me. “Well, that’s good, right?” I ask.
“I think so.” Phoebe sounds exhausted. When she didn’t show up at school today, I was worried something else might have happened with Intense Guy. Knox and I sent her a bunch of increasingly urgent check-in texts, and she finally answered one during lunch to let us know she was at the hospital with Emma. She’d been there most of last night, she said, until her mom insisted she go home and try to sleep. She went back first thing this morning.
“They’re still giving her fluids, but they stopped the oxygen therapy,” Phoebe says now. “They say there shouldn’t be any long-term effects. But they’re talking about addiction treatment when she leaves the hospital. Like rehab or something. I don’t even know.”
“Did Emma say why she’s been drinking?” I ask.
“No. She hasn’t been awake much, though.” Phoebe sighs through the phone, long and weary. “It’s just one thing after another in this family.”
My throat tightens. Before I heard about Emma, I’d been itching to tell Phoebe everything we’d learned about Intense Guy last night, and press her to think harder about whether she might have come across him before. But I can’t put that on her now. One crisis at a time. “Can I do anything to help?” I ask.
“Thanks, but I can’t think of anything. I should go. I need to make my mom eat something. I just wanted to let you know Emma will survive.” She says it lightly, like it was never in question, but I’ve been anxious ever since her text came through earlier today. All I could think was Phoebe can’t lose anybody else.
“Text if you need me,” I say, but Phoebe’s already disconnected. I drop my phone so I can hug my sister back. Her familiar apple-green shampoo smell engulfs me, and I relax for the first time in days. “Welcome home,” I say, my words muffled against her shoulder. “Sorry Bayview is a horrible mess again. I missed you.”
When she finally lets go, we settle onto my window seat. Our usual spot, just like she never left. Both our parents are still at work, so the rest of the house is quiet. “I don’t even know where to start with everything that’s been happening around here,” Bronwyn says, folding one leg beneath her. She’s wearing black leggings and a fitted V-neck Yale T-shirt. Points to her for a cute, yet comfortable, airplane outfit. “Emma is all right, though?”
“Yeah. Phoebe says she will be.”
“God.” Bronwyn shakes her head, eyes wide. “This town is falling apart. And you…” She grabs one of my hands and gives it a shake. “I’m mad at you. I’ve been fighting with you in my head all week. How could you not tell me what you were going through?” Her face is an equal mix of affection and reproach. “I thought we told each other everything. But I didn’t have a clue any of this was happening until it was already over.”
“It turned out to be nothing,” I say, but she only tugs harder on my hand.
“Spending weeks thinking you’re deathly ill again isn’t nothing. And what if you’d lost valuable treatment time? You can’t do that, Maeve. It’s not fair to anyone.”
“You’re right. I was…” I hesitate, looking at our intertwined hands as I try to come up with the right words. “The thing is, I don’t think I’ve ever really believed I’d make it out of high school. So I tried not to get too attached to people, or let them get too attached to me. It’s just easier for everyone that way. But I could never do that with you. You wouldn’t let me. You’ve always been right here, getting in my face and making me feel things.” Bronwyn makes a tearful, strangled sound and squeezes my hand harder. “I guess, while you were gone, I forgot how that’s actually better.”
Bronwyn is crying for real now, and I am, too. We cling to each other for a few minutes and let the tears flow, and it feels like washing away months of regret for all the things I should have said and done differently. You can’t change the past, Luis said the night he made me ajiaco in the Café Contigo kitchen. All you can do is try harder next time.
And I will. I’m not repaying love with fake indifference anymore. I’m not going to pretend I don’t want my life, and the people in it, so badly that I’m willing to break all our hearts if the worst does happen.
Bronwyn finally pulls away, wiping her eyes. “Swear you’ll never do anything like that again.”
I trace my finger twice across my chest. “Cross my heart, hope not to die.” It’s our childhood promise, modified by Bronwyn during my first hospital stint ten years ago, when she was eight and I was seven.
She laughs shakily and glances at her Apple watch. “Damn it, almost four. We didn’t even get to the good stuff about Luis, but I need to go to Addy’s. We’re handling prep for the rehearsal dinner tonight so Mrs. Lawton can be with Emma.”
“Are you staying for the dinner?” I ask.
“No, that’s just for the wedding party. I’ll leave once Addy and I get everything squared away, then come back for the afterparty.”
“Do you guys want help?” I ask, even as my eyes stray to my laptop. I’d been trying to open the files I pulled from Knox’s mother’s computer before Bronwyn got here, with no luck. Mrs. Myers is a lot more careful about protecting her files than her network access. But I think I’m getting close.
“No, two of us will be plenty. It’s probably overkill, honestly, but I can’t let Addy do this alone.” Bronwyn grimaces. “She means well, but she’s not the most organized person around.”
“Can you believe Ashton and Eli are getting married tomorrow?” I say. “I feel like they just got engaged.”
“Same,” Bronwyn says. “Life comes at you fast.”
“Do you need a ride to Addy’s?” I ask.
Bronwyn’s mouth curves in a small smile. “I have one.”
I follow her gaze down to our driveway just as a motorcycle pulls in, and I can’t help the pleased laugh that escapes me. “Well, well, well. This feels like déjà vu.” We’d been sitting in this exact spot the first time Nate ever came to our house. I pluck at Bronwyn’s sleeve as she full-on beams out the window, watching Nate take off his helmet. “What’s going on?”
“I called him after you told me what happened at Cooper’s baseball game. Hearing how he’d been there for you. Everything he and I had been arguing about seemed so pointless after that. We’ve been talking every night since. And watching movies.” Her gray eyes are bright as she stands up, smoothing down the front of her shirt. “It’s almost like he’s right there with me, even with the distance. I haven’t felt that way since I left.”
“Hmm, interesting.” I tap a finger against my chin, trying to look thoughtful while fighting off a grin. “So basically, if I’m understanding you correctly, my fake leukemia brought the two of
you together? You’re welcome.”
A brief frown interrupts Bronwyn’s glow. “That’s not the correct conclusion to draw from this.”
I nudge her sneaker with mine. “Look who’s been keeping secrets now, Bronwyn. And here I thought we were supposed to tell one another everything.” My voice is teasing, though, because I couldn’t possibly be less mad at her.
Color rises higher in her cheeks, and she doesn’t meet my eyes. Mostly, I think, because she can’t tear hers away from the window. Nate’s still on his motorcycle, waiting patiently. He doesn’t bother coming to the door; I’m sure he knows exactly where we are. “It’s only been a few days,” she says. “I guess I didn’t want to jinx it.”
“You know he’s crazy about you, right?” I ask. “More than ever? I was practically dying in front of him and all he could think about was you.”
Bronwyn rolls her eyes. “You were not dying.”
“Well, Nate didn’t know that, did he?”
“I really love him,” she says quietly.
“News flash: we know. You haven’t been fooling anyone.” I give her hip a gentle shove. “Enjoy the ride. I’m assuming you and Nate have plans once dinner prep is over, so I’ll see you guys at the afterparty.”
She leaves, and I stay at my window seat until I see her emerge onto the driveway. Nate gets off his motorcycle just in time to catch Bronwyn as she goes flying toward him. Her arms wrap around his neck as he spins her around, and I turn away with a smile so they can have their reunion kiss in private. “Endgame,” I say to the empty room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Maeve
Friday, March 27
“Is there a word for stalking your friend’s stalker?” Knox asks in a low, musing voice.
“Congenial pursuit,” I say without looking up from my laptop.
“That’s two words. And terrible.”
It’s almost eight thirty on Friday night, and we’re settled into a window table at a coffee shop in Rolando Village. Bronwyn is with Nate, Luis is working, my parents are at a charity event, and I couldn’t stand rattling around my house alone for two hours while I waited for the afterparty at Ashton and Eli’s rehearsal dinner to start. So I called Knox. Neither of us could talk about anything except Intense Guy. Talking turned into driving, and here we are.
The coffee in this place is awful, but the view is ideal. We’re almost directly across from the house we followed Intense Guy to from Callahan Park.
“There’s something comforting about knowing he’s at home,” Knox says. The driveway was empty when we got here, but the blue car pulled up a few minutes later, and we watched Intense Guy enter the small ranch house alone. He hasn’t left since.
“I know,” I say absently, my eyes on my laptop screen. I brought it along so I could keep working on opening the documents I pulled from Knox’s mother’s computer. Knox has his computer too, and he’s been using it to Google “David Jackson” with the usual useless results.
Knox sucks down half a Sprite with one noisy pull on his straw and asks, “What time do we have to leave to get to—where is Ashton and Eli’s party, again?”
“Talia’s Restaurant, on Charles Street,” I say. “We can hang out here for another twenty minutes or so.”
“Great,” Knox says, glancing around the nondescript coffee shop. The walls are prison-gray, the tables and chairs are grade-school cafeteria style, and the baked goods displayed on the counter look like they’ve been there for a while. The barista yawns as he erases hot chocolate from the chalkboard menu behind him and tosses an empty Swiss Miss cardboard box into the trash. “Do you think Phoebe will be there?”
“I doubt it. She’s pretty much living at the hospital right now.” Suddenly the document in front of me springs open, and I give Knox a triumphant smile. “I’m in! Got the first one open. This is…hmm. Probably not relevant. It’s something to do with a case settled for the Weber Reed Consulting Group in Florida.” I scan the first few pages quickly, then close the document and pull up the second. “Let me try the other one.”
“Nice work, Sherlock,” Knox says. He looks pensive, though, and rubs a hand over his face as he gazes out the window. “I wish we had the same luck digging dirt up on this guy. We’re right across the street from him, and we still don’t know who he is. Has the revenge forum said anything interesting lately? Or worrying?”
I have Vengeance Is Mine open in another browser and I’ve gotten a couple of PingMe alerts since we’ve been here, but it’s just ranting from names I don’t recognize. “Nothing from Darkestmind,” I say. “He’s been quiet since that post about Phoebe.”
Knox shifts restlessly in his seat. “What did the note he left at Café Contigo say again? He didn’t sign it with an initial or anything, did he?”
“No,” I say decisively, and then I pause. I read that note pretty quickly, after all, and I wasn’t in the calmest state of mind. “I don’t think so, but let’s double-check.” I tear my eyes away from my screen, where the headline SETTLEMENT ON BEHALF OF EAGLE GRANITE MANUFACTURING CORPORATION, EASTLAND CA has popped up, to dig my phone out of my bag. I open my photos and scroll until I find the right one. “I took a picture,” I say, handing the phone to Knox. “See for yourself.”
Knox squints, and then every bit of color drains from his face. His head snaps up, his expression tense. “What. The. Hell.” Before I can question the quick-change demeanor, he adds, “Why didn’t you show this to me before?”
I blink. Is he mad at me? “What are you talking about? I read it to you at Café Contigo.”
“That’s not the same thing!” he insists.
My scalp prickles at the decidedly un-Knox tone of his voice. “How is it not the same thing? You know what it says.”
“But I didn’t know how it looks.”
“I don’t—”
He thrusts my phone at me, cutting off my next bewildered question. “I’m talking about the font. How the note was written. You know, this type that looks like handwriting but isn’t? I’ve seen it before. The latest batch of death threats at Until Proven used it.”
“What?” I ask. When Knox doesn’t answer right away, I repeat, “What?”
“Yeah…hang on,” Knox says. He puts my phone down and turns to his laptop, fingers flying over his keyboard. “Sandeep thought the threats were related to the D’Agostino case, so I’m gonna…I have a bunch of stuff in my G drive.” He angles the computer so I can see his screen. “This is a spreadsheet of everybody involved in the D’Agostino case. I’ll check for David Jackson.” He types the name into the search bar, and neither of us breathes until it comes up blank.
“Try just Jackson,” I say.
This time we get a result right away: Officer Ray Jackson, defendant. Accused of assisting Sergeant Carl D’Agostino in blackmailing and framing seventeen innocent people for drug possession. Age: 24. Status: In jail, awaiting trial.
“Huh,” I say. “Ray Jackson. Maybe he’s related to David Jackson?”
“Maybe,” Knox says. He’s still tapping away, eyes glued to the screen. “Hang on, I indexed all the media coverage too. Let’s see if they mention family.” He’s silent for a couple of minutes, then angles his screen toward me. “This article includes Jackson and brother in it somewhere.”
A news clip fills the screen, showing Sergeant D’Agostino with his arm around a clean-cut young guy holding a plaque. “I remember this article,” Knox says. “I read it with Bethany. It’s about D’Agostino giving some mentoring award.” He points to the caption. “The week before his arrest, Sergeant Carl D’Agostino commended San Diego State University students for excellence in community peer mentoring.”
“Okay, so that’s D’Agostino,” I say. “What does it say about Jackson?” Both our eyes race over the page, but mine are faster. I almost gasp when I see it. “Ironically, one of the at-risk yo
uths receiving peer mentoring was Ray Jackson’s younger brother Jared, 19, on probation last year for petty theft,” I read. “Program officials said Jared Jackson excelled in the program and now works part-time for a local construction company.” I turn toward Knox. “Is there a picture of Ray Jackson anywhere?”
“Yeah, not in this article, but…” Knox pulls up another news story with thumbnail photos of each of the accused officers. He clicks on the one marked Ray Jackson, then enlarges it until it fills half the screen. At that size, even though it’s a little blurry, there’s no mistaking the similarity around the mouth and eyes between Ray Jackson and the guy we trailed to and from Callahan Park.
“Intense Guy is Jared Jackson,” I breathe. “Ray Jackson’s brother. He must be. The age is right, and the face is right. They’re definitely related.”
“Yeah,” Knox says. “And the note he left for Phoebe is identical to the ones we’ve been getting at Until Proven, so…Jared Jackson must also be the person who’s been sending threats to Eli.” His brow furrows. “Which makes a twisted kind of sense, I guess, since Eli put his brother in jail. But what’s his problem with Phoebe?”
“I don’t know, but we’d better tell Eli,” I say. Knox reaches for his phone, but I’ve already pressed Eli’s number on mine. Within seconds his voice fills my ear: This is Eli Kleinfelter. I’m not checking voice mail until Monday, March thirtieth. If you need immediate assistance with a legal matter, please call Sandeep Ghai of Until Proven at 555-239-4758. Otherwise, leave a message. “Straight to voice mail,” I tell Knox.
“Oh right,” Knox says. “He promised Ashton he’d shut his phone off all weekend. So they could get married in peace.”
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