His gaze is soft…hopeful, even.
I look at him. Really look at him.
This can’t be true. This is a trick. This isn’t real.
Twisting back around, I race through the door.
Everywhere we go, we are asked questions.
Our parents ask us questions.
The lawyers ask us questions.
Who used the Remington?
Where were you hunting?
Why do you have to be such a fuckup?
None of us talk about what will happen after. After the grand jury. After everyone stops asking us these ridiculous questions.
Maybe they’ll never stop asking us.
Standing together like we are to protect each other should make us stronger. It should make us closer. But it doesn’t.
Our silence is ripping us apart.
There will be time to put things back together once this is over. We will be closer than ever. We will be like brothers again.
We will not always be the River Point Boys.
SEPTEMBER 19, 8:57 P.M.
GRANT SHEP: Im at a party at river point. The guys are pissed at me
KATE: Why are they pissed
GRANT SHEP: Because I’d rather be sitting in the back room texting you than hanging out with them
I don’t go back to class. I don’t go to the media arts room. And I certainly don’t go to work. I need time alone. To think. To sort all of this out in my brain. But every time I think about Shep, I remember those disgusting texts he sent and my stomach turns.
But that wasn’t him, I remind myself. It was Grant.
My mind is about to explode.
Since Mom and Mr. Stone have been spending most waking hours at work, she’s relieved his normal driver and taken over that duty herself, leaving me with her Honda. I’ve never been so happy to have a car in the parking lot as I am this morning. I’m only ditching one class, and that shouldn’t throw up too many red flags, especially with everything going on today. My teachers just assume when any of us are missing, we’re off doing stuff for the media arts department.
My phone buzzes again and I’m scared it’s Shep. I glance at it as I slide into Mom’s car.
It’s Reagan.
Just seeing this. What in the hell are you doing?
Do I need to come rescue you?????
I reply, I’m fine. Leaving school early. I’ll c u at work later.
It only takes a few seconds for her to reply:
Is this code for something? I’m not sure if you’re really asking for help.
I can’t help but laugh. I text her I’m fine and throw my phone across the seat. I drive around aimlessly, trying to let my mind go. I roll the windows down and crank up the radio, hoping that if I can’t hear myself think, my brain will shut off.
It helps for a little while.
Without consciously being aware of where I was going, I find myself at Columbia Park. My go-to place for downtime. I’ve taken some of my best pictures here.
It’s empty this time of the day, since the bigger kids are in school and the younger ones are probably inside having an early lunch right now.
I drop down on one of the benches under the big oak tree near the swing set and pull out my phone, scrolling through my messages until I find Grant’s name.
But it’s not Grant. It’s Shep.
I try to reread the messages I thought were from Grant and picture Shep’s face in my mind, but it’s hard to do. I don’t get too far back before I have to stop. It’s too painful.
Dropping my phone, I bury my head in my hands and cry. It’s like finding out Grant’s dead all over again, but this time it’s the Grant that I was falling for—the one in my heart and in my mind.
I hear heavy footsteps behind me and I spin around quickly, almost falling off the bench.
It’s Shep.
“Did you follow me here?” I ask wildly. I drove around for at least twenty minutes before winding my way back.
He shakes his head. “No. I just figured you were here.”
I can’t stop the eye roll. “You just thought I would be at this tiny little park in a part of town you’ve probably never been to before.”
He moves a little closer. “You’ve talked about this park. A lot. Talked about this oak tree. Described the pictures you took here.”
My breath catches.
This isn’t real. This can’t be happening. Shep wouldn’t know about this park. He couldn’t know. I told Grant about this place.
But it wasn’t Grant.
I feel sick.
He moves even closer, just steps away from the bench.
“Please give me a chance to explain,” he says in a quiet voice. The same exact words Grant said in his last text to me.
No. Shep.
“I don’t understand,” I say, then drop my head against the back of the bench. I think back to that first time I met them, trying to make sense of everything. “Grant put y’all’s numbers in my phone. Did he switch them? Why would he switch them?”
Shep lets out a deep breath and sits on the ground, his arms resting on his pulled-up knees. “When you got up to go to return that book, I told Grant I thought you were cute. Told him I was going to ask for your number. He beat me to it, but I was glad he at least gave you my number, too. But he switched them and put my number under his name and his number under mine. It was his idea of a joke. I swear I didn’t know.” He leans his head back. “He was always doing stupid shit like that.”
I didn’t think I could feel any worse, but I do. I’m humiliated. And confused. And heartbroken. And furious.
“At some point you must have figured it out,” I say through gritted teeth.
He nods. “The day of the Battle of the Paddle. You sent that picture of Grant and Lindsey, and you were so mad at me and I couldn’t figure out why. Why would you send that pic to me? So I asked Grant and he almost pissed himself he was laughing so hard. He had no idea we had been texting for those few weeks. That’s when I found out what he’d done. I sent you that last text, hoping you would let me explain.”
I jump up from the bench and start pacing around. “So for weeks, I was talking to you, not Grant.”
It’s not really a question, but Shep answers it anyway, “Yes. It was always me.”
It’s like I’m being split in two. The half of me that fell for Grant over late-night conversations and has mourned his death every day battles with the other half, who is looking at this stranger, who may also be a killer, and realizing he’s not a stranger at all.
“I just don’t know how it’s possible that I didn’t know it was you instead of Grant. That you didn’t know I didn’t know. I can’t…believe this.”
He stands up and moves toward me. “I’ve thought about it for a while. I’ve read back through all of our texts. It’s not like I signed my messages ‘From Shep.’ We were strangers. We got to know each other through those messages. You had no reason to think I wasn’t Grant. I had no reason to think you didn’t know it was me.” He inches closer. “And everything I said to you, I meant. I still do.”
I push away from him. My brain is in overload, trying to reconcile what I’ve learned. And what I already know. “Then why have you waited so long to tell me?” I scream at him. “You knew I thought I was talking to Grant. And he died. I’ve been out of my mind, regretting that last text—regretting that he died believing I was mad at him.”
The tears race down my cheeks and his hand brushes them away before I can stop him.
“Kate, I’ve—I’ve been in a pretty bad place.” His voice is raw. “One of my best friends is dead. Killed by one of my other best friends. I’m being questioned, we’re all being questioned. I may go to jail for this. My parents are furious and scared, and basically, my life is a nightmare right now. I just thought—I don’t know, I just thought it would be better to let you go. You didn’t need to be a part of any of this.”
I step closer to him, pained by the expression on his face
and the hurt in his voice.
“So why tell me now?” I ask.
He swallows. “I missed…I miss talking to you, Kate. There are…so few people I can talk to right now. I didn’t know how hard it would be, seeing you every day. I feel like I know you, like there was something between us, but when you look at me, I’m a stranger to you. It kills me.”
His head lowers. We are just inches apart. My eyes scan his face, memorizing it so I can try to match what I was feeling in those conversations to the person in front of me. Grant’s name screams through my head, but it’s not the same Grant I knew five minutes ago. It’s all so fuzzy.
“So the texts I got that I thought were from you were actually from him?” I ask.
He nods, his jaw clenching. Just like it does in his interrogation videos.
“Why am I in his phone under the initials FWS? Do you know?”
His head cocks to the side, like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle. I can tell the instant he gets it. I can also tell he doesn’t want to tell me what it stands for.
“Tell me. Please,” I beg.
Finally, he says, “It stands for ‘Fuck With Shep.’ That’s what he said when I asked him about you. He said, ‘Operation Fuck With Shep worked out after all.’ It was all a game to him.”
I drop back down on the bench. It was a game. “I can’t. I can’t do this. Not with you. Not right now,” I whisper.
He kneels in front of me. “I know you. And deep down, you know me, too. You just know me by the wrong name.”
I hug my arms tight around my body as if I can stop myself from shattering into a million pieces. “When I see you, I remember those messages I thought were from you. They were…disgusting. Why would Grant say those things?”
Shep visibly cringes. “Can I read them? His messages?”
Squeezing my phone tightly, I try to think of any reason not to hand it over, but I’ve got nothing. I scroll to his messages and give my phone to Shep.
He must read through them more than once, because it takes a while for him to hand it back.
“Please switch our names. I hate seeing those messages with my name at the top of the screen.”
I do as he asks. “Why did he do this?” I ask again.
“Grant’s sense of humor was twisted. He knew I was going to text you. He knew…I was interested. And he knew, at least at first, you would think I was him. And then if you got some shitty messages you thought were from me, well, that would make it even better. He was always screwing with people like that.”
“But people loved him. Everyone I’ve talked to loved him. This doesn’t make sense.”
“People were amused by him. He was fun and entertaining until you found yourself on the wrong side of his jokes.”
Shep sits down on the other end of the bench, keeping a safe distance between us. “I’m so sorry, Kate. You have no idea how sorry I am that you’ve had to go through this.”
He reaches out for me, but I shrug away. The sadness on his face shatters me. Everything about this shatters me.
“I work for the prosecutor who’s handling your case.” I scoot even farther away to put some distance between us. “I’m glad you told me, but it doesn’t change anything. I can’t talk to you. Or be seen with you.”
His head drops. “I know. I probably shouldn’t have told you. I thought maybe if you knew the truth, you wouldn’t be sad anymore.”
I jump up from the bench, white-hot anger suffocating me from out of nowhere. “Seriously? I’ve been mourning Grant for weeks now. It’s not like a switch I can flip on and off.” I spin around and move toward the swings, shoving one so it sways violently back and forth. “And then there’s you. You’re sitting there telling me you know me. Expecting me to be okay with this…”
Shep moves behind me; his hands are gentle on my shoulders. My heart is pounding. There is a desperate part of me that wants to step back into him. This stranger who is not a stranger.
But I can’t.
I step away from him and his hands fall away.
Without turning around, I ask, “Were you the one who shot Grant?”
His breath lets out in a loud rush. “No. I told you the truth yesterday. I’ve never lied to you—not when we were texting and not now. I swear I didn’t shoot him. If there’s only one thing you will believe, please believe that.” His voice cracks and I can’t help but turn around. I look at him like I’ve never looked at him before.
I study his face; his brown eyes that are begging me to see him for who he really is, and his tense expression that shows me that this is as hard for him as it is for me.
“But you’re covering for the person who did! That’s almost as bad!” I cry. My hands are shaking.
He shakes his head. “No. I’m not,” he says in a quiet voice. “I don’t know who did it. We all stood over his body, and no one would admit to shooting him. No one would admit to using that gun. But I swear to you, it wasn’t me. Please believe me.”
It’s hard to swallow for the lump in my throat. I search his face, seeking some sign he’s lying. I know him, but I don’t. I know the person on the other end of those messages. That person I would believe. But is that the same person in front of me right now?
“I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I can’t be here.”
“Kate?” Shep says, but I shake my head and turn away. When I get in my car and pull out of the parking lot, he’s still there, sitting on my favorite bench under the big oak tree.
• • •
I’m only a few minutes late to work. Mom’s in the office with Mr. Stone, so I drop down in her chair, giving myself a few more minutes to come to grips with what I’ve learned.
As I scan the mess on top of her desk, a half-buried piece of paper catches my eye when I see a number circled in red ink. I pull it out of the pile, making sure I don’t disturb anything else, and written next to the number is a date—October 5—and the name Lindsey Wells.
The girl Grant was with the night before at the Battle of the Paddle game.
The same girl who acted really weird at Rhino Coffee the other night when we started talking about the River Point Boys.
October 5. This is the call he deleted from his phone the morning he died.
“Kate, you’re here,” she says, and her eyes go to the paper I’m holding.
“Looks like you figured out who Booty Call 3 is,” I say, keeping my voice even.
“Yes, but she wasn’t any help. Said she had been with Grant the night before, but they had gotten in a fight. Apparently, he called her that morning, trying to make up with her, and she blew him off. Probably why he deleted the call. Poor dear was so upset. Couldn’t stop crying.”
I get up from her seat while she puts the papers back in a folder. “And don’t go running off and telling Reagan what I just told you. You know how that girl loves to gossip.”
I nod, not even trying to defend Reagan, since it wouldn’t do any good.
Mom’s face is full of concern when she finally looks at me. “You look like you’ve been crying. Are you okay?”
I rub a hand across my face. “I’m fine.”
She stares at me a moment but doesn’t push it. “Okay, well, I’m going to step out for some lunch. Mr. Stone is on a conference call right now but should be done shortly.” Mom points to the area off to the side of her desk. “He’s got an interview cued up, ready for you. Do you want me to bring you back anything?”
I shake my head, unable to answer, because at my little corner desk, Shep’s face is frozen on the screen, waiting for me.
“Okay, I’ll see you in a few,” she says, just before stepping out of the door.
She leaves the office and I slowly make my way to the table. All I can focus on is Shep’s face. He looks different on the screen than he did a few minutes ago in the park. Here, his face is set in stone, no trace of any emotion. Not like at the park, when he was a breath away from falling apart.
I sit at the table and put the headphones on. Th
is is going to be the hardest one I’ve done, now that I know who he really is. I take a deep breath and brace myself.
Then I press play.
TRANSCRIPT OF THE OCTOBER 5 INTERROGATION OF SHEPHERD MOORE BY DETECTIVE ARCHER, WITH BODY LANGUAGE COMMENTARY BY KATE MARINO
DET. ARCHER: So let’s go back for a minute. How long have you been friends with these boys?
SHEP: I met them when my family moved here three years ago—midway through our freshman year.
DET. ARCHER: And you moved here from Texas?
KATE: Shep rolls his eyes. Collapses back in his chair. Looks frustrated.
SHEP: You know I did. You know my dad. Why are you asking me stupid questions?
DET. ARCHER: Don’t get smart with me. I’ll throw your ass in that squad car outside and we can move this discussion to a jail cell if that’s what it takes. How many times have you been to River Point?
KATE: He doesn’t move. Looks at the detective with mild disinterest.
SHEP: A lot. Too many to count. During hunting season, we spend almost every weekend here. We’re here in the spring because the fishing on this part of the river is better than anywhere else. We’re here in the summer because John Michael has ski boats and Jet Skis we can use. We’re here all the time.
DET. ARCHER: Damn, son, pretty lucky for you to hook up with some rich friends like that.
SHEP: Yeah, I’m super lucky.
KATE: His posture matches the sarcastic answer.
DET. ARCHER: Henry, Logan, and John Michael have known each other since they were attached to their mamas’ breasts, and John Michael and Grant’s dads do a lot of business together. You didn’t come into the group until a few years ago. Ever feel like the odd man out?
KATE: He shrugs. His eyes flick around the room. He’s looking everywhere but at the detective.
SHEP: It’s not like you’re trying to make it sound.
DET. ARCHER: How am I trying to make it sound? I’m just trying to get some idea of the dynamics.
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