I go completely still. “Huh?”
“Earlier, you said that April called her parents first thing; so, if she knew they were already handling the situation, I guess I don’t understand why she felt she needed to call you, too.” It isn’t a question, and I have no answer for it anyway, so I let him go on. “Why did she? If you and Fox weren’t even friends, I mean?”
It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to look up or away while I scramble to think—telltale signs of bullshitting that he’s no doubt been trained to look for. “She’d been drinking,” I begin experimentally, my mouth so dry it clicks, “and she was freaking out. Some of her friends … well, okay, look—they were doing … some stuff at that party that was worse than just drinking, you know? And April was afraid of what would happen if her parents saw all of … you know, that stuff. So she called me. She was supposed to call me anyway, and she was really … I mean, she was freaking out! I guess she was hoping I could pick her up so her parents wouldn’t have to know.”
My pulse is beating so hard I’m afraid it’s going to leave bruises, but Lehmann merely nods. “More serious than drinking, huh? What are we talking, here? Drugs?”
“I guess.” I shift in my seat. “I’d rather not get into it, though. I wasn’t at the party, so I don’t know for sure what went on. You’d have to ask April.”
“Was she using, too?”
My mind goes suddenly, terrifyingly blank. I hadn’t intended to open the door to this question—had only done so out of desperation—and I truly don’t know how to answer. April had sworn to me, convincingly, that she’d only had alcohol at the party … but I still can’t bring myself to accept it. My uncle Connor had stayed with us for a few weeks while recovering from knee surgery the previous year, and so I know the difference between “drunk” and “fucked up on meds.” I would bet every cent of the two thousand dollars in my pocket right now that April had been the latter when Sebastian and I found her at the cottage.
In the half second it takes me to trip over this seed of doubt, I’ve already missed my window of opportunity to give an innocuous answer; just enough time has now passed for a “no” to look like deception, an “I don’t know” to sound evasive, and a “yes” to go without saying. I lick my lips again, preparing to blurt some kind of brilliant damage control … and am spared—miraculously—when the door to the room bangs suddenly open.
“What the hell is going on?”
To my shock, it’s Peter, his face a familiarly livid shade of scarlet.
“Sir, I’m afraid you can’t be in here.” Detective Lehmann is on his feet in an instant, already moving to intercept my father. “These rooms are off-limits to—”
“What has he been asking you?” Peter demands of me over the detective’s shoulder. “Did he tell you that you have a right to counsel?”
“Sir, you need to leave,” Lehmann snaps sharply, his palsy-walsy demeanor gone in a hurry. “I am interviewing a potential witness in a sensitive—”
“‘Interviewing,’ my ass!” Peter shoots back, glaring at the hapless detective like he’s trying to incinerate the man’s soul with his eyes. “You’re aware that Rufus is a minor? You have no right to interrogate him without notifying his—”
“This is not an interrogation; I am merely taking his statement, and there is no need—”
“‘Taking his statement?’ You’ve been in here for almost fifteen minutes! How long does it take to ascertain that he got a phone call from his sister, picked her up, and drove her here—to you?” He manages to make it sound like Detective Lehmann is not only incompetent but possibly also corrupt. To me, Peter barks, “Have you told him that much already?” Meekly, and somewhat dazed, I nod, and Peter nods back. “Good. Then get your things together. It’s time for you to go home.”
“Sir!” The beautiful detective is plainly aghast. “You have no right to—”
“I happen to be Rufus’s father, as well as his attorney, so I’m afraid I have every right,” Peter returns icily, “and unless you plan to arrest him for something, he is free to walk out of here any time he chooses. I won’t have you exploiting his ignorance of legal process to pressure him. He’s told you what happened, and that’s all he’s obligated to do. If you have any more questions for him, you can ask them through me.” With pointed rudeness, my father produces a business card and tucks it into Detective Lehmann’s breast pocket—the white-collar equivalent of go fuck yourself. “Also, for the record, I expect a copy of his statement to be forwarded to my office. If I discover that any part of it was coerced, I’m going to have your badge, Detective. Rufus, let’s go.”
I’m too stunned to argue, and don’t know if I even have the wherewithal to try. As if under remote control, I rise to my feet and duck through the door, singed by the laser grid of white-hot glares that pass between the two men. I don’t look up at either of them.
12
Wordlessly, I follow Peter down the empty corridor leading back to the lobby, expecting armed policemen to jump out of nowhere at any moment and stop us from leaving the building. I still don’t entirely understand what’s just happened, and I’m not at all certain that Peter actually has the right to yank me out from under Detective Lehmann’s nose like that.
It’s not only Peter’s intervention in the nick of time, though—saving me from an increasingly curious policeman who seemed to have caught the scent of my dishonesty—that has me so jumpy and off-balance. It’s also the way that he authoritatively identified himself as my father in front of the detective. It’s a biological fact that he has only ever admitted to in the past while under legal duress.
As grateful as I am to have been rescued from the interview before having had a chance to shoot myself in the foot, however, I’m not about to say thank you. I know Peter far too well to make the mistake of believing that his fierce performance of paternal concern has anything to do with my rights being abused. As if to drive the point home, my father stops abruptly in the middle of the narrow hallway, grabs me by the arm, and hauls me with him into a small unisex bathroom. Locking the door behind us, he then slams me—hard—against the wall. “What the fuck did you tell him?”
“Nothing!” Sixteen years of ingrained fear streak up my spine and race around my brain like a feral cat. “I said what you said—April called, we picked her up, and we drove her here. Let me go!”
His eyes bore into me like oil drills, the same dark gray as my own. We have the same wheat-colored hair, the same Cupid’s bow mouth; I hate that I look so much like him. I hate that I have to be reminded of him every time I look in the mirror. Saliva gathering at the corners of his lips, my father snarls, “I know you had something to do with this. I don’t know what, but it’s got your stink all over it.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with anything! Now, let. Me. Go!” I shove him, and he shoves back harder, slamming me into the wall again and driving the air from my lungs. The room flips upside down and turns red, rage knotting suddenly together and throbbing in my chest like an alien spawn just below my heart.
“April is a good kid. Her friends are good kids—respectable kids,” Peter rants on, clearly having no idea what he’s talking about. “What did you do? There’s no chance in hell you were invited to the Whitneys’ lake house tonight, so what were you up to out there?” His face is lavender now, his teeth bared just inches from my nose. “You’re the one who did it, aren’t you? You killed that young man, and you’ve somehow talked April into covering for you—”
“April’s respectable friends were dealing drugs, you stupid asshole!” I hiss back savagely, the pressure in my chest strangling my voice.
Peter blinks once, twice, and then actually shakes his head like a dog trying to cast off water. “No. No, that is … it’s … disgusting, and you should be ashamed of yourself. Fox Whitney was a—”
“Fox Whitney was a drug dealer. Your daughter was dating a drug dealer.” I pronounce the words as sharply as I can, imagining the syllables as fist
s slamming into Peter’s body. “That house looked like a fucking crack den when we showed up, and when we dragged April out of a pool of blood in Fox’s kitchen, she was so damn stoned that even she’s not sure she didn’t—”
“That is … that is a monstrous lie,” Peter gasps out. “How dare you—”
“The sheriff is probably real busy right now, bagging up about four hundred little white pills that were lying around at the respectable party April was having with all the good kids she runs around with—”
“You shut your mouth,” Peter growls furiously, his face bright red. “I have had it with you and your underhanded mother trying to ruin my life, trying to sabotage my family and jeopardize everything I care about! I will get a copy of your statement from the police, and if I find out that you lied, that you … did something to put April in danger, I swear, I—I’ll…”
He raises a fist halfway into the air, his hand trembling. In all the times we’ve faced off, all the times Peter has threatened me, physical violence has never entered the equation; he’s bigger than me, his rages worse than mine, but I’ve never been truly afraid he might hurt me. Until right now, when I can see the depth of his loathing in eyes that look exactly like my own. He really wants to do it.
My voice embarrassingly small, I whisper, “Go ahead. Any lies I told, I told to protect April. But go ahead—give me a reason to call for Detective Lehmann so I can tell him what I really know.”
It’s a bluff—obviously—but Peter isn’t so sure; and for all his talk about April being a “good kid,” the doubt and fear that flash across his face tell me he honestly isn’t sure that she didn’t do it after all. In fact, he’s terrified that she did.
He lets me go. Stepping back, his face pale, he sucks a breath of air through his nostrils and then stabs an unsteady finger at me. “You stay away from my family. I’ll get a restraining order if I have to, but you stay away.”
Then he storms out of the bathroom and back into the hallway, slamming the door shut again behind him.
I just stand there after he’s left, trying to get myself back under control, quaking all over as tears clog my eyes and start to roll. The fear and anger that have been warring inside me are discharging like faulty wiring, and I feel like I’m going to be sick. I’m furious with myself for letting Peter push me to the point where I can’t cope—humiliated by my impotence. I slam a fist into the space beside the light switch over and over until I feel the pain, until the drywall buckles and the skin across my knuckles splits and I have to wash the blood away in the sink.
As the water slips through my fingers, I think about just how much of my father is written into my DNA. I see him in the mirror every day—but it’s what we share on the inside that casts the longest shadow over me. Every time my anger opens up, every time I feel it speeding through my veins, hear it thundering in my ears, it’s one more reminder of Peter Covington. His influence works on me, unseen, like the moon pulling at the tides; and every day I struggle to remember that we are separate planets.
My knuckles stinging, I snatch up some paper towels, wiping my eyes and blowing my nose. Only then do I finally exit the bathroom.
Sebastian is waiting for me in the lobby, his eyes fixed on the television behind the front desk. He gives me a strange look as I approach, and I wonder if the stress of the past few minutes is as readable in my hot, blotchy face as it feels. Mustering my voice, I begin, “Are you done? Because I’m really ready to get the hell out of—”
“Rufus,” Sebastian interrupts, his voice grave. “Look.”
He directs my attention to the TV screen, where a local newscaster with great masses of hair is already in the midst of a report, peering earnestly into the camera. “—update on that house fire on Banfield Crescent. Fire Department officials are telling us that the blaze is now under control, and that early indicators suggest this was indeed a case of arson.” The image cuts to a shot of a grandly gabled home, all peaked roofs and gingerbread trim, about a third of which is a rollicking inferno of bright orange flames. The newscaster’s voice continues over the footage: “It was about two hours ago that the first calls came in to 911, reporting a fire in the high-end enclave of Banfield Crescent. Evidence suggests that the blaze began in the garage and spread quickly; by the time first responders arrived, much of this historic Victorian mansion was in flames.” Another angle on the conflagration, menacing coils of smoke pouring up into the night sky, black on black. “Firefighters were shocked to discover obscenities spray-painted on the house’s front door, an act of vandalism leading many to speculate that the fire had been set deliberately—a situation that officials are now calling ‘likely.’” The shot cuts to a close-up of the whitewashed front door, the obscenities in question apparently so vulgar that they cannot be shown on television; digitally blurred out, they are nothing but a blobby, pinkish smear floating in space. “According to neighbors, the homeowners are out of town for the holiday, and attempts to reach them have so far been unsuccessful. Representatives of the police and fire departments are asking anyone with information to come forward.”
“Dude.” Sebastian grips my arm, tense and wide-eyed, as the newscaster drones on with pertinent hotline numbers. “Rufe … that’s the Whitneys’ place. It’s Fox’s house.”
“What?” I stare at him, trying to understand.
Someone set fire to Fox’s house. It doesn’t make any sense. It has to be related to his death; it strains credulity too far to suggest he might have been murdered and his house torched on the same night just by coincidence—but I still can’t fit the two pieces together. The fire was first reported two hours earlier, which means we were probably just pulling up to the Atwoods’ at the time. The blaze couldn’t have been started before Fox died; but why would someone kill him at the cottage and then drive all the way back into Burlington and set light to his empty home? What would be the point?
I’m pondering the question, trying to remind myself that I’ve already fulfilled my obligation where the solving of this puzzle is concerned, when we step out into the parking lot again. It’s just after two in the morning, the stifling heat of the day having finally abated, and the damp night air wraps around me like a tepid embrace. I’m hungry and exhausted, overjoyed at the thought of heading home; but as we start for the Jeep, I catch Sebastian glancing around, his eyes skittering between shadows.
“What?”
“I don’t see Hayden.” He makes the remark sound as casual as he can, and his forced nonchalance speaks volumes. “Guess he was just talking shit.”
“He probably got bored and went home,” I say. “You ask me, the only reason he was here in the first place was to fuck with me and enjoy April’s panic.”
Sebastian is quiet for a moment, and then mumbles, “I didn’t know he could be like that.”
“Really?” I cast him a sharp look. “Because he’s never been like anything else with me, and he’s never done much to hide it, either. Half the school hates him.”
“Yeah, but…” Sebastian won’t look up at me. “I always just figured people were jealous, you know? He’s popular, he’s … well, you know, he’s hot, and … and I mean, sure, he makes fun of people sometimes, but…”
“But what?” I stop walking, determined to make him acknowledge me for this part. “But those people were losers, so they had it coming?”
“I didn’t say that.” His eyebrows draw together. “Don’t put words in my mouth. Hayden makes fun of people, but it’s usually just kid stuff, you know? Trying to be funny, to get a laugh.” It’s preposterous, and I feel a wave of insult cresting inside me; Hayden’s version of “kid stuff” is sticks and stones with actual sticks and stones. But before I’m able to reply, Sebastian continues, “I guess I knew the guy had kind of a dark side, but he’s always been cool with me. I’ve never seen him act the way he did tonight—to be that … intense. Is that … I mean, is that really the way he is with you? All the time?”
“Yes,” I answer shortly, simmering
inside, because of course Sebastian has seen Hayden “act the way he did tonight.” He’s seen all his friends act like that at one time or another. “Hayden is a freaking psychopath—like, a textbook one, with no actual conscience—and if you haven’t noticed it before, it’s only because you haven’t wanted to notice.”
And with those words, it finally hits me, and I feel like a moron. It’s easy for Sebastian to be in denial of my brother’s hateful villainy, because this is the first time he’s ever been on the receiving end of it. Throughout the months we were dating, one of the things that terrified Sebastian the most was how his friends would react if they found out about us, what parts of his life would be upended or destroyed as people he cared about assimilated news they might not like. Tonight, for a few precious seconds, he lived his nightmare when Hayden turned on him, and now it’s eating him alive.
Just like that, my anger begins to subside. I have a considerable storehouse of hurt feelings thanks to my ex-boyfriend, for reasons both legitimate and petty, but this is something I simply can’t bring myself to hold against him. His blindness to how awful his friends can be is frustrating, but no one deserves to suffer Hayden Covington’s ruthless schadenfreude; and how many times in the past did I ignore Sebastian’s fears and blithely insist to him that coming out wouldn’t be as bad as he feared? That he wouldn’t endure exactly this kind of treatment? I’ve been just as guilty of willful blindness as he has, and out of the same selfish instinct to polish up an inconvenient turd.
“You know what? Never mind—forget I said anything.” I exhale wearily, rubbing my eyes. “I’m just exhausted, and I want tonight to go away. It’s been a really shitty Fourth of July.”
“No argument there.” Sebastian gives me a meek smile of contrition, and we turn to head for his Jeep again.
There’s no warning—no sound of an indrawn breath or a foot scuffing on pavement, no rustle of leaves or swish of fabric; we make it about two steps, and then a dark figure lunges at me out of nowhere, materializing from the void between two parked cars, and my life flashes before my eyes.
White Rabbit Page 12