White Rabbit

by Caleb Roehrig

  The Jeep fills with silence, and I feel my smile flop dead on my face. With difficulty, I mutter, “Don’t.”

  “Rufus, I—”

  “I said, don’t.” I refuse to look at him.

  “You have to listen to me,” he insists quietly, and suddenly I can’t wait to get to Arlo’s house and face his rifle again. “The reason I came looking for you tonight was because I need you to know how sorry I am that I hurt you.” His voice is thin and strange, and I can feel his eyes on me, and it takes all my concentration just to keep breathing. “I’ve done a lot of shitty things, Rufe, but the worst thing I’ve ever done was what I did to you. And I’m really, really sorry. I need you to know that.”

  It takes an inhuman amount of self-control to remain stoic, my throat tightening convulsively as memories explode open like letter bombs in my brain. My skin is hot and cold all over at the same time, and my eyes swim with tears that I’m quickly losing the strength not to shed.

  “I told you I loved you,” I finally whisper, the words ripping holes in my chest as they come out. It isn’t fair. They should be ripping holes in his chest. But I’m the one who hurts; I’m the one who’s suddenly crying. “I said, ‘I love you,’ and you stopped speaking to me.”

  * * *

  By the end of May, the city of Burlington had erupted in brightly colored wildflowers, proof that nature was as thrilled as the rest of us that the school year was ending. After the final bell on of one my last Fridays as a sophomore, I asked my mom to drop me off near Church Street—a pedestrian-only stretch of shops and restaurants at the heart of town—and assured her I would get a ride home later.

  It was only a ten-minute wait until Sebastian’s Jeep turned the corner and slowed to a stop by the curb. My heart was already beating faster, my mind a whirl of warmth and anticipation, when he rolled down his window, fixed me with a smoldering, sloe-eyed look, and said, “Hey, sexy. Wanna lift?”

  We’d arranged the rendezvous in advance, of course—another CIA maneuver allowing us to spend a few hours together off our friends’ radars. Naturally, Sebastian had a party to attend that night, and I had promised Lucy some quality BFF time that would doubtless involve weed, nachos, and a Parks and Recreation marathon on Netflix; but the afternoon belonged to just the two of us, and I couldn’t wait.

  The Williamses lived in a rambling colonial within arm’s reach of the Burlington Country Club, a house with two chimneys and about a million windows. Because of Sebastian’s father’s job with the athletics department at the university, and his mother’s position as executive chef at this wildly popular restaurant just outside of town, it was no surprise that theirs was one of the most impressive homes on the block. The first time Sebastian had shown me inside, I’d walked around with the hushed reverence of a churchgoer, awestruck and humbled by the satiny granite countertops, the gloomy oil paintings, the museumy furniture. Everything was so sumptuous, clean, and expensive that I was afraid to touch it.

  Sebastian’s bedroom was magnificent; a converted attic with sloped ceilings and windows in three directions, it boasted a bed as big as a garbage barge and a private, en suite bathroom. It was up there that he led me that afternoon, as birds were singing and flowers were perfuming the air, and our relationship—though I did not know it yet—was already entering its final throes.

  We put something on TV, but it was pretense—background noise to score the hungry look he gave me before he pressed his lips to mine, before he pushed me down into the rolling softness of his plump, white duvet and pinned my body beneath his own. I felt trapped, and it thrilled me—which terrified me, utterly.

  It was something I’d been struggling with for weeks, maybe months. Sebastian had opened up a weak spot in me, slipped through my considerable protective barriers to a place where I felt helpless and insecure; but instead of reacting with alarm, I found that I liked it. I liked how vulnerable he made me feel—a fact that both scared and excited me in equal measure.

  We’d been kissing for a while, his hips moving against mine until my entire body was sparking and overheated—on the verge of explosion—when he stopped suddenly. With an agonized exhalation, he complained breathily in my ear, “Fuuuck!”

  “What?” I asked dizzily. “What’s wrong?”

  Sebastian sat up, his face flushed. “We need to stop.”

  “Why?”

  “Becaaaause…” He blew out some more air, rubbed his scalp, gave me a sly look. “I’m kind of … um. Close? And if we don’t quit right now, it’ll just be … uh, frustrating. If you know what I mean.”

  I nodded, because I knew exactly what he meant. In our four months together, we had acted out this very scene several times, and it was getting harder and harder—no pun intended—to say our proper lines at the end. To go back to watching TV, or making a snack, or doing anything that emphatically did not involve our erections. More and more, I had trouble remembering why I was saying no in the first place.

  It was my choice; I was the holdout—the virgin. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel ready, exactly, and it certainly wasn’t that I didn’t want to; lying there and looking up at him as the saffron light of the afternoon beat lazily through his dormer windows and swirled seductively in the air around us, every nerve ending in my body was screaming yes. What kept me putting it off was fear.

  Fear that it wouldn’t mean the same thing to him that it did to me; fear that he might lose interest when it was over; fear that my protective barriers would break completely apart like autumn leaves if I let him that much closer.

  The problem was, I already knew, that it was far too late to protect myself now. The thing I’d been most afraid of had long since happened: My barriers were toast, and my feelings for Sebastian were written indelibly beneath my skin. Gazing up at him, I took a breath, faltered, and then asked, “Do you h-have … a condom?”

  “Really?” His eyebrows shot up, a surprised grin lighting his face. Then, almost instantly, his expression became careful, serious. “Are you sure? I mean, I don’t want to make you feel like—”

  “I’m sure,” I answered before I could reconsider. I didn’t want to reconsider.

  What followed was nothing like it looks online. I was awkward and uncoordinated, my knees and elbows flailing about in places they weren’t supposed to go, and a lot of stuff I’d expected to be sexy and cool was actually sort of hilarious and/or painful. But the experience was also electrifying and powerful and romantic—even when Sebastian had to turn off the TV because he felt like SpongeBob was judging us; and the fact that he was laughing and cringing right along with me made everything perfect.

  Afterward, when we were lying together atop his duvet, his heart thumping against my back as a flowery breeze stirred the sweat on our skin, I felt a foreign happiness swelling in my chest. Bright, meaningful Words fluttered in my mouth like hummingbirds, and I had to keep my lips sealed to prevent them from getting out. With a sigh, Sebastian drawled, “That was … actually, that was kind of awesome.”

  I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I giggled my agreement. But as he got up and crossed the room, hiding the condom at the bottom of his wastebasket, he paused for just a moment to look out the window into his backyard. The setting sun caught him, bathing him all over in such rich, warm light that it looked as if his body had been dipped in gold dust, and the Words burst from me before I could stop them.

  “I love you.”

  They soared from my lips, straight up, and hung above my head like the sword of Damocles.

  A lifetime of silence passed—shorter than a heartbeat, but long enough for me to see him flinch, long enough to know he’d heard me. And then he turned from the window, heading for the bathroom as if I’d said nothing at all, announcing broadly, “I’m gonna take a shower. Turn the TV back on, if you want.”

  The door shut behind him, and the sword plunged down, straight through my heart.

  * * *

  My statement feels radioactive in the silence of the Jeep, a spreading
hazard that can no longer be avoided.

  “You just disappeared. You stopped answering my texts and my calls, you stopped showing up at the Front Line … I had to hear from Ramona fucking Waverley that you’d dumped me.” I swipe the tears from my eyes, but they just keep coming, hot and bitter. “You told the whole school that you were still in love with Lia, that you’d never stopped being in love with her. You should have told me that! You should have at least had the guts to tell me to my face that I was only a … a convenience. That I didn’t even matter. You ass.”

  “Rufus.” He sounds stricken, horrible, but I will not turn my face to his. “That’s not how it was. I can’t believe you’d think that.”

  “You know what? I don’t care.” I force steel into my voice, bite down hard against the thickness that betrays my anguish. For weeks I’ve told myself that the only upside of being ignored by Sebastian is that he’d never get to see how totally he’d destroyed me, that he’d never know how badly I’ve been hurting thanks to him—and now I’ve served the information up on a silver platter. It’s all too much. “I don’t give a shit how it was. You wanted to tell me you’re sorry? Great. Mission accomplished. But don’t wait for me to tell you it’s okay, because I won’t. I will never say that, because I don’t accept your fucking apology.”

  “Ruf—”

  “Stop the car.”

  “Are you fucking joking?” Sebastian is appalled. “Look, I know you’ve got a right to be pissed at me, but there’s no way in hell I’m letting you go do this alone—go risk getting freaking killed just because you’re super pissed at me and you don’t want to give me the satisfaction of helping! You don’t have to forgive me, but I still care about you, Rufus. I still have your back, whether you like it or not!”

  “You need to stop the car,” I reply shortly, “because we’re at Arlo’s house.”

  In fact, we’re just passing it as Sebastian finally hits the brakes. Along the roadside, streetlamps leach rings of amber into the gauzy fog, soft irises embracing bilious, burning pupils—eyes that glare down at us as the Jeep bumps to a stop at the curb. Arlo’s place remains in deep shadow, a case of black rot that threatens to infect the neighborhood.

  Before I can get out of the car, Sebastian tries again. “Please—can you just hear me out for a second? We might be about to get shot or something, and I really need to tell you—”

  “I’d rather just get shot,” I fire back, trying to be as hurtful as possible. “You want to give me a bunch of excuses so that you feel better, and that’s not my problem. I don’t have to care how you’re dealing with the way you dumped me.”

  With that, I shove open my door and march for the sidewalk. Sebastian sticks doggedly behind me, but I focus on tuning him out, trying to forget all the pain he’s intent on stirring up. Fox’s murderer is still out there—and so are four thousand genuine US dollars, ready to be claimed and sent to the bank, if I can just find a way to make sure April is in the clear. I need to keep my head in the game.

  “Arlo?” I call out quietly but clearly in the heavy stillness, as soon as we enter the darkness beneath the towering oak. I want to avoid surprises—especially the kind that go bang—and announcing our arrival seems wise. “We’re back—me and Bash. We’re not looking to start shit or anything, okay? We just want to talk.”

  There’s no answer. My voice is swallowed up by dense air, and I can hear nothing from the murky cover of the front porch. The silence is almost oppressive, the Rossi home seeming even more desolate than it was on our first visit. Glancing around, I take in the street, noting with relief that Hayden’s BMW is nowhere to be seen. Maybe Lia’s fears were unfounded.

  “Arlo?” I approach the porch steps, Sebastian at my heels, and we start cautiously up them. The Rossis’ door is just discernible in the charcoal smudge of darkness that yawns ahead. “Anybody home?”

  The stairs groan under my feet, and twice I ask myself what the hell I think I’m doing—what moves I have planned for when I reach the porch and either find Arlo waiting for me with a rifle, or find no Arlo and have to decide whether I’m going to ring the doorbell and risk having to explain myself to the guy’s father.

  My concerns prove irrelevant. As I clear the top of the steps, I trip over something, nearly crashing into the front door before I narrowly regain my balance and look down. Arlo lies on his back at my feet, face placid and arms flung over his head as if he’s just stretched out on the dusty floorboards to take a nap.

  But he isn’t asleep. I know it even before I notice the grisly, black fissure that gapes open across his throat like a second mouth—even before I catch the nauseating, metallic stench of blood that hovers in the air like a swarm of blackflies.

  Arlo is dead.

  16

  Jolting back, I slam directly into Sebastian, who has just reached the top of the steps behind me. He grunts in surprise. “Hey, caref—”

  When his voice simply cuts off, plunging into ominous silence, I know he’s seen the body. Tonelessly, I say, “Let’s go.”

  “Is he … is he dead?” Pushing me aside, Sebastian stumbles forward, his eyes bright with alarm. “Oh shit—”

  Without ceremony, I grab his elbow and drag him back again, stopping him before he can instinctively check for a pulse—before he can leave fingerprints at another crime scene. “Forget it. There’s nothing we can do!”

  Blood has gushed from Arlo’s brutalized neck, streaking and mottling his inked torso, and it collects beneath him in a spreading, black pool. His eyes are half open, glassy, and vacant, like empty bottles or burned-out bulbs. He is clearly beyond saving.

  Sebastian wheels on me. “We can’t just—I mean, we can’t … He’s been killed, Rufus! Look at him! We can’t just leave him—”

  “We have to,” I say, firmly and urgently. “I’m serious. Sebastian? We have to get out of here right now.”

  That finally seems to make an impression, and my ex-boyfriend’s eyes widen even further, his voice hollowing out. “You think Hayden might come back?”

  “I think we don’t need to give the neighbors any more chances to see us and tell the police we were here.”

  “We’re not even gonna call the police?” He pulls away as I start dragging him down the stairs. “Are you freaking kidding?”

  “Do you really feel like explaining how we just happened to turn up at the site of a second murder tonight?” I challenge frantically, every fiber of my being itching to be back in the Jeep, halfway to anywhere else. “They’re gonna find him any minute now, anyway, because April has to have already handed over Fox’s guest list for the party. You think it won’t look shady as hell if we’re standing here when they roll up?”

  He just stares at me, not wanting to understand. “We have to tell them about Hayden, Rufus. He’s still out there, and apparently he’s lost his fucking mind! What if he comes for you again? What if he goes for Lia?”

  “Don’t you get it?” I finally snap. “We can’t tell the police why we suspect Hayden without telling them about the money—which means telling them when we really got to the lake house, and everything else that we lied about!” I hear myself, and guilt twists at my insides, followed by a rush of panicked adrenaline as time continues slipping away. “Look, I know it’s my fault. It was my stupid decision to help April, even though we both knew I shouldn’t, and now it’s blowing up in our faces. I’m sorry. I am really, really sorry I got you into this; but here we fucking are.” I take a deep breath, guilt twisting harder. “We can’t help Arlo, but if you’re right, and Hayden is going back to Lia’s … well, then we need to get over there now.”

  It hits him where I meant it to, his eyes sparking with fear, and he nods sharply. “You’re right. Shit. Shit, we need to make sure she’s okay.”

  Silently, he sprints across Arlo’s yard, heading back for the Jeep, and I follow behind, tormented by mixed emotions. It’s not my fault that Arlo is dead, but I am responsible for putting Sebastian in a position to lie to the co
ps; I was the one who took the money, not him, and he’s risked a lot by covering up for me. I’ve been so angry at him for so long, but I’ve put him in an impossible situation that only seems to be getting worse.

  Maybe I preyed on his feelings for Lia as a way of punishing myself, I reflect miserably as I climb into Sebastian’s car and it jerks away from the curb. I knew his instinct to protect her would be the one thing that might override his desire to call the police; maybe I wanted to see him go all White Knight for Lia, because I needed to feel how much it would hurt. He used me unjustly, but I’m digging a hole that could bury us both, and that’s something potentially far worse. Maybe I deserve a little pain right now.

  Sebastian drives one-handed, shooting past parked cars with centimeters to spare, cell phone pressed to his ear as he calls Lia. I cross my fingers and hope that nobody is still awake to report the suspicious vehicle speeding away from the Rossi house, and listen mutely to the relief in my ex-boyfriend’s voice as he gets his ex-girlfriend on the line. “Are you okay? Has Hayden been back?” He pauses, and then says, “I can’t … look, we’re on our way over to you now, and I’ll tell you everything when we get there. Just … if Hayden does show up? Don’t talk to him. Don’t go outside, don’t let him in, don’t answer his calls. Just ignore him. No matter what. Okay? Promise me.”

  He hangs up, and a palpable silence once again vibrates around us, both of us too tense to speak. I want to put Sebastian at ease, tell him he’s just jumping to conclusions. I want to tell him that Lia probably has nothing to be afraid of. But how can I? Maybe she does.

  I wanted to be suspicious of Sebastian’s ex earlier, but it’s become increasingly evident that I might have to let that self-serving theory go already; in order to support it, I’d have to accept that she: 1) murdered Fox and framed April for it, but then tried to get us to believe that Arlo was the actual culprit all along, and 2) killed Arlo (to keep him from denying it?) and then tried to make it seem like Hayden did it. To get away with all that, she’ll have to eventually kill my brother, too, and I simply don’t believe she’s that diabolical. It’s not as if I actually trust her, and I definitely don’t think she’s been entirely honest with us, but I still haven’t even figured out a motive for her to want Fox dead.