But Dominic Williams is not Peter Covington, and I know my boyfriend doesn’t have to be afraid. “He will. Everything might not be the same as usual right away, but I swear he will. You heard him, Sebastian: He loves you. He wants things to be like always just as much as you do. You guys just have to get past this part first, that’s all.”
My boyfriend nods, although he doesn’t yet appear wholly convinced. “I feel like I’m on stage and nobody taught me my lines.”
“Totally normal.” I search his face—his dark lashes, his full lips, the smooth contour of his cheek swooping down into his jawline—and say softly, “I love you.”
“Thank you, Rufus.” He gazes at me, expression serious. “For staying with me. For cursing at my dad.” A smile flickers across his half-lit face. “Thanks.”
“Cursing at dads is my signature move,” I remark dryly. “Just ask Peter.” Then, with some selfish reluctance, I ask, “Does this mean you’re going home now?”
“Not until we get some answers out of Race and Peyton.” Off my surprised expression, he adds, “I promised to have your back, Rufe, and I’m sticking to my word. I mean, it sort of sounds like any trouble I get into tonight will be kind of a write-off as far as my parents are concerned.”
“Wow.” I give him a sly grin. “Sebastian 2.0 lives on the edge. I like it.”
“Sebastian 2.0 does not have a frigging clue what he’s doing anymore, so take advantage of it while you can,” he answers with a lopsided grin. He’s about to say something else when his cell phone interrupts us, chiming loudly to announce an incoming text. Then it chimes again, and again, and Sebastian frowns with concern as he fumbles it out of his pocket. “It’s Lia.”
The messages are brief and frantic.
Race keeps texting me what do I do?
He says he wants me to MEET with him! He won’t stop writing!
Seriously, Bash, text me the fucking fuck back, I’m freaking out! What if he comes over here?? What if he tries to fucking stab me??
“We’ve got to nail this down fast, dude,” Sebastian breathes worriedly as he types out a reply, his words appearing in all caps as he thumbs them in, admonishing her to ignore Race and make sure her doors are locked. “This isn’t right. She’s losing her shit, and we can’t protect her unless we—”
“Stop!” I order him suddenly, the urgency of my command startling the both of us. His thumbs freeze in midsentence, and he glances up at me with wide eyes. Licking my lips, I say, “Don’t send that message. Delete it. Tell her … tell her to write him back and say she’s willing to meet with him. Right now.”
Sebastian wrinkles his nose, staring at me in disbelief. “Rufe, are you nuts? Race might be the freaking killer.”
“I know. That’s why we’re going to meet with him in her place.”
He regards me for a moment. “You know, Sebastian 2.0 might not know what he’s doing, but he sure as hell knows he doesn’t want to go get his throat cut.”
“It’ll be two against one,” I point out, “and even if he is the killer and he does have a knife on him, he’ll have to realize Lia wanted us to intercept him. We tell him flat out that she’s expecting us to call and tell her we’re safe and sound after the meeting is over, or she’s going to the cops. He won’t try anything.”
Sebastian thinks about it. He looks like he still wants to argue, but eventually he offers a trepidatious nod. Deleting the draft of his message to his ex-girlfriend, he sighs, “I really, really hope you’re right.”
Me too, I think, wiping my sweaty palms on the Jeep’s upholstery.
* * *
Just more than fifteen minutes later, the two of us walk side by side down a desolate stretch of road south of town, trees lunging out on either side of us, our footsteps like cymbal crashes in the silence. Ahead of us lies Fernwood Park, a vast expanse of lakeside acreage—and the isolated location Race has chosen for the clandestine meeting he thinks he’s having with Lia.
My experience with Fernwood Park is limited, seeing as my last visit was for Field Day in the sixth grade, and so I only have a distant memory of the place—of boxy metal barbecue grills that looked like they’d never been cleaned; weathered, wooden picnic shelters that smelled of tar and resin; and vast, uneven fields spreading between thickets of pine, birch, and maple trees. My vague recollections include the hazy impression of a necklace of rocks surrounding the shoreline, guarded over by weeds and willows, from beneath which the waters of Lake Champlain slowly carve out soil by increments. There’s a modest parking lot as well, but at this early hour it’s off-limits, a metal gate chained shut across the entrance. We’re forced to leave the Jeep ridiculously far away.
The tense drive out from Silverman’s actually took us right by Banfield Crescent and, unable to resist my own morbid curiosity, I instructed Sebastian to turn down the tony avenue so I could see where Fox Whitney once lived.
The air reeked of damp soot and scorched plastic, a hot, sweet stench that left an afterburn in the base of my throat. The remains of the once-stately Victorian mansion, dark and abandoned and ringed with caution tape, stood back from the road like a self-conscious leper. Here and there, intricate woodwork had survived, but still the house appeared totally unsalvageable—a ruined husk remaining upright through willpower alone. Everywhere there were charred timbers and smoke-blackened brick, windows blown out by heat and then haphazardly boarded over, and the garage and roof had been utterly skeletonized by flames. Even the lawn bore the scars of fire, strange loops and lines branded into the earth as if a family of electric eels had been mating on the grass.
Across the wide, whitewashed front door, scarlet letters spelled out the multitude of Fox Whitney’s sins in bold, streaky spray paint:
LIAR
COCKSUCKER
DRUG DEALER
RAPIST
“‘Rapist’?” I read out loud, alarm staining my tone as I began to wonder if there were dimensions to the guy’s murder we hadn’t even considered yet. Sebastian gave me a bewildered shake of his head in response, his expression making it clear this was something he knew nothing about, and then he turned the Jeep around again.
As we drove away, I thought about the Whitneys. Someone must have gotten in touch with them already; they had to have learned what had happened to Fox and about the arson that claimed their home. I wondered if they were already on their way back to Burlington—and what they would do when they got here. They had two addresses and nowhere to live, one house a hollowed-out wreck and the other a blood-soaked crime scene where their youngest son had been murdered. How could they face either?
Now, as we step up onto the curb, skirting the padlocked gate of Fernwood Park and crossing the empty lot to the grassy expanse beyond, I try to steel my nerves. Before us stretches a gray bank of obliterating fog, punctuated only by the distant burn of an amber lamp that marks an emergency phone lost in the gloom. It’s 5:20 in the morning, and high above us the sky is a gradually fading indigo, stars winking out one by one; where we stand, however, light only reaches us as a whisper of blue in the dark pall of densely gathered mists.
“I wish we’d brought a real flashlight,” I remark, mostly to break the thick crust of tense silence as I use my phone to illuminate a mounted placard showing a map of the park. Walkways squiggle hither and yon over the simplified diagram, and I attempt to figure out which one of them we’re supposed to follow.
“I wish we’d brought a Doberman,” Sebastian mutters. “Or maybe a couple of Navy SEALs.”
Secretly, I have to agree. I can think of only one reason Race might want Lia to meet him all the way out here, and it’s not because he thinks she’s rilly, rilly cute. I still need that money from Isabel, but I’ve put so much effort into convincing Sebastian—and myself—that we have to see things through to the end that I sort of lost my sense of how much danger we could actually be in. Glancing back the way we came, I hazard, “You were right before. We don’t have to do this, I mean. We can always call the police
and tell them—”
“No.” Sebastian interrupts decisively. Off my surprised look, he continues, “Look, Sebastian 2.0 can probably explain away coming home late after dropping off his boyfriend—I’m pretty sure my dad won’t want to press me for details—but lying to the cops could result in some serious house arrest. Or regular arrest.” A symphony of frogs and crickets trill around us, underscoring how alone we are. “You were right before, Rufe: strength in numbers. He can’t take both of us, and it’s like you said—we need solid proof if we want to make sure this ends tonight.”
“Look on the bright side,” I suggest, turning away so he can’t see how anemic my smile is. “Maybe Race wants to meet with Lia because Peyton did it and he needs help deciding whether he should turn her in or not.”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure the bright side is ‘Maybe he won’t even show up.’”
* * *
It’s a simple, if stressful, hike to our destination. The knowable universe has shrunk to a terrifyingly small circumference, landmarks only discernible within about ten paces, and every object beyond the obscuring curtain of fog is an armed and dangerous murderer until proven otherwise. Sebastian put the pedal to the floor on the drive from the diner, determined to arrive early in case this was a trap; but the truth is that we’ve got no idea what we might be walking into—we have no idea where Race had texted Lia from. For all we know, he’s already here, waiting and watching …
“There,” Sebastian whispers suddenly, and I nearly leap out of my skin.
Before us looms an elongated picnic shelter fronted by an in memoriam plaque dedicating it to “Jane and August Tidwell”—it’s the meeting spot Race identified in his text messages. Knobby pinewood supports hold up a pitched roof, the beams of which no doubt host a biblical plague’s worth of bats and spiders; and while three sides are open to the elements, a brick wall at the far end masks the plumbing for connected bathroom facilities.
But my knowledge of this wall is distant memory, not direct observation; the shadows and fog render the murk inside the shelter impenetrable, so concentrated I can’t see to the back of it. There’s no way to tell what lies hidden inside, no way to disarm my imagination. Fresh corpses, a bloodthirsty killer, or just a few warped, sticky tables and some forgotten trash abandoned by a bunch of drunken holiday revelers—anything is possible. Yawning before us is a black hole, containing everything and nothing all at once.
“Hello?” I call apprehensively into the void, and my voice bounces back to me. “Race, are you in there?” Water drips somewhere out of sight. “Lia sent us.”
There’s no answer; even the crickets are silent now. Sebastian and I exchange a nervous glance, and I step forward, edging past a dingy wooden column and squinting to sharpen my vision. I sense nothing, hear nothing. Tables butt out of the dark emptiness before me, their planks rough and uneven with age. Could someone be standing back there? Is someone breathing? My tongue feels like a scrap of dried leather in my mouth. “Lia knows we’re here, okay? So if you’re thinking of trying something—”
“Rufus!” Sebastian’s voice comes with the harsh, staccato urgency of a hammer striking glass, and I swing around instantly. “Someone’s coming.”
He stares in the direction from which we arrived, the spiked limbs of birch trees and evergreens reaching for us like fingers emerging from a swamp. Out of the blue-tinged haze before us, a form begins to congeal—a figure trudging through the damp grass, steps almost soundless, footfalls deadened by the close, heavy air. I scramble to Sebastian’s side, my pulse thudding in my temples as the new arrival takes on shape and solidity: a bulky sweatshirt with the hood up; head bowed, hands jammed into pockets; long, slim legs.
“Race?” I call out sharply, telltale anxiety pitching my tone high, and the figure stops abruptly. We stare at each other across an empty patch of grass, my hands tingling as adrenaline throttles my heart, trapped by our mutual apprehensions. “This is good—that’s close enough. Whatever you wanted to say to Lia, say it to us instead.”
My words fall on deaf ears, the figure taking two more steps forward. Sebastian and I both tense—preparing for what, I’m not sure, because we never make it that far. As we watch, the person before us reaches up, pulling back the sweatshirt’s hood to reveal a cascade of blond ringlets and a pair of sharp green eyes that glint in the scant light.
It’s Peyton.
25
For a moment, we all just stand there, three pairs of eyes reflecting the same mix of confusion, mistrust, and disbelief. Finally, she demands, “What the hell are you two doing here?”
“What the hell are you doing here?” I sputter, too nonplussed to come up with anything snappier.
Peyton’s wary gaze darts between me and Sebastian, then drifts over the yawning cavern of the shelter behind us, her weight passing from one foot to the other. She looks like she’s trying to make her mind up about something. “I’m supposed to be meeting someone.”
“Lia?” Sebastian challenges, evidently wondering if maybe Race and Peyton are both responsible for Fox’s death after all—and conspiring to cover it up. I look at what she’s wearing: an oversize Ethan Allen lacrosse hoodie, baggy track pants, battered tennis shoes. Did she dress like her boyfriend deliberately? Or am I reading too much into a slouchy outfit she threw on over her pajamas for an early morning rendezvous?
“Why the fuck would I come all the way out here to some abandoned, bug-infested shit-swamp on the dark side of nowhere just to talk to Lia?” Peyton retorts, and it would take a logarithmic equation to express the amount of scorn she’s managed to pack into so comparatively few words. “I don’t even like Lia.”
Sebastian wrinkles his nose. “You’re one of her best friends.”
“So? What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Peyton, if you’re not here to meet Lia, then who did you come here for?” I ask impatiently.
“None of your business.”
“Hello? Are we not all standing in the middle of the same bug-infested shit-swamp at five thirty in the morning?” I toss my arms out. “Just give us an answer, okay?”
“Fine. I’m supposed to be meeting my boyfriend, all right?” Even in the silvery morning shadows, I can see her cheeks turn pink. “Is that all right? Is that okay with you, Rufus?”
Sebastian and I share a curious and uneasy glance, and I lick my lips. “Why did Race ask you to come to Fernwood Park?”
“I don’t know!” Peyton starts fingering the coiled blond waves that spill over her shoulders, a gesture that radiates insecurity and makes me feel strangely ill at ease. Peyton Forsyth is someone I grew up resenting quite comfortably, as throughout my adolescence, I could always count on her to make the cruelest and most cutting of verbal attacks. Knowing how protected she is by her popularity, how little chance there is of any successful retaliation against her, she’s never shown any mercy or expressed even an ounce of remorse for her bullying. In fact, I’ve never seen her exhibit a single iota of vulnerability at all until this very moment. Tugging unhappily at a lock of her hair, she mumbles, “He wouldn’t tell me why. Things are kind of … he’s really mad at me right now, and I was just glad he was willing to see me at all.”
I nod slowly. “We heard about the fight you guys had.”
“Great.” Her hands slap down at her sides. “So the whole fucking world knows.” She fixes me with a venomous glare, waiting for further remarks, but I just let the silence grow until she feels the need to fill it again; when she does, though, it’s only to turn the tables. “So why are you here? And what does Lia have to do with it?”
Sebastian and I exchange another glance, a silent debate passing between us about how much we should share—or if there’s really any reason to hold back—and then he reveals, “Race wanted Lia to meet him here, too, but she was scared. So she asked if we would come instead. He didn’t say anything to you about her?”
“No,” she replies, bewildered. “No. I mean, it was a text—when he
told me to come out here, it was in a text—and all it said was, like, ‘Meet me at the Tidwell Pavilion in Fernwood Park,’ period. I’d been calling and texting him for hours and it’s the only thing he’s written back.” Peyton does a frustrated turn, scanning what little we can see of the surrounding area, then jams her hands back into the pockets of her hoodie. “I don’t understand any of this! Why did he text Lia? Why did he ask her here? And what the hell do you mean, ‘She was scared’? Scared of what?”
For what feels like the millionth time in a few short hours, I deflect a loaded question with an explosive statement. “Fox Whitney is dead.”
The explosion is a dud—again; Peyton merely draws in some air and looks away. “I know. I heard.”
“You heard?” I ratchet my eyebrows up a little, analyzing her tone, and then offer my blunt assessment of it. “You don’t seem very broken up about it.”
“Oh, screw you, Rufus Holt!”
Sebastian puts a hand on my arm, a tacit suggestion that Bad Cop isn’t the right way to approach Peyton Forsyth. He’s probably right, but I can’t imagine approaching her any other way, so I hold my tongue and let him take the lead. “Who’d you hear it from?”
“Does it even matter?” She tosses her hair. “You still haven’t answered my question. What’s it got to do with Lia?”
Sebastian deflects as well. “Arlo’s dead, too.”
Her mouth drops open. “What? How do you—?”
“He was killed a few hours ago. We don’t know if the police have found him yet, but…” Sebastian looks over at me again. “We saw him. It happened at his house.”
Peyton lifts a fist to her mouth and shakes her head, then wrings out her fingers with a fierce twisting motion. Through stiff lips, she insists, “This can’t be happening.”
White Rabbit Page 24