by Jen Nadol
“The binoculars,” she said, noticing the case, also in my top drawer. “Have you looked in them again?”
“I’ve thought about it,” I admitted. “But, no.”
She nodded, picking up a picture from the top of my dresser. It’d been there so long, I’d forgotten all about it. “When was this?” Sarah asked, studying it. Me and Trip in front of our tent. The camping weekend when his dad had fed my mom marshmallows. I was surprised I hadn’t burned it. Maybe I would now. Just toss it into the fire downstairs.
“A long time ago,” I said.
“I can tell.” Sarah smiled. “You guys look so cute. What are you . . . ten? Eleven?”
“Something like that.”
“You’ve been friends for a long time,” she observed. It made me wonder if Trip had ever talked to her about how we’d grown up together. Or if he’d boxed most of that up with his Pokémon cards and car magazines.
“Since we were born, pretty much. Our parents were friends.”
“Are they still?”
“Not since my dad died,” I said.
She nodded but didn’t say anything, which I appreciated. Some people feel like they have to rush in with “I’m sorry” or platitudes, but it’s just better when they act like it’s no biggie, because it really isn’t. I mean, it is, but I’ve lived with it every day for the last four years. Just because someone’s never talked about it with me before doesn’t make it new news.
“I’ve never had a friend like that,” she said, flopping back onto the bed. “We moved around so much when I was younger. This is the longest we’ve lived anywhere.”
“How come?”
“Mostly it was my mom,” she said. “She was the kind of person who’d have three projects going and still be looking for the fourth, you know?” I nodded. “She was always doing something new, learning something else. My dad tells this story about when he was in grad school. She was an undergrad, double-majoring in engineering and physics.”
“Um . . . wow?”
Sarah smiled. “Right. Anyway, he was doing his dissertation on brain function, dormant sections, hypnosis, stuff like that. She got interested in it, but it wasn’t like she just asked about it or read a book or two. She read them all.” Sarah laughed softly. “By the end, he always says, she could have written his paper better than he did.”
“She sounds kind of brilliant.”
“She was. Is,” Sarah said. “Brilliant and flighty and a little bit nuts. In a good way,” she added wistfully.
“I see you got one of three.”
“I’m not that flighty,” Sarah said, grinning.
“Not the one I meant. I’ve seen your mad skills.”
She laughed. “But to get back to your question,” Sarah said more seriously. “My mom liked to see new places. Do new things. It was like an itch to constantly go, do, explore. In some ways it was great.” Sarah smiled fondly. “When I was little, we were always running off to museums and exhibits and parks. She taught me to bike and swim and play tennis. Or, if we were at home, we’d have a soufflé baking at the same time we were making a sodium chloride volcano.” She bit her lip for a second, then added, “But it wasn’t great in the way that made us move every time she got bored. I used to wish we’d just stay put, you know? Just for once not constantly have to make new friends.”
“I can’t imagine you ever had much trouble,” I said, grinning.
But Sarah didn’t smile. “Please. If it weren’t for Natalie, I’d probably still be skulking around the corners of school. You know, Vermont isn’t the most welcoming place.”
Yeah, I guess I did know that. We all did.
“Of course, if I’d have known that the price for staying somewhere was her leaving, I’d have pulled that wish back in a second,” she said quietly. “I’d do anything to have her back.”
I didn’t say anything at first. I didn’t like talking about my dad, but I knew what Sarah was feeling—that intense, hollow gap; the feeling that some vital part of you was missing—and it seemed like she wanted to talk about it.
“What happened?” I asked. “With her and your dad?”
She got that wistful look again. “They were quite a pair,” she said. “The absentminded professor and the mad scientist.”
“Who was the scientist?”
“She was. It’s what she did for work,” Sarah said. “But it was also her passion at home. She had botany projects and chemistry, and of course, a spot for tinkering wherever we lived. All those plants in our house?” I nodded. “They were hers. Grown from seed, varieties she’d cultivated . . .” Sarah trailed off. “I’ve been keeping them alive, because if it were left to my dad, they’d be deader than doornails.”
“Why did she . . . like, when she went away . . .” I fumbled for how to ask it.
Sarah knew what I was getting at. “When my mom got into something, she was all in. Like with my dad’s dissertation. Unfortunately,” Sarah said wryly, “that applied to people, too. She met a guy at work.” She looked away and I could see her fighting tears. “And that was that.”
I didn’t know what to say. Her mom sounded like all the things Sarah had said, brilliant and flighty and a little bit nuts. But not in a good way at all. I knew Sarah didn’t see it that way, though. People rarely do when it’s someone they love.
“She wanted me to go with her, but my dad wouldn’t let me,” Sarah said softly. “I think he hoped if I stayed, she would.” She shook her head. “After almost twenty years with her, you’d think he’d know better.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She told me she’d be back.” Sarah shrugged sadly. “I guess she’s just been too busy with another guy or an important project.”
“I can’t imagine what would be more important than you.” It slipped out before I knew it. The words were right, but I could tell I’d said them too honestly, with too much of my own feeling. I felt my face redden.
Sarah met my eyes. “Thanks, Riley,” she said after a minute. “That’s sweet.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I kept quiet. The silence lingered in the stillness of my house. Sarah was close enough that her bent knee touched my leg just barely, but it felt like that spot was lit with a neon heat. I’d been working really hard to ignore the charge between us, the inescapable memories of how it had been to kiss her last time. I was trying to be good, do the right thing.
But then Sarah moved, pressing her leg against me so gently, I might have thought it was unintentional, except for the way her eyes held mine. A tingling raced up my thigh like a trail of sparks. I made some sort of sound, my breath tight and short, and then I was leaning toward her, eyes closing as our lips touched. Everything beyond was gray and dark, my focus totally narrowed to the feel of her cheek brushing mine, breath on my ear making me shiver. We fell back onto the bed, and her hand was on mine, guiding it to her buttons, then moving lower as I fumbled with them, opening her shirt. I sucked in my breath at the sight of her pale skin.
And then I saw her necklace. Light glinted off the locket Trip had given her last year, a picture of the two of them inside.
“Oh God, Sarah.” I pulled back, away from her. I kid you not, it was probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done. “I can’t. God knows I want to.”
Fool! my inner fourteen-year-old screamed. How long have you been waiting for this? You’re blowing it, you idiot!
Fourteen-year-olds can be very cruel.
I looked away while she scooted up toward my pillow, buttoning her shirt, then hugging her legs to her chest. Neither of us spoke for a long time.
“Can I ask you something, Riley?” she said finally.
“What?”
“Have you ever . . . done it before?”
What? I hadn’t expected that one. “Not in real life,” I answered.
She laughed softly. “You kno
w, a shrink might say you use humor to cover insecurity.”
“I prefer to think of it as lightening terribly awkward situations.”
She smiled. “That too.”
I hoped she wouldn’t go into what else a shrink might say about my being here with her—Trip’s girlfriend—the way his dad and my mom . . . Ugh, I couldn’t even think about it.
“Why?” Sarah asked.
“Why what?”
“Why haven’t you?” she said. “You’re almost eighteen. You’re smart, good-looking, nice—”
“You’re making me blush.”
“You were already doing that,” she said, not letting it go. “You must have had the opportunity.”
I had, in fact, one night out with Trip. And as far as he knew, I’d taken it. We’d gone to a party at one of the houses on the mountain, some college girls here for the weekend. Trip had fitted their rentals, and one of them had invited him over later.
“Their parents’ll be in Burlington for some dinner,” he said. “It’ll be small—it’s not like they know anyone here. They asked me to bring some friends.”
Trip knew I hated shit like that. Spoiled rich kids one-upping each other, pretending we were all pals, then laughing about us behind our backs. I told him that, and he said I was paranoid. “They can only laugh at you if you give them a reason to, Riley.”
“Come off it, Trip. They’ll laugh at us either way. It’s sport to them—ski during the day, make fun of townies at night.”
“Fine,” he said angrily. “Don’t come.”
But I went, and I think the girls were honestly too wasted to make fun of us. We weren’t there an hour before Trip was taking one to the bedroom.
“Good luck, man,” he said, and winked.
Her friend, who I’d been kind of talking to, grabbed my hand, tried to drag me up. “Lemme show ya round,” she slurred.
I followed her, knowing full well where this was going. We wound up in another bedroom, her beckoning from this massive bed. I went with it, and it got pretty hot, but when it came down to it, I balked. I’m still not sure why.
“You doan wanna?” she slurred.
“I do,” I said, because I did. And it would have ensured I wasn’t that guy, Last Virgin Standing. Not that Trip wouldn’t have found something else to rag on me about.
But this girl was a mess. “I just . . .” I hesitated, then told her the truth. “I don’t really know you.”
She squinted at me like she couldn’t believe it, then burst out laughing. “OMG, how cute are you?” She sat up, not bothering to straighten her clothes. “So this is where they keep all the gentlemen.” Only, it came out “gennelmen.” We ended up talking for a while because I didn’t want to go back out there and look like a total loser. It turned out she was actually nice, and I was kind of sorry I hadn’t done it.
I let Trip believe I had, and he congratulated me over and over on the way home. After telling me in agonizing detail about his adventures.
“It didn’t seem right,” I told Sarah now.
She nodded, as if that were exactly the answer she’d expected. “Can I ask you something else?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m finding your questions rather forward.”
“How come you never asked me out?”
“See what I mean?” I said, hoping she’d drop it and spare me the agony. But of course she just sat there waiting. “You were going out with Trip,” I said finally. “I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have approved.”
“Before that,” she pressed.
I stared at her for a minute, then said, “I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”
Sarah nodded, looking at her hands, then back up at me. “I’m going to break up with him.” Which would have been great news if it had been anyone other than Trip.
“I . . . We . . .” I gestured at the space between us. “This still can’t happen.” Going out with your best friend’s ex was almost as taboo as what we were doing now.
“I understand,” she said. “It’s not about that.” Sarah shook her head. “I mean, it is, but—”
“Think about it,” I interrupted. “Things are complicated right now. With Nat and everything. I’m not sure any of us are thinking clearly.”
She nodded, maybe realizing the same thing I had—that if she and Trip split up, it wouldn’t be the five of us anymore.
“I’m not saying you shouldn’t. Or that you should,” I told her. “Just be sure you know what feels right to you.”
She stood then, shivering a little in the chill of the room, and looked me straight in the eye. “What feels right is the thing I can’t have.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I told her, “I’ll walk you down.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Humor me,” I said. “Let me be a gentleman.”
Sarah smiled sadly. “You’re rarely anything but, Riley Larkin.”
CHAPTER 25
MOOSE WAS AT THE DISHWASHER unloading a mountain of silverware when I walked in. With all the reporters in town, the restaurant had been extra busy, which I guess was the silver lining of a local murder. If there is such a thing. He grunted when I approached, looking like he was half-asleep.
I had started the day with an ice-cold shower, so was wide-awake but not in an especially good mood. “Nice to see you, Moose,” I said, snapping on my gloves.
“Fuck off.”
“Hey.” I turned to him. “Enough with the attitude, okay?”
He whirled to face me, not that sleepy after all. “No, it’s not okay. Thanks to you the cops have been all over me for the last few weeks.”
“Thanks to me? I’m pretty sure you chose your recreational activities, not me.”
“You didn’t have to broadcast it to the fucking world.”
“I didn’t,” I said, “but I wasn’t going to lie to the cops. I told you that.”
“Whatever.” He flipped the back of his hand my way. But now I was pissed.
“Maybe I should just give them this.” I held up the baggie.
Moose looked shocked, reaching for it, but I pulled it away. “Where’d you get that?” he demanded.
“At the trailer,” I said quietly. “By the sofa where Nat’s dad was shot.”
Moose’s eyes went wide. “What?”
“You heard me,” I said. “You told me yourself you were up there that night.”
Moose glanced around. The kitchen was empty, and I was practically whispering, but I could understand why he was scared. He had reason to be. “I guess I dropped it.”
“I guess so.” I stared at him staring at me. Maybe I should have been scared myself, but more than anything, I felt massively disappointed. I didn’t want it to be Moose, didn’t want him to be another deadbeat, go-nowhere Buford loser rotting in jail. But I couldn’t change what he’d done. “So,” I said finally. “Are you going to turn yourself in?”
“For what?”
“For murder.”
“What?” Moose turned white. “No!” He lowered his voice, whispering furiously, “I told you before, I didn’t do it. Why do you keep trying to pin it on me?”
“Moose. I found this up there.”
“So?”
“It was on top of the bloodstains. Look.” I held the baggie up again, pointing to where Randall Cleary’s blood had dried. “It was lying in blood.”
Moose frowned, not getting it.
I sighed. “There was blood under it, Moose, but not on top. That means it was dropped after the blood,” I explained. “After he was shot.”
His eyes bugged out, and he held up his hands. “No. No way, man. I told you I was there, but he was definitely not dead. There was no blood—” Moose was babbling, words tumbling out. “You gotta believe me. Maybe I dropped it and someone else kicked it int
o the blood later or moved it there on purpose. I don’t even think I had it that night,” Moose said, a weird look on his face. “Maybe I left it somewhere or someone’s trying to frame me.”
I thought there was a lot of that going around for such a small town. It couldn’t all be true. “What were you doing driving past his trailer on Monday?” I asked, switching gears and feeling a little like bad cop Lincoln Andrews doing it.
“What’re you, following me?”
“No. I was inside the trailer. I saw your car. Monday?” I said. “Around five?”
He glared at me, angry, then spat, “I was going to the Miloseviches’. I visit them every now and then.”
“What? Why?”
“Everyone knew last year,” he said bitterly. “I guess most people have forgotten by now.”
“I know who they are,” I said crossly. “Richie plays football, his sister OD’d.”
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s all anyone remembers about her. But her name was Jessica. And she was my girlfriend.”
“Your girlfriend?” I said stupidly.
He nodded, slamming the dishwasher shut and hefting the bucket of silverware and napkins. “Yeah. And sometimes I miss her. So I visit her family ’cause they do too, and no one else seems to give a shit.”
He pushed through the swinging doors, probably thinking he was getting away from me. But I followed him.
“Why were you on probation last year?” Moose shot me a dirty look and kept walking. “When the police first came to question us? After Mr. Cleary was killed? You were sweating it out because you’re on probation,” I reminded him. “Why?”
“Why do you think?” he said. “For drugs. They got me with some last year, around the time Jessica . . .” He trailed off, shrugging.
“But what were you so worried about? If you didn’t shoot him and didn’t have anything—”
“Look, I stole something from the trailer while Cleary was taking a leak, okay? It wasn’t drugs, and I needed money and figured he owed me, you know?”
I stopped, suddenly getting it. “The vase,” I said. What did that mean? Had he pawned it? Given it to Galen? Or had Galen been with him?