Like whether the navy sweater with the shoulder cutouts is a better choice than a cute tee and cardigan.
“I vote cardigan,” I say.
“Yeah, but you don’t have a sexy bone in your body. I have many sexy bones. Like literally all of them.” She chucks the cardigan on the bed. “I think the sweater.”
“Then go with the sweater. But there will be no sexy bones or boning of any kind. This is only the first proper date, remember?”
“Barn dates totally count.”
I hang the cardigan back in her closet. “No, barn dates are supervised by way too many middle-aged women to count.”
“You’re a fun-stealer.” She pulls the sweater over her head and angles herself in front of the mirror.
“It’s my sacred right as older sister.”
“We’ve talked about it, you know.” Her cheeks flush in a way that makes makeup completely unnecessary.
“Already?” This is so not my division. “Do we need to have the talk?”
“You don’t even want to have the sex,” she says with a wicked grin. “I don’t think you want to be responsible for the talk either.”
“Yeah, not really, but I also don’t want a pregnant sister.”
“I’m not stupid. Plus, all I have to do is email my doctor, and she’ll write me a prescription for the pill. You’ll just have to take me to pick it up, not Mom.”
“Yeah, how ’bout no? Getting pregnant isn’t the only thing that can happen, you know.”
She rolls her eyes. “He’d use a condom too.”
I cover my ears with both hands in mock horror. “La, la, la. I don’t want to hear this. Shit, Cass. Look. It’s the first real date. No sexy times yet. Promise me.”
“Define sexy times.”
“Times where sex takes place.”
“Fine.” She sifts through her lipstick drawer and settles on a berry shade that claims to be kiss-proof. “No promises on kissy times though.”
“Deal.” I don’t begrudge her and her raging hormones, but I don’t want her jumping into anything too serious too soon. Even though I’m not driven by such urges, I’m careful to remember that most other people are different. That doesn’t mean I get it though. Wanting sex is like wanting a scallop-and-peanut butter sandwich—utterly incomprehensible, but maybe something certain people are into. And if it’s my sister craving scallops and peanut butter, I want to make sure she’s fully prepared for it.
Cassidy smacks her lips at her reflection and spins around. “Good?”
“Good,” I confirm. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Dinner. Movie. Zero drugs and rock and roll.”
“Perfect. Rock and roll can be allowed though.”
“How gracious of you.”
“I’m a benevolent god.”
“You’re a benevolent pain in my ass.”
The doorbell chimes, and Mom yells up that Bryce is here.
Cassidy squeals. “Wish me luck!”
“Have fun. Don’t get pregnant.”
Cassidy snaps a salute and wheels herself to the front door. Our father is already there interrogating Bryce, who’s looking dapper in his plaid button-down and dark jeans, strawberry curls tamed with some sort of pomade.
I leave them to it, hoping to find a reply from Kylie when I get back to my room. No such luck. I finish up some sports articles for the Monitor and write a short promotion piece for the upcoming art show. Once those are uploaded, I open the suggestion folder and scroll through the submissions. A lot of the tips are things I’m covering anyway: a student council fundraiser for suicide prevention, upcoming games that are deemed extra important, the arrival of an Italian exchange student. There’s also a handful of the usual nonsense to sift through, including overly romantic couples wanting to place relationship announcements and rumors about who was caught doing what in which bathroom. The bathroom submissions occasionally yield something newsworthy, which makes reading them a necessity, but mostly, they make me feel sorry for the janitors, who probably have no idea what stories those stalls could tell.
An anonymous submission with the subject line Emma wasn’t at a sleepover catches my eye. I click it, heart racing, and find exactly nothing in the body of the message. Shit.
I text Ravi—Gonna call you, pause your game—and give him two minutes before FaceTiming him.
“Check this out.” I flip the camera so he can see the message.
“That’s interesting. And random enough that it might even be true. Any way we can trace it?”
“Yeah, if you’re the police.” I switch the camera back to front-facing. “But if it’s true, that means Emma’s whereabouts would’ve been unaccounted for from Friday afternoon on. They had a game, right, so we know she was seen at the school. But after that, if she wasn’t at Victoria’s, she could’ve been anywhere.”
“Why would Vic and Lily lie about the sleepover though?”
“No clue. They must’ve been covering for her, helping her hide something.”
Ravi’s dark brows come together. “Or—and don’t freak out, I’m just playing devil’s advocate—maybe Emma lied to them too so that no one would know where she was while she killed herself. Maybe to avoid interruption.” He cuts me off before I can protest. “Objectivity means considering all the options, even the ones you don’t like. We can’t force facts to fit the theory; the theory has to fit the facts.”
“Thank you, Sherlock.” Sometimes I really want to stab him. “Putting motive aside for a second, who would know Emma wasn’t at Vic’s?”
“Vic, obviously. And Lily, presumably.”
“And whoever she was with.”
“Assuming she was with someone.”
“And whoever killed her.”
“Assuming they killed her Friday night.”
“Which they didn’t.”
“What? How do you know that?”
“Her feet. Again. Always the damn feet. She was…fresh when we found her. If she had been lying in the woods for almost two days, I think she would’ve looked a little more…decomposey.”
“Decomposey,” Ravi repeats. “That’s what we’re going with?”
I glare at him, then put on my snootiest on-air anchor voice. “I believe there would have been more evidence of advanced decomposition, particularly in the extremities. Better?”
He laughs. “Nah, I like decomposey.”
“You’re gonna be decomposey. But seriously, I’ll need to research it to be sure, but I don’t think she would’ve looked so intact if it had happened Friday night, regardless of whether it was her own work or someone else’s.”
“So, the question becomes where was she between the time she left the soccer game and the time we found her in the woods.”
“Precisely. It completely changes the timeline.”
“Do we go to the cops with this?” He doesn’t sound excited by the prospect.
I consider this for a moment. “Not yet. We need to confirm it first. I wish we could get the autopsy report. I want to know more about the marks Mrs. Morgan mentioned. If they’re needle marks, I could be right about Owen being a poisoner. Although, statistically speaking, women are more likely than men to use poison as a weapon.” I wonder if we’ve inadvertently missed a whole pool of suspects based on gender.
Ravi chuckles, more than a little ruefully. “Ah, Saturday night conversations with your best mate. Normal teenagers are out getting drunk or getting laid, and we’re discussing the finer points of murder.”
“You love it.”
“I don’t hate it,” he concedes. “Normal is vastly overrated.”
“You got that right.”
“So, plan?”
“Talk to Vic and Lily. Vic especially. I’m debating whether I message her on Instagram now or wait until Monday and do it in person.”
“Hold on,” Ravi says as his image freezes on the screen. “Let’s see… Okay, third option: if you want to do it in person, I know where to find her.”
“Do I look remotely prepared to leave the house?” I pan the camera down to my outfit, which consists of an oversized T-shirt and my very favorite flannel hedgehog pants.
“I’d be seen with you. Anyway, just saying it’s an option. She’s posting pictures from Jacob’s as we speak.”
I make a snap decision and lay the phone on my desk so Ravi has a view of the ceiling while I yank my shirt off. “You know what? That actually might be worthwhile. Let’s do it.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. Get dressed. Round-robin and meet behind The Donut Hole. Fifteen minutes?”
Ravi agrees and hangs up.
Round-robin is code for telling each set of parents we’ll be at the other’s house. The key to its success is the fact that it’s built upon years of friendship filled with completely legitimate unscheduled visits and the fact that we rarely deploy it. It’s mostly for emergency-only use. The last time was when Ravi snuck out on a date with an older girl he didn’t want to introduce to his parents, and I had to rescue their drunk asses. It’s not a scenario I care to repeat.
I don’t waste time picking clothes and throw on my version of the outfit Cassidy passed on. Skinny jeans, a long-sleeve shirt, and a cardigan will do fine. I tousle my hair into something that looks halfway deliberate, stuff my phone in my pocket, and announce that I’m going to Ravi’s when I’m already halfway out the door.
At The Donut Hole, I lock The Planet and climb into Ravi’s passenger seat. He looks like he just threw his battered old leather jacket over what he already had on, but somehow it works. Boys have it so easy.
“I’m not sure Jacob’s gonna be psyched that we’re crashing his party,” I say as we drive through the quiet streets.
“We’re not crashing. It’s open invite.” He turns onto a road with no streetlights, and the high beams struggle to push back the dark. “We just usually skip this sort of thing.”
“I’m not planning to make a night of it. We find Vic—and hopefully Kylie while we’re at it—ask our questions, and go.”
Jacob lives on the outskirts of town, in a double-wide trailer situated in a clearing at the end of a long dirt driveway. Haphazardly parked cars line one side of it, and I say a quick prayer to the patron saint of stupidity that I won’t be reporting on any drunk driving accidents in the morning.
Ravi keeps the speed low as we roll up the rutted driveway to avoid bottoming out or running over any inebriated classmates. The thump of bass grows louder as the glow of the bonfire comes into view. Shrieks and peals of drunken laughter punctuate the music.
“Maybe this wasn’t the best idea,” I say.
Ravi pulls up alongside a Jeep and parks. “It beats stewing in impotent frustration until Monday.”
“Fair enough.” I grip the door handle and take a moment to steel myself. “Once more into the breach?”
“Let’s do this thing.”
We pile out of the car, and I pull the cardigan tighter around me. Ravi notices, shrugs out of his jacket, and wraps it around me. I burrow in. It’s warm from his body and smells surprisingly good—something spicy and complex that’s worlds away from Axe body spray. It’s not a scent I’ve noticed on him before.
As we make our way around to the back of the trailer, dodging two couples making out and a boy providing an unpleasantly barfy soundtrack for them, Ravi exchanges greetings and fist bumps with various classmates.
I try to scrutinize his face in the dark. I’m positive the cologne on the jacket is new. “Are we here for research, or did you just dupe me into going on a date?”
“Column A, column B,” he says, nudging my shoulder with his own.
“You’re the devil.”
“You love it.”
I put a finger to my lips in a parody of thought. “What’s the saying? You always hurt the ones you love?” I lunge at him, pinching the back of his arm hard enough to make him yelp, and giggle. Victory is mine.
He stops to rub his arm. “I don’t know why I take you anywhere.”
I hook my arm through his wounded one and tug him along. “So we can find a murderer and be hero reporters.”
“Okay, yeah, that.” He adjusts his arm so we’re linked comfortably at the elbow, like we’re off to see the wizard.
I want to make a joke about it, start skipping, but I don’t.
It’s an experiment, the arm thing. Just to see what it’s like to walk this way in the dark, snuggled in his good-smelling coat, like a proper couple on a maybe-date. It’s nice. Nicer than I want to admit, maybe. I know it can’t be real, for so many reasons. It’s not worth risking a literal lifetime of friendship over something destined to fail. But just for a minute, it’s nice to pretend.
A monstrous bonfire lights up the field behind the trailer. Groups of students sit in clusters around the roaring inferno, and others are reduced to mere smudges of shapes in the darkness beyond the blaze. It’s a miracle they don’t burn the woods down.
“Keep your eyes peeled for Vic,” I say.
We pass Jacob on the way to the fire. He’s got two open bottles of beer in each hand and a sway in his step that makes me wonder if he drank all four himself. Any thoughts I had of reinterviewing him vanish. This is definitely not the time.
Jacob smiles at us. “Oh, you’re here too. Cool, cool.” He waves a hand at us and foam spills over the top of one of the bottles. “Have a drink?”
I shake my head. “No th—”
“Sure, thanks,” Ravi says, his voice louder than mine, dropping my arm to relieve Jacob of two of the bottles. He hands one to me, mouthing, “When in Rome.” I set mine on a flat spot near my feet as Ravi raises his bottle to Jacob in a toast. “Good turnout, man.”
Jacob shrugs. “’S okay. Nothing better to do.”
“Hey, have you seen Victoria around?”
Jacob nods and starts to gesture with the hand still holding a pair of bottles but catches himself. “Yeah, yeah. Over there. Somewhere. Cornhole maybe?”
Ravi claps him on the shoulder. “Thanks, man.”
We slip past our host in the direction he pointed, but he follows along, asking, “Have you found the truth?”
I curse his drunkenness, not wanting the entire party to know we’re here to inquire about Emma. Ravi nudges me ahead. “Go. I’ll deal with him.”
Thank god. “You’re my very favorite human.”
“I know.”
Jacob grabs my arm before I can make my escape. “You have to find out why. It’s not right. It’s not right. She was better than that. Better than us. You have to find out what really happened.”
“That’s what we’re doing.” Ravi hooks an arm around Jacob’s shoulders. “We’re working on it. Did you remember something? Maybe about someone giving her a hard time?”
Jacob shakes his head, the movement rippling down the rest of his body. “She shouldn’t be dead. I don’t want her to be dead.”
“Yeah, I know, man. None of us do.” Ravi gives me a What can you do? look. I’m going to owe him big-time for taking this one for the team.
I melt back into the darkness, Jacob’s plaintive voice trailing after me, and go in search of Victoria. My eyes adjust enough that I can see the silhouettes beyond the bonfire do appear to be pitching beanbags at targets, which they can’t possibly see, but judging by their laughter, they don’t much care.
I pick my way around the edge of the fire, noting who’s gathered where, and make my way to the cornhole game beyond. As I get closer, the glow sticks looped around the holes on the boards come into view, and there’s a decent crowd surrounding the game. I try to make out which player could be Victoria, but it’s impossible to tell.
What I can make out, even from a distance, is that one player, a girl, is playing from a wheelchair.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask my sister, not caring that I’m causing a scene.
“What are you doing here?” Cassidy giggles in the flickering light of the fire, but her face goes quickly serious. �
��Wait. Are you checking up on me? Seriously? I’m allowed to have a life, you know.”
“This is your version of a life? Drunken parties with people older and stupider than you?”
“You’re here. Guess you fit both categories.” Cassidy folds her arms across her chest.
“You told me you were going to dinner and a movie.”
“And I changed my mind during dinner.” Her voice has an edge I usually only hear her use to address misbehaving horses.
A figure approaches from the other end of the game—a guy. Bryce. He has his hands jammed in his pockets and his shoulders drawn up.
“Don’t you even start,” I tell him. “I trusted you to take care of her.”
“I can take care of myself,” Cassidy protests. “I really can. I’m the one who convinced Bryce to come, not the other way around.”
Bryce looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole, and I can absolutely picture Cassidy badgering him into doing what she wanted.
“Look,” Cassidy says, softer, almost pleading, “I’m still planning to make curfew. This is okay. It is. I’m not shooting up heroin. I’m not even doing shots.”
“I’m stone-sober,” Bryce says. “I swear. I know I’m driving her home.”
I look between them, regretting this excursion with every ounce of my being. A bottle glints on the ground near Cassidy’s chair, and I pick it up. A hard lemonade, nearly empty. “Are you drunk?”
“Maybe.” Cassidy giggles again. “But only from that. It’s all I’ve had, cross my heart. I think I’m a lightweight.”
I want to laugh at the profound disappointment in that final declaration, but I don’t. “You realize Mom and Dad—especially Dad—will never let you leave the house again if they find out about this? If you come home drunk, I’m not covering for you.”
“But you are covering for me?”
I sigh. “I never saw you. I wasn’t here. You weren’t here. No one was here.”
Cassidy squeals. “Thank you, thank you! Now go away, fun-stealer. No, wait. Why are you here?”
Bury the Lead Page 14