Bury the Lead

by Mischa Thrace

  His eyes meet mine through the windshield, and he goes rigid with recognition.

  “Fuck it,” I mutter, swinging into the driveway and missing the mailbox by a hair’s breadth.

  I set my phone to record, shove it in my pocket, and leave the keys in the ignition in case I need to make a quick getaway. “Look, I know I’m probably the last person you want to talk to—”

  “Then why are you here?” He folds his arms across his chest, and angry lines crease the space between his eyes.

  “Just to talk.” I hold up my hands, trying to appear as nonconfrontational as possible.

  “I got nothing to say to you, and you got no business being here.” He turns and climbs the steps to his front porch.

  I follow him up. “Can we sit here a minute? I only have a few questions.”

  He pauses at the door but doesn’t turn to face me. “What are you accusing me of this time?”

  I want to remind him that my previous accusations were not baseless, that they hadn’t even come from me, but that wouldn’t be helpful at the moment. I need to get him on my side. “I’m just trying to find the truth.” I let my voice go hoarse, as if fighting back tears. “About my friends. I know you have no reason to talk to me, but your house is right here. Did you see Emma before she died? Did she come through here?”

  “I didn’t see nothing,” he snaps. “And even if I did, it’s no business of yours. You ain’t the cops.”

  “Were they here? The cops?”

  “Told ’em the same thing I told you. I didn’t see a thing. A girl wants to take herself up into the woods and die, that’s her business, not mine. Learned a lot about minding my own business this past year.” He opens the door and steps inside. “You’d do well to learn that too.”

  I wedge my foot between the door and the jamb before he gets it closed. Through the gap, I get a glimpse of his living room, and what I see there has me shoving my shoulder into the door, forcing it wider even as a cocktail of fear and adrenaline floods my veins. Beside the couch is a tall metal stand. Draped over its hook is a long coil of clear tubing attached to a nearly empty bag of clear fluid. “What is that?”

  “Not your business.” He plants a hand against the door before I can open it farther, his broad body blocking my view of the room.

  “Why do you have an IV in your house? Have the police seen it?”

  “The police don’t give a fuck about my cat’s kidney failure.” The muscles in his jaw jump. “They might care about you trying to force your way into my house though.”

  “I’m supposed to believe you have an IV for your cat?” Even if I saw the supposed cat, I don’t think I could ever picture this man giving it an IV.

  “What you’re supposed to be doing is getting off my damn property.”

  I can’t go yet though—not without answers. “Why were you at Kylie’s funeral?”

  He sighs. “Because it’s my uncle’s church and she was a member. Her parents were regulars. I was showing support.”

  “Showing support or admiring your handiwork?” The accusation leaves my mouth before I can stop it.

  He lunges at me then, whipping the door wide and forcing me back across the porch. A vein pulses dangerously in his forehead. “I am not some monster, no matter what you put on your little website. I could’ve had a life here, you know, if it wasn’t for you digging up things that were no concern of yours. It was a three-year age difference. It was mutual. If it happened now, it’d be perfectly legal. You’re the one who turned it into something perverted.”

  He’s in my face, close enough for me to smell the stale mix of coffee and cigarettes on his breath, and I realize just how easy it would be for him to hurt me. To kill me. My bravery suddenly feels like stupidity in disguise, but I hold my ground. “You were in a position of power. They were underage. That’s like the literal definition of perverted. But that’s not why I’m here now, and you know it.”

  “Get off my property.” Fists twitch at his side, his rage a living thing. “I never want to see you here again.”

  “Did you kill them?” I demand. “Did you kill Emma and Kylie?”

  “Get. Off. My. Property.”

  My knees are like water, but I refuse to flee. “I don’t hear you denying it.”

  “I don’t answer to you.” He closes in until I have no choice but to back down the creaking porch steps. “You show up here again, you’re going to regret it. I promise you that.”

  “If you killed them, I’m going to find out. Then we can talk about regret.”

  I don’t turn my back on him as I go down the driveway. I yank The Planet’s door open and collapse into the driver’s seat before my legs give out. The adrenaline has me shaking so hard, I have to pull over at the end of the street just to get my bearings. When I’m steady, I take out my phone and stop the recording. I skip back and let it play, listening as his anger fills the vehicle, confirming that I was right. He didn’t deny it. Not once.

  Ravi is apoplectic with rage.

  I knew he’d be pissed. What I did was stupid and impulsive, but I didn’t think he’d be the scary, quiet kind of pissed.

  I’m used to Dad’s temper, where anger gets expressed through shouting and the occasional throwing of things, but with Ravi, it’s a coiled stillness, like a jaguar ready to pounce or a serpent waiting to strike. It’s stony and complete, and I haven’t been on the receiving end of it since third grade when I ripped the arms off his Spider-Man action figure.

  As a writer, I know there’s a pox on the phrase a long moment, but the moment between telling Ravi what I did and waiting for his response is one of the longest of my life. I think he might let it stretch all night, and I totally get now why the silent treatment works on interview subjects. The need to fill the vacuum with words is overwhelming.

  “I think he’s our guy,” I say after the silence has dragged on for an excruciating interval. “I know I should’ve waited, but if he’s our guy, then he’s due to strike again. Maybe he won’t now that he knows we’re onto him.”

  Ravi sits on the ottoman in front of my living room sofa and spends a long time cleaning his glasses. His jaw works like he’s chewing something tough, and when he puts his glasses back on and speaks, the condemnation in his voice makes me want the silence back.

  “You had no right,” he says, fury making his words tremble. “No right to put yourself in that kind of danger. This might be all fun and games to you, but if you’re right, if it is him, then he’s killed two girls already. You’re not Sherlock Holmes, no matter how much you want to be. You’re a girl, just like they were. He could’ve killed you. Don’t you get that? Your life isn’t worth some fucking story.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “We talked about this. We sat on the floor and fucking talked about this exact thing, and you didn’t give a shit about anything I said.”

  “That’s not true—”

  “I get that you don’t care about yourself,” he cuts me off, his voice low and dangerous. “That’s your own business. But if you cared about me at all, even a fraction of a tiny bit, you wouldn’t have put yourself in that kind of danger. But all you cared about was the story.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  He shakes his head. “No, it’s not. I’m sorry if I expected better from you, but I thought we were partners. I thought our history meant something. I thought I meant something. Especially after the past few days. But I ask you for a simple thing—don’t talk to him alone—and you couldn’t even do that for me.”

  “It’s okay though. I’m okay. Nothing happened.”

  Another horrible stretch of silence fills the room while my heart races like a spooked horse, erratic and terrified. I’ve been so worried about us imploding over a failed romance that I never stopped to consider that there were other ways to destroy us.

  I want to undo the entire day. I want to have waited, not until Sunday, but until Ravi was out of his appointment like I’d originally planned. I should�
�ve done that. I know that. But I can’t deny that the visit had been worthwhile. I don’t regret the information I got, just that the method has upset Ravi so much.

  “Remember finding Emma, what that was like?” He closes his eyes, lids twitching like he’s in the throes of a dream. Or a nightmare. “What do you think I would do if I found you like that, and it was because you were too stupid to wait three days for me to go with you? You didn’t even tell anyone where you were going.”

  “Yes, I fucked up. I get that. But I also handled it. Can we focus on that for a minute? Please? We had a potential suspect who needed interviewing, and I interviewed him. He didn’t deny the crimes. I think we need to be discussing next steps, not dwelling in a perpetual state of pissed-offness. You’re angry. Great, that’s fair. But set it aside so we can deal with what’s important.”

  “I am trying to deal with what’s important.” He enunciates each word pointedly.

  I tuck my feet up under me on the couch. “No, you’re badgering me and being dramatic.” He doesn’t deny it, and I take that as acquiescence. “I recorded it. If you listen, you’ll see what I mean. He doesn’t admit that he did it, but he definitely doesn’t state that he didn’t.”

  “No,” he says, ignoring what I just said. “What I’m doing is seeing you murdered every time I blink.”

  I groan. “Ravi, please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I worried you. I’m sorry I acted without thinking. But we need to move forward with this, and I need your help to do it. I don’t think we have enough for the cops to take us seriously yet, so we need to figure out how to get more evidence.”

  The stony silence settles over us again, and I’m about to give up on a reply when he says, “Tomorrow. We’ll figure it out tomorrow. I’m too pissed at you to be rational right now.”

  “That sounded pretty rational to me,” I say, wanting more than anything to be at a point where we can look at this and laugh.

  His glare says we’re definitely not there yet. “Sleep at my house tonight. Please. Ma won’t care if you take the guest room.”

  “I’m fine here.”

  “You pissed off a maybe-murderer today. Who probably knows where you live.” He slaps the side of the ottoman, sucking in a deep breath through his nose that he exhales sharply. “Just sleep at my damn house so I don’t have to spend the entire fucking night wondering if you’re alive or not.”

  “It’s okay, really.”

  “Then I’m sleeping here,” he says. “But I’m done talking about this for tonight.”

  I see no point in continuing to argue, so I leave him sitting there and take a long shower, trying to wash the fight off with a slick of honey-vanilla bodywash. It doesn’t work. When I turn the water off, I hear the low drone of the TV and know he’s probably not even watching it, just stewing in his thoughts.

  I pull on my flannel hedgehog pants and a baggy shirt, then make a decision while I brush my teeth. I gather up the spare blankets and one of my pillows and go to the living room.

  Ravi flicks the TV off when I come in, and for a second, I’m worried we’re about to pick up the fight again.

  I hold the blankets out as a peace offering. “If you’re still mad at me, you can stay out here.” I take a deep breath. “But you’re welcome to my bed too.”

  “I’m not taking your bed.”

  My body feels light, giddy, like gravity is out of whack. I hug the blankets tighter, in case they float away too. “That’s not what I meant.” His forehead crinkles up in confusion, and I laugh. “Wait, I don’t mean that either. Just sleep. But it’s up to you.”

  He’s quiet long enough that I start to regret the offer. It was poor timing. I should’ve known that. I set the blankets on the ottoman. “I am sorry, you know. I never meant to worry you.”

  Alone in bed, I stare at the ceiling for a long time, wondering if Ravi is doing the same in the living room. I don’t know how things got so complicated. Would we be fighting like this if we hadn’t kissed, hadn’t gone out?

  I think we would, and I can’t tell if that makes it better or worse.

  The house is eerily silent without the static hum of Dad’s white noise machine and the muffled sounds of Cassidy mumbling in her sleep. Every heartbeat sounds like a bomb, and the creak of the floorboard is like a gunshot.

  I hold my breath and go very still. It’s probably just Ravi going to the bathroom. But no, his shadow falls into my open doorway. I exhale.

  “That offer still good?”

  I scoot over and raise the covers in response.

  He settles in, facing away from me, and I curl myself around him. He relaxes into me with a sigh, and I wonder if this is a mistake, if asking him to share a bed with a girl he can’t actually sleep with is cruel, but I like the feel of him here too much to risk him leaving by discussing it. He knew the boundaries when he came in.

  I pull him closer, and incrementally, the tension eases out of him. I know he’s still upset with me and that he has a right to be, but it’s enough to know we haven’t imploded. I snuggle against his back, and when I kiss his shoulder, he pulls my arm tighter around his chest and kisses the top of my hand.

  In the morning, we’re probably going to have to finish hashing out the fight, but for right now, I’m content.

  And far less content when I wake the next morning to find him gone.

  I tell myself it’s because he had to go home to get fresh clothes and pick up Priya, but his absence stings.

  Still, the morning brings with it a clarity that the adrenaline-fueled afternoon and evening had lacked, and I send Ravi a long text while I eat breakfast: I’m so sorry for being rash. You were right. I wasn’t thinking. I understand why you’re upset, and I really am sorry. Really, really. Thank you for staying over and scaring off the monsters. You’re my very favorite human. My invaluable companion.

  I immediately follow it up with And an ace snuggler just to be cheeky.

  He doesn’t reply right away, but the little check that indicates the text was opened appears, and that’s something. At least he didn’t delete it unread. We’ll talk at school, and everything will be okay.

  Only I can’t find him at school. His car is in the lot, but he apparently didn’t wait for me and is nowhere to be seen. Even 331 is empty, the door locked and lights off.

  I don’t see him until lunch, when I find him at our usual table devouring a tray of nachos like nothing’s wrong.

  I drop down across from him. “Do you still hate me?”

  “I never hate you.” He lifts a white paper bag from the seat beside him and slides it across the table. “Not warm but made this morning. By me. Peace offering.”

  “You can’t placate me with donuts.”

  He snorts. “Even white chocolate mocha ones?”

  I open the bag and am hit with an intoxicating wave of coffee-scented sugar. “I didn’t say I’m not going to eat them. But it doesn’t make up for you sneaking out and avoiding me all morning.”

  “I wasn’t ignoring you,” he says. “Larson caught me when I walked in and wanted to talk about the I Am Maplefield pictures. For ages. Then roped me into helping Miss Caroline move a bookshelf.”

  “Fun times.”

  “The funnest.”

  “So, Captain Over-Reacty Pants. We cool?”

  He sighs. “I’m still pissed at you. Probably gonna be until we get whoever we need to behind bars. But you’re my favorite human, and I’m mostly just glad you weren’t ax-murdered.”

  “Yeah, me too.” I bump his leg with my foot under the table. He doesn’t move away, and it’s nice, that secret connection.

  “And the plan is to keep you that way. I know you don’t think you fit the profile if it’s Vernon, but I’m not willing to risk it. Also, Ma will be pissed if you skip out on dinner tonight, so you better still be coming, and you might as well bring shit with you to stay over, because you’re not staying alone at your house.” He raises a hand to forestall any protest. “Nope. Not up for discussion. You come
willingly, or I kidnap. Priya’s going home with Sabrina today, so we can hash out everything we need to without her interrupting every two seconds.”

  Priya does have a tendency to think I sleep over to hang out with her as much as Ravi, which is usually fine, but Ravi’s right. The last thing we need is a fourteen year old overhearing the finer points of our murder investigation.

  “Deal. I’ll swing home after school to get clothes, then head to your place.” I’m not about to say it out loud, but I don’t hate the idea of not being alone. Peter made it perfectly clear that he’d be more than capable of hurting me if he chose to.

  “Oh, by the way”—Ravi crunches into his last nacho—“Jacob texted me back yesterday. He was with his father on a run down to Virginia. He got back last night.”

  “Wait, like a drug run or a legit truck haul?”

  “Uh, he made it sound like just a regular work trip, but I guess maybe both?” He shrugs. “Who knows.”

  “Family bonding at its finest.”

  “You know it.” He tosses his napkin onto his tray of nacho crumbs. “So, my place, dinner and murder. Maybe me getting to be big spoon.” He flashes me a grin that says we’re definitely okay again. “Try not to do anything horrifically stupid before you get there, yeah?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  I get to Ravi’s before he does and figure he probably got hung up at The Donut Hole, hopefully making donuts for the night’s deductions. I don’t mind. I’m as comfortable sitting at the kitchen island watching Mrs. B knead the dough for samosas as I am at my own house.

  “These,” Mrs. B says, “are the sole reason I gained fifteen pounds when I married Ravi’s dad.”

  I laugh but don’t doubt it. The little dough-wrapped potato pockets are usually a snack or appetizer, but Mrs. B makes oversized ones that are hands down my favorite thing to have when I’m here for dinner. I wouldn’t put it past Ravi to have requested them specifically as yet another edible peace offering.

  Maybe I really can be bought by food.