“All right,” I say, and follow Bronwyn to a table with her sister, Yumiko Mori, and some tall, sullen-looking girl I don’t know. It’s better than skipping lunch at the library.
When I get out front after the last bell, there’s nothing—no news vans, no reporters—so I text Ashton that she doesn’t have to pick me up, and take the opportunity to ride my bike home. I stop at the extralong red light on Hurley Street, resting my feet on the pavement as I look at the stores in the strip mall to my right: cheap clothes, cheap jewelry, cheap cellular. And cheap haircuts. Nothing like my usual salon in downtown San Diego, which charges sixty dollars every six weeks to keep split ends at bay.
My hair feels hot and heavy under my helmet, weighing me down. Before the light changes I angle my bike off the road and over the sidewalk into the mall parking lot. I lock my bike on the rack outside Supercuts, pull off my helmet, and go inside.
“Hi!” The girl behind the register is only a few years older than me, wearing a flimsy black tank top that exposes colorful flower tattoos covering her arms and shoulders. “Are you here for a trim?”
“A cut.”
“Okay. We’re not super busy, so I can take you right now.”
She directs me to a cheap black chair that’s losing its stuffing, and we both gaze at my reflection in the mirror as she runs her hands through my hair. “This is so pretty.”
I stare at the shining locks in her hands. “It needs to come off.”
“A couple inches?”
I shake my head. “All of it.”
She laughs nervously. “To your shoulders, maybe?”
“All of it,” I repeat.
Her eyes widen in alarm. “Oh, you don’t mean that. Your hair is beautiful!” She disappears from behind me and reappears with a supervisor. They stand there conferring for a few minutes in hushed tones. Half the salon is staring at me. I wonder how many of them saw the San Diego news last night, and how many think I’m just an overly hormonal teenage girl.
“Sometimes people think they want a dramatic cut, but they don’t really,” the supervisor starts cautiously.
I don’t let her finish. I’m beyond tired of people telling me what I want. “Do you guys do haircuts here? Or should I go somewhere else?”
She tugs at a lock of her own bleached-blond hair. “I’d hate for you to regret this. If you want a different look, you could try—”
Shears lie across the counter in front of me, and I reach for them. Before anyone can stop me, I grab a thick handful of hair and chop the whole thing off above my ear. Gasps run through the salon, and I meet the tattooed girl’s shocked eyes in the mirror.
“Fix it,” I tell her. So she does.
Chapter Sixteen
Bronwyn
Friday, October 12, 7:45 p.m.
Four days after we’re featured on the local news, the story goes national on Mikhail Powers Investigates.
I knew it was coming, since Mikhail’s producers had tried to reach my family all week. We never responded, thanks to basic common sense and also Robin’s legal advice. Nate didn’t either, and Addy said she and Cooper both refused to talk as well. So the show will be airing in fifteen minutes without commentary from any of the people actually involved.
Unless one of us is lying. Which is always a possibility.
The local coverage was bad enough. Maybe it was my imagination, but I’m pretty sure Dad winced every time I was referred to as “the daughter of prominent Latino business leader Javier Rojas.” And he left the room when one station reported his nationality as Chilean instead of Colombian. The whole thing made me wish, for the hundredth time since this started, that I’d just taken that D in chemistry.
Maeve and I are sprawled on my bed watching the minutes on my alarm clock tick by until my debut as a national disgrace. Or rather, I am, and she’s combing through the 4chan links she found through Simon’s admin site.
“Check this out,” she says, angling her laptop toward me.
The long discussion thread covers a school shooting that happened last spring a few counties over. A sophomore boy concealed a handgun in his jacket and opened fire in the hallway after the first bell. Seven students and a teacher died before the boy turned the gun on himself. I have to read a few of the comments more than once before I realize the thread isn’t condemning the boy, but celebrating him. It’s a bunch of sickos cheering on what he did.
“Maeve.” I burrow my head in my arms, not wanting to read any more. “What the hell is this?”
“Some forum Simon was all over a few months back.”
I raise my head to stare at her. “Simon posted there? How do you know?”
“He used that AnarchiSK name from About That,” Maeve replies.
I scan the thread, but it’s too long to pick out individual names. “Are you sure it’s Simon? Maybe other people use the same name.”
“I’ve been spot-checking posts, and it’s definitely Simon,” she says. “He references places in Bayview, talks about clubs he was in at school, mentions his car a few times.” Simon drove a 1970s Volkswagen Bug that he was freakishly proud of. Maeve leans against the cushions, chewing on her bottom lip. “There’s a lot to go through, but I’m going to read the whole thing when I have time.”
I can’t think of anything I’d like to do less. “Why?”
“The thread’s full of weird people with axes to grind,” Maeve says. “Simon might’ve made some enemies there. Worth looking into, anyway.” She takes her laptop back and adds, “I got that encrypted file of Cooper’s at the library the other day, but I can’t get it open. Yet.”
“Girls.” My mother’s voice is strained as she calls upstairs. “It’s time.”
That’s right. My entire family is watching Mikhail Powers Investigates together. Which is a circle of hell even Dante never imagined.
Maeve shuts her laptop as I heave myself to my feet. There’s a slight buzzing from inside my end table, and I open the drawer to pull out my Nate phone. Enjoy the show, his text says.
Not funny, I reply.
“Put that away,” Maeve says with mock severity. “Now is not the time.”
We head downstairs to the living room, where Mom has already settled into an armchair with an exceptionally full glass of wine. Dad’s in full Evening Executive mode, wearing his favorite casual fleece vest and surrounded by a half-dozen communication devices. A commercial for paper towels flashes across the television screen as Maeve and I sit side by side on the couch and wait for Mikhail Powers Investigates to start.
The show focuses on true crime and it’s pretty sensationalistic, but more credible than similar shows because of Mikhail’s hard-news background. He spent years as an anchor with one of the major networks, and brings a certain gravitas to the proceedings.
He always reads the beginning hook in his deep, authoritative voice while grainy police photos play across the screen.
A young mother disappears. A double life exposed. And one year later, a shocking arrest. Has justice finally been served?
A high-profile couple dead. A dedicated daughter suspected. Could her Facebook account hold the key to the killer’s identity?
I know the formula, so it shouldn’t be any surprise when it’s applied to me.
A high school student’s mysterious death. Four classmates with secrets to hide. When the police keep running into dead ends, what’s next?