“Cooper’s not a killer.” Bronwyn sounds positive, and for some reason that pisses me off.
“You know this how? Because you guys are so close? Face it, Bronwyn, none of us really know each other. Hell, you could’ve done it. You’re smart enough to plan something this messed up and get away with it.”
I’m kidding, but Bronwyn goes rigid. “How can you say that?” Her cheeks get red, giving her that flushed look that always unsettles me. She’ll surprise you one day with how pretty she is. My mother used to say that about Bronwyn.
My mother was wrong, though. There’s nothing surprising about it.
“Eli said it himself, right?” I say. “Anything’s possible. Maybe you brought me here to shove me down the hill and break my neck.”
“You brought me here,” Bronwyn points out. Her eyes widen, and I laugh.
“Oh, come on. You don’t actually think— Bronwyn, we’re barely on an incline. Pushing you off this rock isn’t much of an evil plan if all you’d do is twist your ankle.”
“That’s not funny,” Bronwyn says, but a smile twitches at her lips. The afternoon sun’s making her glow, putting glints of gold in her dark hair, and for a second I almost can’t breathe.
Jesus. This girl.
I stand and hold out my hand. She gives me a skeptical look, but takes it and lets me pull her to her feet. I put my other hand in the air. “Bronwyn Rojas, I solemnly swear not to murder you today or at any point in the future. Deal?”
“You’re ridiculous,” she mutters, going even redder.
“It concerns me you’re avoiding a promise not to murder me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Do you say that to all the girls you bring here?”
Huh. Maybe she knows Marshall’s Peak’s reputation after all.
I move closer until there’s only a couple of inches between us. “You’re still not answering my question.”
Bronwyn leans forward and brings her lips to my ear. She’s so close I can feel her heart beating when she whispers, “I promise not to murder you.”
“That’s hot.” I mean it as a joke, but my voice comes out like a growl and when her lips part I kiss her before she can laugh. A shock of energy shoots through me as I cup her face in my hands, my fingers grasping her cheeks and the line of her jaw. It must be the adrenaline that’s making my heart pound so fast. The whole nobody-else-could-possibly-understand-this bond. Or maybe it’s her soft lips and green apple–scented hair, and the way she winds her arms around my neck like she can’t stand to let go. Either way I keep kissing her as long as she lets me, and when she steps away I try to pull her back because it wasn’t enough.
“Nate, my phone,” she says, and for the first time I notice a persistent, jangly text tone. “It’s my sister.”
“She can wait,” I say, tangling a hand in her hair and kissing along her jawline to her neck. She shivers against me and makes a little noise in her throat. Which I like.
“It’s just …” She runs her fingertips across the back of my neck. “She wouldn’t keep texting if it weren’t important.”
Maeve’s our excuse—she and Bronwyn are supposed to be at Yumiko’s house together—and I reluctantly step back so Bronwyn can reach down and dig her phone out of her backpack. She looks at the screen and draws in a quick, sharp breath. “Oh God. My mom’s trying to reach me too. Robin says the police want me to come to the station. To, quote, ‘follow up on a couple of things.’ Unquote.”
“Probably the same bullshit.” I manage to sound calm even though it’s not how I feel.
“Did they call you?” she asks. She looks like she hopes they did, and hates herself for it.
I didn’t hear my phone, but pull it out of my pocket to check anyway. “No.”
She nods and starts firing off texts. “Should I have Maeve pick me up here?”
“Have her meet us at my house. It’s halfway between here and the station.” As soon as I say it I kind of regret it—I still don’t want Bronwyn anywhere near my house when it’s light out—but it’s the most convenient option. And we don’t have to go inside.
Bronwyn bites her lip. “What if reporters are there?”
“They won’t be. They’ve figured out no one’s ever around.” She still looks worried, so I add, “Look, we can park at my neighbor’s and walk over. If anyone’s there, I’ll take you someplace else. But trust me, it’ll be fine.”
Bronwyn texts Maeve my address and we walk to the edge of the woods where I left my bike. I help her with the helmet and she climbs behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist as I start the engine.
I drive slowly down narrow, twisty side roads until we reach my street. My neighbor’s rusted Chevrolet sits in her driveway, in the exact same spot it’s been for the past five years. I park next to it, wait for Bronwyn to dismount, and take her hand as we make our way through the neighbor’s yard to mine. As we get closer I see our house through Bronwyn’s eyes, and wish I’d bothered to mow the lawn at some point in the last year.
Suddenly she stops in her tracks and lets out a gasp, but she’s not looking at our knee-length grass. “Nate, there’s someone at your door.”
I stop too and scan the street for a news van. There isn’t one, just a beat-up Kia parked in front of our house. Maybe they’re getting better at camouflage. “Stay here,” I tell Bronwyn, but she comes with me as I get closer to my driveway for a better look at whoever’s at the door.
It’s not a reporter.
My throat goes dry and my head starts to throb. The woman pressing the bell turns around, and her mouth falls open a little when she sees me. Bronwyn goes still beside me, her hand dropping from mine. I keep walking without her.
I’m surprised how normal my voice sounds when I speak. “What’s up, Mom?”
Chapter Eighteen
Bronwyn
Monday, October 15, 4:10 p.m.
Maeve pulls into the driveway seconds after Mrs. Macauley turns around. I stand rigid, my hands clenched at my sides and my heart pounding, staring at the woman I thought was dead.
“Bronwyn?” Maeve lowers her window and sticks her head out of the car. “You ready? Mom and Robin are already there. Dad’s trying to get off work, but he’s got a board meeting. I had to do some maneuvering about why you weren’t answering your phone. You’re sick to your stomach, okay?”
“That’s accurate,” I mutter. Nate’s back is to me. His mother is talking, staring at him with ravenous eyes, but I can’t hear anything she’s saying.
“Huh?” Maeve follows my gaze. “Who’s that?”
“I’ll tell you in the car,” I say, tearing my eyes away from Nate. “Let’s go.”
I climb into the passenger seat of our Volvo, where the heat is blasting because Maeve’s always cold. She backs out of the driveway in her careful, just-got-my-license way, talking the whole time. “Mom’s doing that whole Mom thing, where she’s pretending not to be freaked out but she totally is,” she says, and I’m half listening. “I guess the police aren’t giving much information. We don’t even know if anyone else is going to be there. Is Nate coming, do you know?”
I snap back to attention. “No.” For once I’m glad Maeve likes to maintain broiler-oven temperatures while driving, because it’s keeping the cold inching up my spine at bay. “He’s not coming.”
Maeve approaches a stop sign and brakes jerkily, glancing over at me. “What’s the matter?”
I close my eyes and lean against the headrest. “That was Nate’s mother.”
“What was?”
“The woman at the door just now. At Nate’s house. It was his mother.”
“But …” Maeve trails off, and I can tell by the sound of the blinker that she’s about to make a turn and needs to concentrate. When the car straightens again she says, “But she’s dead.”
“Apparently not.”
“I don’t—but that’s—” Maeve sputters for a few seconds. I keep my eyes closed. “So … what’s the deal? Did he not know she was alive? Or did he lie about it?”