She does, and I study Nate’s face in the looping video. His expression is blank, almost bored, as though he’s been talked into going to a party that doesn’t interest him.
I know that look. It’s the same one he got when I mentioned Until Proven at the mall. He’s shutting down and putting up defenses. There’s no trace of the boy I know from the phone, or our motorcycle rides, or my media room. Or the one I remember from grade school, his St. Pius tie askew and his shirt untucked, leading his sobbing mother down the hallway with a fierce look that dared any of us to laugh.
I still believe that Nate’s the real one. Whatever the police think, or found, doesn’t change that.
My parents aren’t home. I grab my phone and call my lawyer, Robin, who doesn’t answer. I leave her such a long, rambling message that her voice mail cuts me off, and I hang up feeling helpless. Robin’s my only hope for getting information, but she won’t consider this an emergency. It’s a problem for Nate’s future lawyer, not her.
That thought makes me even more panicked. What’s an overworked public defender who’s never met Nate going to be able to do? My eyes dart around the room and meet Maeve’s troubled gaze.
“Do you think he might have—”
“No,” I say forcefully. “Come on, Maeve, you’ve seen how screwed up this investigation is. They thought I did it for a while. They’re wrong. I’m positive they’re wrong.”
“I wonder what they found, though,” Maeve says. “You’d think they’d be pretty careful after all the bad press they got this week.”
I don’t answer. For once in my life I have no idea what to do. My brain’s empty of everything except a churning anxiety. Channel 7 has given up pretending they know anything new, and they’re replaying snippets about the investigation to date. There’s footage from Mikhail Powers Investigates. Addy in her pixie haircut, giving whoever’s filming her a defiant finger. A Bayview Police Department spokesperson. Eli Kleinfelter.
Of course.
I grab my phone and search for Eli’s name. He gave me his cell the last time we spoke and told me to call anytime. I hope he meant it.
He answers on the first ring. “Eli Kleinfelter.”
“Eli? It’s Bronwyn Rojas. From—”
“Of course. Hi, Bronwyn. I take it you’re watching the news. What do you make of it?”
“They’re wrong.” I stare at the television while Maeve stares at me. Dread’s creeping through me like a fast-growing vine, squeezing my heart and lungs so it’s hard to breathe. “Eli, Nate needs a better lawyer than whatever random public defender they’ll assign him. He needs somebody who gives a crap and knows what they’re doing. I think, um, well—basically I think he needs you. Would you consider taking his case?”
Eli doesn’t answer straightaway, and when he does his voice is cautious. “Bronwyn, you know I’m interested in this case, and I sympathize with all of you. You’ve gotten a shit deal and I’m sure this arrest is more of the same. But I’ve got an impossible workload as it is—”
“Please,” I interrupt, and words tumble out of me. I tell Eli about Nate’s parents and how he’s practically raised himself since he was in fifth grade. I tell him every awful, heart-wrenching story Nate’s ever told me, or that I witnessed or guessed. Nate would hate it, but I’ve never believed anything more strongly than I believe he needs Eli to stay out of jail.
“All right, all right,” Eli says finally. “I get it. I really do. Are either of these parents in any shape to talk? I’ll make time for a consult and give them some ideas for resources. That’s all I can do.”
It’s not enough, but it’s something. “Yes!” I say with brazen fake confidence. Nate talked to his mother two days ago and she was holding on, but I have no idea what effect today’s news might have on her. “I’ll talk to Nate’s mom. When can we meet?”
“Ten tomorrow, our offices.”
Maeve’s still watching me when I hang up. “Bronwyn, what are you doing?”
I snatch the keys to the Volvo from the kitchen island. “I need to find Mrs. Macauley.”
Maeve bites her lip. “Bronwyn, you can’t—”
Run this like it’s student council? She’s right. I need help. “Will you come? Please?”
She debates for half a minute, her amber eyes steady on mine. “All right.”
My phone almost slips out of my sweaty palm as we head for the car. I must’ve gotten a dozen calls and texts while I was talking with Eli. My parents, my friends, and a bunch of numbers I don’t recognize that probably belong to reporters. I have four messages from Addy, all some variation of Did you see? and WTF?
“Are we telling Mom and Dad about this?” Maeve asks as I back out of the driveway.
“What ‘this’? Nate’s arrest?”
“I’m pretty sure they’re in the loop on that. This … legal coordination you’re doing.”
“Do you disapprove?”
“Not disapprove, exactly. But you’re flying off the handle before you even know what the police found. It could be cut-and-dried. I know you really like him, but … isn’t it possible he did this?”
“No,” I say shortly. “And yes. I’ll tell Mom and Dad. I’m not doing anything wrong. Just trying to help a friend.” My voice sticks on the last word, and we drive in silence until we reach Motel 6.
I’m relieved when the front desk clerk tells me Mrs. Macauley’s still checked in, but she doesn’t answer the phone in her room. Which is a good sign—hopefully she’s wherever Nate is. I leave a note with my phone number and try not to overdo the underlines and capital letters. Maeve takes over driving responsibilities on the ride home while I call Addy.
“What the hell?” she says when she picks up, and the vise gripping my chest loosens at the disbelief in her voice. “First they think it’s all of us. Then it’s musical chairs till they finally land on Nate, I guess.”
“Anything new?” I ask. “I’ve been away from screens for half an hour.”
But there’s nothing. The police are being tight-lipped about whatever they found. Addy’s lawyer doesn’t have a clue what’s happening. “You want to hang out tonight?” she asks. “You must be going nuts. My mom and her boyfriend have plans, so Ashton and I are making pizza. Bring Maeve; we’ll have a sister night.”
“Maybe. If things aren’t too out of control,” I say gratefully.
Maeve turns into our street, and my heart sinks when I spy the line of white news vans in front of our house. It looks like Univision and Telemundo have joined the fray, which is seriously going to piss off my dad. He can never get them to cover anything positive about his company, but this they show up for.
We pull into the driveway behind my parents’ cars, and as soon as I open my door a half-dozen microphones are in my face. I push past them and meet Maeve in front of the car, grabbing her hand as we weave through the cameras and the flashing lights. Most of the reporters shout some variation of “Bronwyn, do you think Nate killed Simon?” but one calls out, “Bronwyn, is it true you and Nate are romantically involved?”
I really hope my parents weren’t asked the same question.
Maeve and I slam the door behind us and duck past the windows into our kitchen. Mom is sitting at the island with a coffee cup between both hands, her face tight with worry. Dad’s voice rises in heated conversation from behind his closed office door.
“Bronwyn, we need to talk,” Mom says, and Maeve floats away upstairs.