It’s small comfort to think that Kaycee died—must have died—because she refused to keep participating.
I can’t call Joe; he’ll just say that I’m grieving or that I’ve finally lost it. I can’t go to the cops because Sheriff Kahn is in Optimal’s pocket—he must be. Who knows how long he’s been covering for them, or how many others in the sheriff’s department are in the know? I trust Condor, but I don’t know whether he’ll trust me. He freaked out when I suggested Kaycee hadn’t left town, and practically accused me of being a conspiracy theorist—what will he think if I tell him I’ve exposed an actual conspiracy?
Still, I pull up Condor’s number before I can second-guess myself. The phone rings six times and then rolls over to voicemail. I hang up, then wish I hadn’t. I redial, hang up after one ring when I realize he’ll think I want to see him.
I send him a text instead. I decide on the truth, or something close to it.
There are enough lies in this town.
You said I was chasing a conspiracy. I found one. I don’t know who else to talk to. Call me back. I add please, then delete it. Too desperate.
I press Send.
Is it possible that Kaycee pretended to be sick because she was trying to communicate a message about Optimal? Was she not so much pretending as signaling? A way of making Optimal the focus of attention without implicating herself directly?
As soon as I think it, I know it must be true. It fits. Kaycee loved that—secret messages, cryptic ways of communicating. The summer after fifth grade she tried to make up a whole new language that only we would be able to understand, and was so frustrated when I couldn’t learn it fast enough that she threatened to stop being my friend, only relenting when I burst into tears. She was always all tricks and codes and clues. The kind of girl you could only get close to the way you have to creep sideways toward a wild animal, not making eye contact, so it won’t run away.
However screwed up she was, however much to blame for starting the Game in the first place, she regretted it. Maybe for the first time in her life, she was trying to do the right thing.
And she died for it.
My phone rings.
I catch it on the first ring and don’t even have time to glance at the name before I answer.
“Condor?” My voice is still croaky.
There’s a slight pause. “It’s Brent,” Brent says. He doesn’t bother keeping the hurt from his voice. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Brent. Hi. Sorry.” My chest tightens. Does he know? Could he possibly know? I think of what he told me at the football game: I’m beginning to think you’re right about Optimal…there’s something funny going on in accounting.
“I’ve called every day. I’ve been worried about you.”
“I know. I’ve been…busy.” An obvious lie. By now, Brent must know I’m off the Optimal case. “I’m okay, though.”
“You don’t sound okay,” Brent says matter-of-factly. “You sound like you’ve been crying.”
I hesitate. Brent works for Optimal. He’s friends with Misha. He dated Kaycee for years—and yet, he kissed me.
On the other hand, he’s never blamed or punished me for investigating Optimal, or tried to warn me away. He admitted Misha always had a thing for him. Misha is an expert liar. Why wouldn’t she be lying to Brent?
“Abby?” Brent sounds as if he’s pressing his mouth into the phone, trying to reach his way through it. “Are you still there?”
“I’m here,” I say. Can I trust him? Yes or no. Heads or tails.
I count seven crows on a telephone wire. Seven for a secret, never to be told.
“Talk to me,” he says. Warm. Concerned.
“You’re right. I’m not okay.” Then, before I can regret it: “How much do you know about the Optimal Scholarships?”
“The…?” Now Brent sounds bewildered. This definitely wasn’t what he expected me to say.
“The scholarships,” I repeat. “What do you know about them?”
Brent clears his throat. “Not much, honestly. I know Misha manages the program and our CFO oversees the financing. But why on earth…?”
And I’m sure, now, he isn’t faking his confusion. He can’t be.
“I need to know I can trust you.” My phone is hot in my hand. “I need you to promise.”
“Promise what? What is this about, Abby?”
And finally I can’t bear to hold it in anymore, can’t bear the weight of it alone. “They’re using the girls, Brent.” My voice cracks. “They’re using them as—as collateral. Currency. Bribes. It’s been going on for years. I think—I think Kaycee knew about it. I think she was killed. I think that’s why she was killed.”
There’s a long silence. “What you’re saying,” he says finally, “it doesn’t make any sense. It’s…” He sucks in a breath. “I can’t believe it.”
It’s the first time I’ve ever felt sorry for him. I think again of the time I caught him with Misha in the woods behind the school. What lies was she feeding him then?
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s true.”
More silence. When he speaks again, he can hardly manage a whisper.
“I always wanted to believe…” His voice breaks. “I always wanted to think she was okay.” He clears his throat. “Jesus. Can we meet up? Can we talk in person?”
He doesn’t think I’m crazy.
“Okay,” I say, “I’m at my dad’s house.” I guess it’s my house now.
“I’ll come as soon as I can. Don’t—don’t tell anyone else, okay? If you’re right…” His voice cracks again. “We can’t trust anyone.”
That word, we, lights up my insides. I’m not alone anymore. Brent is on my side.
“I won’t,” I tell him, and hang up.
—
My father’s house is cool and quiet. It smells like Pine-Sol and Windex. I’ve almost cleaned away the past.
I’ve tucked my mother’s jewelry box on the top shelf of my father’s closet, behind the few items of his that I intended, only a few days ago, to keep. Now I see there’s no point. There is no meaning attached to his belt, or his tie, or the two-dollar bill he kept folded in his wallet, just as my mother’s ghost has not imprinted on her jewelry, just as Kaycee cannot be resurrected through her fingerprints on Chestnut’s collar.
I loosen the collar from the tangle of cheap necklaces—junk, all of it. The past is a trick of the mind. It’s a story we misunderstand over and over.
I find a shovel in my dad’s shed and set out for the reservoir with Chestnut’s collar coiled around my wrist. Years ago I set out to bury it; instead, I let Brent kiss me, and from that moment on, without knowing it, I’ve been stuck in place.
I remember burying Chestnut close to the shore—I insisted on it, because he loved the water—and my dad marked the grave with a pile of rocks he pulled from the underbrush. But I can’t find the grave anywhere. The rocks must have been moved—used to line a fire pit, maybe, or as part of another kid’s imagined fairy world.