Dad peers in at me, his eyes concerned. “Juliet?”
I rub at my eyes. I know he means well, but I can’t do the father-daughter thing tonight. My emotions are shot, and my voice is, too. “I’m really tired, Dad.”
“Okay.” He nods. “I thought it might be too late. I’ll tell them you’re sleeping.” He begins to slide the door closed.
Them?
My first thought is Declan and Rev, and my heart skips to quadruple time. “Wait!” I scramble forward on my bed. “Someone is here?”
He frowns. “What did you think I meant when I asked if you wanted comp—”
“I didn’t understand.” I can’t get the words out of my mouth fast enough. I feel like I’ve taken a shot of adrenaline and espresso simultaneously. Maybe Declan is here to explain. To apologize. To convince me that there’s some plausible way his criminal record is unrelated to my mother.
I shouldn’t be this excited at the thought of him coming here, but I can’t help it. Guilt is stabbing me, but so is intrigue.
I am the world’s worst daughter.
I push the hair back from my face. It’s a tangled mess from the way the wind wove through the cemetery. “Who is it? What do they want?”
Now my father is looking at me like I’m nuts, and he’s not too far off the mark. “It’s Rowan, and she’s here with a boy. I think he said his name is Brendan . . . ?”
“Brandon.” Air rushes out of my lungs, deflating me before I have a chance to figure out whether I was enraged or excited at the thought of confronting Declan Murphy. “You can send them up.”
“Darn right we’re coming up,” Rowan yells from somewhere downstairs. “You can ignore my calls, but you can’t ignore Nachos BellGrande.”
They clomp up the steps, and Dad gets out of their way. Rowan is ethereal and glowing in a white gauzy shirt that hangs over yoga pants. She’s carrying a massive bag from Taco Bell. Brandon is wearing skinny jeans and an unbuttoned plaid shirt over a tee that reads Bacon Is Meat Candy.
They look like they’ve stepped out of the pages of a novel, an angel and her hipster sidekick.
I’m wearing pajamas, and I’m pretty sure makeup has dried in streaks on my cheeks.
Rowan drops the bag beside me on the bed, then climbs in next to me. “Oh, Jules. What happened? They said you fainted in the cafeteria. Why didn’t you call me? How did you get home?”
“I didn’t faint.” I rub at my cheeks, which feel a little crusty from tears. “Vickers said it was a panic attack. She let me do independent study for the afternoon.” It’s the most sympathy I’ve gotten out of Vickers since the school year started.
Brandon starts pulling food out of the bag. He hasn’t said anything, but he’s making himself useful. I like that he’s avoiding the fact that I’m basically a train wreck wrapped up in a comforter.
Considering which, I should probably put on a bra.
I swipe at my eyes and extricate myself from Rowan and the blankets. “I’m going to go put some real clothes on. I’ll be right back.” In a wave, the scent of the food finds me, and I realize that I haven’t eaten dinner—on the heels of barely eating lunch. “Thanks for bringing food. I’m starving.”
In the bathroom I wash my face and brush my teeth and twist my hair up into a clip. I grabbed clothes haphazardly, so I end up in jeans and a tank top, but it’s better than looking ready to do Ophelia’s mad scene.
When I return to my room, Rowan has made my bed, and they’ve got a buffet spread across the comforter. Soft music spills from my radio. Dad has brought up sodas.
I’m so blown away by their kindness that I want to burst into tears again. It’s been so long. I don’t deserve any of this.
“Your phone lit up a few times,” Rowan says.
I pick it up and press the button.
TD: Seriously. Are you okay?
I unlock it and type quickly.
CG: I’m okay. Friends over. I’ll write back later.
Then I lock the phone and shove it under my pillow.
Rowan has a plate of nachos, and she’s watching me. “What was that all about?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
I grab a plate and start piling it with chips and beef and cheese. “I don’t know.”
“Mystery boy?”
“There’s a mystery boy?” says Brandon. He’s taken my desk chair in the corner, and four tacos are piled in front of him.
“Sort of.” I shovel a chip into my face. The Dark didn’t answer my question from this afternoon—is that an answer in itself? Or was he just concerned and didn’t feel the need to answer?
Declan is so confrontational that I can’t imagine him dodging the question. When we were sitting in the cafeteria, he didn’t back down from the question about the date—why wouldn’t he face it head-on now?
Why wouldn’t he tell me?
Unless The Dark isn’t Declan Murphy at all. Which would also make sense. Sort of.
We all sit there eating quietly for the longest time. My radio continues cranking out tunes.
Finally, I speak into the solitude. My voice comes out very small but steady. “Declan Murphy wrecked his car on the same night my mother died. That’s why I got upset at lunch. I think he might have been involved. He was drunk, and he blacked out.”
Rowan stops with a chip halfway to her mouth. “Did you tell your dad? Did he call the cops?”
“I haven’t told anyone.” I hesitate. “I don’t . . . I don’t have all the details. What if it’s not the same time? What if—”
“Do you have a computer?” says Brandon. “I could look it up.”
I straighten. “You could look what up?”
“I have the password to the local beat crime feed.”
Rowan leans into me and stage-whispers, “He is so handy to have around sometimes.”
“You do?” I say. “How?”