The corner of his mouth pulls into a frown, or maybe a grimace. “Fine. I’ll be right back.”
When he’s gone, I look up at the house, then back to the shed, feeling exposed. There’s an empty fountain in the center of the yard and an ivy-covered arbor with a small table and chairs at the far end of the garden. I pace up and down the gravel path between the two, trying to decide if I should just throw the photo at him, or give him a chance to own up to it first.
The back door slams and Marcus lopes over to where I stand under the arbor. He’s changed into a white shirt and managed to wash most of the paint off his face and hands. He looks different in the sunlight. His face is more relaxed and his skin has a healthy glow, or maybe it’s just that we’re in his own backyard, out from under the stares of a suspicious town. He gestures me to a chair at the little table and I shift my feet, unsure what to do. Before I can decide, he loses patience and slumps into the seat instead.
“So, I guess this is where I throw myself at your feet for holding off Kip this morning.” His lip curls. “I didn’t think you cared.”
“Trust me, I don’t.” I clench my jaw because I almost mean it. I’m angry about the photo, but also that he can’t even be civil in the wake of Gretchen’s death.
“Then why are you here?”
“Honestly? Until this morning, I was considering helping you.”
He straightens. “What?”
I take a deep breath, cross my fingers, and then pull the photo out of my back pocket and drop it on the table in front of him. “But I don’t respond well to threats.”
He leans forward and picks it up, turning it over like he’s never seen it before, even going so far as to run his thumb across the place where my face ought to be. My jaw grows tighter the longer he takes. When I thought I wanted his attention, this wasn’t what I had in mind. He looks up, his expression blank.
“I don’t get it, is this a joke?” he asks.
“Don’t try to bullshit me.”
“I’m not!”
I roll my eyes. “If I’d seen this before Kip came along this morning, I would’ve told him exactly where to punch you.”
He drops the photo to the table, his face white. “Wait. You think I did this?”
I falter at the panic in his voice. “Who else?”
“I don’t know—it could’ve been anyone at school.”
“Marcus, why would anyone else do this?”
“To fuck with you? To be a douchebag? I don’t know.” He stops and looks at me, his expression shifting to alarm. “To scare you.”
I pause. “Why would anyone want to do that?”
“Because you’re still here.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Even as I ask, a spike of fear shoots up my neck. The pepper spray in my pocket doesn’t seem so reassuring.
“Sonia, someone’s sending you a message.”
I struggle to keep my voice steady. “Someone like you?”
He runs his hand over his face. “You know it wasn’t me—”
“The only thing I know is ever since Gretchen died, you refuse to leave me alone.”
His eyes darken. “Then why didn’t you just go straight to the sheriff? If you think it was me, why risk coming here by yourself?”
I hesitate.
He fixes his gaze carefully on me as he speaks. “Between that and not letting Kip come at me again this morning, I think you know it wasn’t me. Or at least you’re not sure.”
My stomach drops. I look away so he won’t see the doubt in my eyes. “Maybe you didn’t chase me. But you still could’ve killed Gretchen.”
“I didn’t kill her.” He spins the photo around on the table and pushes it toward me. “Think about it. Why would someone put this in your locker?”
“Because you’re a desperate asshole who thought it’d get me to help you.”
His eyes widen. “You think I’d try to threaten you into helping me? Like that would get me anywhere.”
I throw up my hands. “Fine. If you didn’t leave it there, then who did?”
Marcus sits back in his chair, his face solemn. “Whoever killed Gretchen.”
I look up at the sky through the leaves above our heads. “Clearly.”
“Come on, Sonia. Even if you weren’t the intended target, what if you saw something that night and you don’t even realize it?”
“Now you’re trying to tell me what I saw?”
“I’m trying to tell you you’re not safe.” His voice goes quiet. “What if the person who sent this is the same person who attacked you?”
I sink into one of the garden chairs, my legs refusing to support me anymore. Gretchen grins up at me from the picture, hugging my faceless form. I look more closely at the scratches—jagged, violent, almost slicing through the paper. Like someone really, really didn’t want me there.
All I want to do is run home and scream as hard as I can into my pillow, but I stay put, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Okay, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t you.”