I shift in my seat. Trust is not something I have in abundance anymore, but I guess I’m afraid enough to hear him out.
“My grandmother lied to the sheriff about seeing me that night.” He exhales. “She’s scared to death about what’s happening, but she believes me. I was here until eleven thirty, but she was already asleep when I got home. Basically, I have no alibi.”
I cover my mouth, letting the weight of his words sink in.
“You can go notify the sheriff if you want, but I wouldn’t be telling you this if I was guilty.”
“So, it could have been you. . . .” I speak slowly, not sure if I’m more shocked that he really has no alibi or that he actually just told me as much.
“But it wasn’t.” He leans forward, resting his hands on the table. “I might not be able to prove I didn’t kill Gretchen, but if I can figure out who did—”
“I don’t think Sheriff Wood will appreciate you trying to do his job for him, not to mention being lied to.”
“This whole town wants to see me go to jail just so they can feel better faster.” His eyes are fierce. “She was your best friend, Sonia. Don’t you want to know the truth?”
I shove my hands inside my hoodie pockets, but they feel cold no matter what I do. The truth won’t change anything, fix anything. I don’t want the truth, I want a do-over. I want Gretchen alive and the last week to be nothing but a bad dream. I wish for the thousandth time that night had happened differently. That Gretchen hadn’t fought with Kirsten. That we’d just stayed at the party and gone home later, like we always did. But every time I start speculating about what-ifs, the whole nightmare just replays itself in my head.
He pushes his chair out from the table, but lingers over the photograph. “Whatever you do, I meant what I said about showing this to the sheriff.”
I peek at the photo, flip it facedown. Somehow looking at it felt safer when I was sure Marcus was behind it. Now I can’t tell where amid the scratches my own features ought to go.
“Sonia?” Marcus says.
Our eyes meet. Something inside me stirs.
He seems to struggle, but finally manages to speak. “Look out for yourself.”
My mind swims with memory, grief, regret—can I be the person who decides Marcus’s fate? He stands and turns toward the house, his shoulders already hunched, like he’s accepted defeat. I think of Gretchen slipping in the door of her house, then turning around, heading back out into the woods. I think of the video, of all the times Marcus and Gretchen fought, when he treated me like I wasn’t worth the dirt on his shoe. But then there were the moments I couldn’t help admiring him. When I ran into him walking his grandmother through the grocery store, or the few times I saw him holding his own with Gretchen—something I’d seen only a few guys do. He’d still made her feel like the only girl in the world. I can’t help wondering where all of us might be if they’d never dated at all.
I close my eyes, and when I open them again, I’m staring at the back of the photograph. If Marcus is the one behind it, he’s going to an awful lot of trouble to deny it. But if he didn’t leave it, I need to figure out who did . . . and why.
“You know, this could just be a stupid prank,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m more scared than when I got here. “One of the assholes who graffitied your locker might’ve done it after I stopped Kip.”
“Maybe.” He turns, his mouth uncertain. “You should still be careful.”
I rise, tucking the photo back in my pocket without looking at it. He regards me with a subtle, hopeful look. It reminds me of the times I used to catch him watching Gretchen when she wasn’t paying attention. Sometimes his face surprised me. I would wonder what was really going through his head, just the way I’m wondering now.
“Maybe we could help each other,” I say before I lose my nerve. “I mean, because if it’s not you, then . . .”
He straightens, steps toward me, the look in his eyes unmistakably relieved. “We could come up with a list of possible suspects first.”
“Okay. Let’s start there and compare notes,” I say, wondering if I’ve just made a huge mistake. “But Marcus, let’s get one thing straight. After everything is said and done, if all the evidence still points to you . . .”
The hopeful look fades and he nods. “Sometimes innocent people rot in jail.”
I look away. “And sometimes they get killed.”
ELEVEN
AT THE END OF THE day Wednesday, Principal Bova announces there will be early dismissal Friday so students and staff can attend Gretchen’s funeral service. The hallways immediately fill with chatter. Who’s going, who isn’t, who else will be there. I’ve never seen a funeral turn into a social event before.
Monday couldn’t come any faster.