Sometimes I wish I could get away with that at the diner. I drop some change into the tip jar.
This time of day, the mismatched tables and chairs are packed with students from the community college, or people carrying out shady business meetings they don’t want overheard. Small groups cram in front of laptops tethered to overcrowded outlets. I watch a couple guys in business suits pass an envelope under a table. There’s a gas fireplace in the corner that’s never turned on no matter how cold it gets and a couple of lopsided sofas huddled on either side of it like they haven’t abandoned hope. The place is always decorated with artwork for sale and today the whole back wall has been turned into a gallery of bright, colorful abstracts. I recognize them instantly as Marcus’s.
My list of suspects is in my backpack, and I’m anxious to see the names he’s come up with—if there’s any overlap. I also sort of hope he’ll give me more reasons he shouldn’t be included, but I’m trying to stay objective. After I connected Kip to the photo and he told me he’d seen Gretchen in the woods, he became my strongest candidate. But I still hesitate. Maybe I’m too trusting, but threats don’t seem like Kip’s style . . . let alone murder. He just isn’t that calculating. I worry there’s something I’m missing.
I don’t see Marcus when I scan the room, so I pick up my mug and wander awkwardly between the tables, trying not to imagine I’m being watched by each person I pass. Finally, my gaze lands on a familiar hunched form.
The thronelike purple chairs in the corner are nestled so close together, my knee rams into his when I sit down. I overcorrect, trying to sit as far back as possible, but when I do I end up sinking into the cushion until my feet lift off the floor. I pull myself forward to balance on the edge of the seat, which apparently has at least one spring left because it’s poking me in the ass.
“Nice meeting place,” I say.
“Guess you’re serious about the text thing. I wasn’t sure you’d show.” Marcus lifts his head. The swelling under his eye is almost gone and I spend a second too long studying the smooth planes of his face. “Anyway, I figured no one you know would ever come here.”
I set my mug on a side table with a frown, but I have to admit this place wasn’t a bad idea. There’s little to no chance anyone from school is going to walk in—there’s a gentler, cheaper coffee shop much closer—and even if someone did, we’re unlikely to be spotted in this corner. Dina does come here to study, and to get away from the diner, but I’m picking her up from school in Uncle Noah’s Passat since her car is in the shop.
“Yeah, well, let’s not linger,” I say, trying to stay on task. “Show me what you’ve got.”
“Okay.” Marcus pushes his hair out of his eyes and leafs through a sketchbook. “I think, in addition to compiling a list of suspects, we should probably come up with some kind of timeline. If we can figure out where people were and when, we can determine who had opportunity, then work our way back toward motive.”
“How much of a timeline do we need? The picture wasn’t in my locker at the end of the day Monday. The building was locked overnight. Unless someone had access—”
“I’m talking about Gretchen’s murder, Sonia.” He raises his eyebrows.
Heat floods my face, warming up the whole room. “Right. Well, I’m talking about the creepy photo with my face scratched out like I’m next on someone’s list.”
His eyes darken. “So, you’re actually worried about that now?”
I pull at a rip in my jeans. “Until I know who left it and why, I’m being cautious, yeah.”
“So cautious you go walking in the woods by yourself.”
My head snaps up. “Remind me why you suddenly care?”
A line forms between his eyebrows. “I’ve always cared.”
My lips part, but I can’t make a sound. He couldn’t mean that the way I want him to.
He stares down into a black cup of coffee and exhales. “Look, Gretchen could bring out the worst in people, and I was no exception. She wanted me to dislike you . . . so I did my best.”
A sharp pain opens at the center of my chest. Because what he said about Gretchen is true, but the way he treated me the last six months felt too awful not to be real.
“It was wrong, Sonia. I know that doesn’t fix anything. I just want you to know so maybe—” He stops, meets my eyes. “Maybe you’ll stop being angry with me.”