Marcus scratches his head and gives me a funny look. I swear his cheeks are pink.
“I’m going to go.” I gather my things, trying to think of something coherent to say over my pounding heart. “Ma—maybe we should look more closely at Kirsten, Tyrone, and Kip.”
“Okay.” He sinks back into his own chair, a tiny smirk at the edge of his mouth. “And you’re welcome.”
I pull the elastic out of my hair and let my curls loose to hide my face, which has decided to light up neon. The music shifts from electric guitars and piano to electric guitars and drums.
I meet his eyes at last, and I swear there’s something—maybe just something I want to see.
“Thanks.”
I stride across the room, misdialing Dina’s number three times while I try to process what just happened. Because it felt like something more than Marcus simply hiding me from the cops. I push out the door with my phone to my ear, glancing back inside Evil Bean one last time.
By the front window, in the corner, a familiar blue catches my eye.
Reva Stone stares at me from behind a paperback.
TWENTY-ONE
KIRSTEN TURNS THE KEY IN her yellow Volkswagen Beetle and the whole car throbs with an R&B ballad that makes my chest vibrate. She swats at the beads hanging from the mirror and fumbles to turn down the volume. I open the passenger door and she hastily clears the seat, tossing a water bottle, some random school papers, and an empty bag from Super Donut behind her.
“Sorry, haven’t had a lot of passengers since Gretchen died.”
I sink into the leather, the smell of Fritos wafting up at me. Gretchen’s Mercedes was spotless and smelled like new car even after she’d driven it for two years. She refused to play anything but classical music in it, either to be eccentric, or just to annoy me since I prefer music with a beat. I doubt she ever wanted to let me drive it, but she was too smart to risk a DUI.
I take several deep breaths as Kirsten pulls out of the school parking lot. I am anxious to poke around in Gretchen’s room, but since I’ve gotten used to the idea, I’m also curious to spend a little time with Kirsten. Now that I know what went down between her and Gretchen at the party, I want to figure out how she spent the rest of that night.
“Thanks for the ride—and for inviting me.”
“I’m the one who should say thanks.” She purses her lips. “My mom’s been seeing this therapist every day, but he’s totally making things worse. I kinda don’t want to deal with this by myself.”
“She really wants to give Gretchen’s stuff away? Already?”
“The dude says it’s part of the grief process, but seriously, he’s got her carrying around crystals and lighting special candles.” She puts her signal on to turn onto the covered bridge.
“I wouldn’t have thought—”
My head jerks back against the seat. The car accelerates and I look up in time to see the left-turn arrow ahead of us cycle red just before Kirsten blows into the intersection. For a split second all I see is the huge grille of a gravel truck closing toward me—it goes dark, I’m in the dirt screaming for Gretchen, for anyone—and then the Beetle speeds through the bridge. The truck driver leans on his horn behind us and I grip the door with one hand, the other clamped over my mouth. I saw my whole life flash before me just a week and a half ago. I guess it makes sense that’s all there is left to replay. Once I’ve gotten hold of myself enough to turn my head, Kirsten’s face is neutral.
“Sorry, I just went for it. That light is so slow.” She looks at me, the corner of her mouth rising, just barely.
As she says this, I’m reminded so much of Gretchen, it hurts. But Gretchen never acted on impulse. Everything she did was carefully planned.
Kirsten pulls up to the curb in front of her house and I manage to get both legs working beneath me, but I keep my eyes locked on the sidewalk, the gate, the steps. It’s hard enough coming back here without letting my emotions get dragged away into the park. The front hall smells strongly of lavender and vanilla when I follow her in the door, but otherwise the place appears like it always does.
“Sonia, I’m so pleased you could come.”
Mrs. Meyer comes gliding out of the kitchen in a T-shirt and yoga pants, her fading yellow hair loose around her shoulders. For a second, I can’t think of a thing to say. I’m so used to her business suits and tightly sculpted bun.
“Kirsten said it was a little overwhelming trying to sort through everything.” I barely get my voice above a whisper. “I’m happy to help however I can.”