Time seems to slow, and when we finally part, my mouth vibrates along with every cell in my chest. Marcus traces a finger along the arch of my brow, down my cheek.
“I don’t know what I would do if—” His voice hitches. He turns his head, pulling me to his chest. “I don’t know how to keep you safe.”
I wrap my arms tight around him, trying to hold on to the moment, but even as my heart races, the warmth inside me fades to dread.
He pulls away. “I’ve been thinking I might just come clean to Sheriff Wood.”
I stare at him, at my empty arms. “Come clean?”
“Tell them the truth . . . about my alibi.”
My stomach twists into a hundred knots. “You can’t do that.”
“They’ll never find the real killer if they don’t have all the facts.”
My chest tightens. He can’t realize what he’s saying. “How is telling them you could have killed her when you didn’t going to help anything?”
“I wanted Gretchen dead.” His face clouds. “Sometimes that feels as bad as being her murderer.”
“No.” I step toward him, panicked by the hopelessness in his voice. “It’s not the same, Marcus. At all.”
He cups his hand to my cheek. “You’re in danger as long as the real killer goes free.”
I touch my fingers to his and shake my head. “It was Alex Burke.”
He hesitates. “What if it wasn’t?”
“It has to be.” I pull away, pacing to the left, then the right. “We’ll take that recording to the sheriff. He’ll find a way to prove it.”
“The sheriff does need to know the guy threatened you.” Marcus sighs heavily. “But I’m not sure he killed her anymore . . . I couldn’t see it in his eyes.”
I stare at him. “Are you serious?”
“Don’t get me wrong, he’s an asshole, and if he ever comes near you—” He clenches his jaw. “But I can’t just pass the buck. I wouldn’t wish the situation I’m in on anyone, even him.” He looks long and hard at the diptych on the wall. “Maybe it was random after all. Maybe Gretchen just ran into some psycho in the woods.”
I close my eyes. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t Alex Burke. I think we’ve established you weren’t the only one who might’ve wanted to hurt her.”
“I’m the only one the cops seem to care about. I had motive, opportunity, and no real alibi.”
“No one knows the truth about your alibi but us.” I slip my hand into his, anxiety and fear tangling our fingers back together. “Please, just wait, Marcus. We can figure this out.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
WHEN I COME DOWNSTAIRS THURSDAY morning Uncle Noah is behind the register. It’s only been five days since he was in the hospital. He looks pale and he’s resting on a stool rather than standing, but his eyes are bright and alert. He cracks a wide smile when he sees me.
“There’s my favorite niece.”
I set my backpack on the counter and wrap my arms around his big shoulders. He hugs me back, but he feels smaller somehow, and he doesn’t smell right. “I heard Aunt Elena put you on a diet.”
Noah groans. “Won’t let me smoke either. She’s killing me trying to save me.”
I pull back and study his dark wavy hair, the cleft in his chin, the twinkle in his eye. “I’m glad you’re all right.”
He looks out the windows at the spring leaves filling the park. “You need a ride to school today, kiddo?”
I shake my head, helping myself to a cup of coffee. “Aisha’s picking me up.”
A couple comes up to the register and I scan the occupied tables while Noah rings them up. It looks like a slow morning. The kind my family always complains about, but I secretly love. Sometimes on days like this, my mom and I share a crossword, filling the words in while we clean the blenders or organize pies in the display case. She’s across the room now, but she probably won’t be up for a puzzle. She nods solemnly, taking Mr. Moore’s order, looking impossibly more tired than yesterday. The van Gendts are at a booth in the corner, there’s a trucker at the counter, and by the windows sits a girl with short blue hair.
I frown. Reva doesn’t come in here very often. She’s vegan and likes everyone to know it. The few times I’ve served her, she’s ordered cereal and soy milk and gone out of her way to make faces at other people’s bacon and eggs. I pick up a pot of hot water and approach the booth where she’s sitting with a mug and a bowl of fruit.
“More water for your tea?”
“No thanks, I’m all set.” She peers up at me from a notebook. “Heard they picked up the wrong guy for Gretchen’s murder. I guess that means the heat’s back on Marcus.”
She smirks and stabs a piece of watermelon with her fork and I just stand there holding the hot water, telling myself not to dump it on her. I cannot figure her out. I sink into the opposite side of the booth, disregarding the put-out look on her face.
“Let me ask you something . . . just call me curious. Who do you think killed Gretchen?”
She raises one dark eyebrow. I guess it’s too much trouble dyeing them to match her head. “I don’t care.”
“Really? You seem kind of invested in what happens to Marcus.”