Was Sam remembering, too? That first date? How fun everything had seemed at least for a little while?
Back before she started feeling like he was maybe not as cute as she’d originally thought. Or smart enough to be with her, either.
Being with him had started to turn her into this nasty, petty person.
“Everything okay?” He sat across from her.
“No, Sam, everything is not okay.”
See?
“You know what I mean.” He stared at her.
“What do you mean?” He was already annoying her. Being with the wrong person made you not right in the head.
“I mean, tell me what’s going on.”
“Well, I’ll probably be on the news any minute now.”
“What did you do?”
“I talked to one of them. Ryan’s brother. He remembers a carousel. So I went on camera and said that if he can remember one thing, he can remember more. Right?”
“I don’t know, Avery. I guess, yeah.”
Sam was a really good guy. She reminded herself of that a lot, too. He was actually too nice for her.
He said, “I think maybe you should let the police handle it, you know?”
“I’m supposed to sit around and do nothing?” she said. “I’m sorry but if you don’t understand why I have to find him, then maybe we shouldn’t—”
“He’s probably dead, Ave.”
She felt like she’d been slapped. She must have looked like it, too. Who did he think he was? He knew nothing about anything. Nothing about what it felt like when your life was headline news.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but someone had to say it. Everyone is saying it.”
“I’m not an idiot, Sam.”
He shoved his hands into his shorts pockets; he was straddling the bench of the table, like he was ready to walk away at any moment.
“What else are people saying?” Avery asked. “Since everyone knows so much more about it than I do.”
“I don’t know. Just . . . stuff.”
“What stuff ?” She was losing patience.
“See, I don’t even know if I can say it without you freaking out.”
“Just say it.”
“It’s that maybe they’re terrorists. Maybe they’ve been brainwashed into some kind of suicide mission or something.” He seemed almost excited by the idea of it.
“Do you realize how ridiculous you sound?” she asked. Because hiding the truth about some possible wrongdoing—something involving Max—and becoming terrorists were completely different things.
Weren’t they?
Sam shrugged. “I’m saying you shouldn’t trust them.”
“I never said I did! I went on camera to say that!”
“Are you enjoying all this?” Sam tilted his head. “The attention?”
Avery breathed hard. She was about to end it—because it was over—but if she cut Sam out of the picture, who did she have?
Was she enjoying it?
That would be messed up.
“I’m not enjoying it at all. I’m a mess.” She started crying and he reached across the table and took her hand. She said, “How could you even say that?
He said “I’m sorry” and got up and came around to her side and pulled her up and kissed her. She let him because she wanted to feel something a normal teenager should be feeling. Something giddy like lust or a crush. Or something sad but typical like heartbreak. A feeling that had pop songs written about it, so you could play them on repeat and deal and move on.
No such luck.
There was no sidestepping this, no way out but through.
“Who’s saying all that terrorist stuff, anyway?” she asked then.
Even if that theory was nonsense, there must be people out there with information. People who’d seen them?
“It doesn’t matter,” Sam said.
“Well, do they have any ideas about what the supposed target will be?” How do you get information out of people?
“I don’t know. Mall? School? Playground?”
She almost laughed. “You think someone would do all this? Go to this length? Eleven years in the planning. To blow up a playground?”
Money was how you got people to talk.
She’d break up with him after this whole thing was over.
In the meantime, she’d talk to her dad about posting a reward for information leading to Max.
A big one.
Scarlett
Steve hadn’t let up all afternoon. He wanted dinner tonight.
If a 4:30 early-bird special qualified as “tonight.”
“And there he is,” Tamara said, as they entered the main dining room.
A salad bar stabbed full of long silver spoons ran down one side of the room. Windows facing the beach down the other.
Only one news van had followed them from the medical office to the outlets, then the phone store and home (so her mother could change) and here; it had been stopped from entering the restaurant parking lot by a burly valet.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” Steve stood, came out from behind the table, embraced Tamara, then turned to Scarlett. “And you. It’s a pleasure.” He held out his hand to shake.