My heart free-falls. “Is what true?”
“That you were there when Melody was taken. Some kids saw you and Gideon talking to the sheriff.”
No, they’re not taunting me. They’re looking at Fire Girl like she’s claimed another victim.
7
After school, Gideon gets a call from his mom that he’d better turn in every assignment tomorrow or he’s grounded over the weekend. Apparently, guidance counselor Haymitch informed her that Gideon is failing two classes. Next stop: academic probation, which means he can kiss football goodbye.
The two of us are seated on my bedroom floor, backpacks and books strewn about the rug. I’m trying to help Gideon get through his English homework, but he’s jittery. He stops every two minutes to ask a “what if” about Seth Greer. I want to show him the threat that came minutes after I snooped in Brandon’s locker. Then maybe he’d understand my need for secrecy and stop obsessing over Seth Greer.
Or maybe he’d head straight for the front door.
He can’t find out about that night with Brandon. He’d believe what everyone else says about me. I’d lose him.
Even if he forgave me, he’d want to tell the cops about Brandon. And then the notebook would appear on the sheriff’s desk. No, I can’t show Gideon or the cops yet. Not until I find proof that Brandon is the one behind everything.
“Let’s finish this.” I flick my pencil against the textbook. “Besides, if anyone knows how to get justice, it’s Shakespeare.”
“Fine,” he grumbles. “But if Desdemona’s any indication, we’re already too late.”
We’re only through one subject when my mom calls us to dinner. The kitchen smells of thyme chicken, one of Mom’s staple meals. She serves it up but remains hovering over the stove. Gideon and I pick at our vegetables; our nerves have extinguished our appetites. Asher tries to make me laugh by sneaking sips of wine every time my dad buries his head in his phone. I force a giggle, but Gideon’s anxious foot tapping against my chair is making me queasy.
Fortunately, Asher is eating enough for the three of us, already on his second plate when my mom sits down. She pours a glass of wine, and the bottle clanks against the table. By the time I’d gotten home from school, my mom—and half the town—already knew about my talk with Sheriff Henderson. She let me have it for not saying anything about Melody yesterday. Now she’s past anger and on to whatever terror grips parents when something bad happens to someone else’s kid.
“I saw Teresa Davenport hanging up flyers in town, so I stopped to help. That poor woman.” She shakes her head, eyes distant as she sips her wine. Like she’s envisioning hanging posters of her own child.
“Yeah,” my dad says through his chewing. “Very scary. I hope that girl just went on a road trip or something and remembers to call her parents.”
“Doesn’t sound too likely,” my mom continues, lowering her voice. “I talked to Louisa Stevens for a bit, who was helping Teresa with the posters. She says the state police already came in last night and opened an investigation.”
I freeze. They’ll want to talk to us.
Across the table, Asher stops chomping. “At least Cass and Gideon were able to help the cops with the details. That should point them in the right direction.” Guilt ripples in my stomach. He has no idea how much time was wasted because of me. How much I’ve impeded this investigation.
“Louisa didn’t mention any suspects?” I ask. Why is no one saying anything important?
My mom shakes her head. “I doubt that kind of thing would be publicized so soon.”
I look at my brother. “Asher, you know Melody and her friends. Have you heard anything? Around the diner?”
Asher glances up from the plate, mouth askew. “Sorry, no. Haven’t been over there lately.” If Asher had heard something—his little sister’s name at the top of the suspect list, for example—he would’ve told me. He’s nothing if not my protector. I learned that firsthand when I was seven years old and he almost died saving my life. I can’t help but glance at the scars that wrap his palm and snake up his wrist. Smoke trickles into my vision, and I blink it away.
When my eyes open again, everyone at the table is looking at me. Probably wondering why I’m asking so many questions. I lower my head. “Poor girl. I really hope she turns up. She was such a great…” I mumble, “Volleyball player.”
“Is there anything we can do to help, Mrs. Pratt?” Gideon’s question isn’t conversation filler. He really wants to help.
“That’s very sweet of you, Gideon. I’ll call Louisa in the morning and ask.” She smiles warmly at Gideon, whom she loves like a son. She doesn’t have to deal with all of the school principal meetings over poor grades like his own mom does. My mom is left with the angelic boy who sets the table without being asked.
My dad clears his throat. “Let’s talk about something lighter. Like how Asher’s business is going. Any new clients?”
My brother shrugs. “Things are good. I was waiting for the right moment to tell everyone this, but I’m going to be renting an office unit in town, starting next month. It’ll give me a place to meet with clients. And room for future employees.”
“That’s great.” My dad inhales another forkful of chicken. Mid-bite, he adds, “Cassidy, maybe one day Asher will hire you.”
I cringe. “Yeah, Dad. That would be great. If Asher could afford me.”
Asher kicks me under the table. I yelp and try to laugh, but my stomach is in knots. “Cassidy, knock it off,” my mom snaps, steadying her glass. “That’s wonderful, Asher. It’ll allow you some independence.”
Asher turns to me. “How’d the game go, Cass?”
“We won,” I say, trying to sound upbeat.
“Thanks to your hitting, I’m sure,” my dad says.
Shame heats my cheeks. Luckily, my parents didn’t make today’s game; they don’t know I only played two minutes. Volleyball has always been my thing, the court my place to shine. Every year, when Melody or Laura tried to get me to quit, it only motivated me to work harder. And it was supposed to be my ticket out of Maribel next year.
I shrug and smash a pea with my fork.
After dinner, Gideon volunteers to do the dishes. We finish drying the last dish and then close ourselves off in my room.
I press my back up against the door. “When are we going to find out something about the investigation? Shouldn’t the state police have interviewed us?”
“I’m sure that’s coming,” he says. “I want to go to Seth’s house to see if they picked him up yet.”