Chapter 15

The rest of it happened more or less as you'd expect. Chester was rushed off in an ambulance. Lyndsey was arrested and taken away in a squad car. I gave my statement a million times, explaining who had been killed, and why, and the part about the ziplines and the mascot costumes, and how Lyndsey had faked her own death. Even after the adrenaline burned out, a jittery energy made it impossible to sit still, or to talk at a normal pace, or, apparently, at a normal volume.

Finally, the sheriff said, "Mr. Dane, I think you need some sleep. Let's get you home."

Bobby was there, of course. He didn't say anything, but he put his arm around my waist as he walked me to the Pilot, and we drove back to Hemlock House in silence. He waited in my room as I washed my face and brushed my teeth. When I came out of the bathroom, he was sitting stiff-backed in an armchair, and his face was unreadable.

"Do you want to have a fight?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"Then get in bed."

I did. He turned off the lights and went back to the armchair. The darkness was like something I kept falling into, over and over, and the sound of his breath was like velvet rubbed the wrong way. A few times, I jerked awake at the brink of sleep, as my body flashed memories at me: glass shattering, the explosive discharge of the gun, Lyndsey's laugh.

The chair clunked and thunked and scraped until the sounds were right next to the bed. And then, out of the dark, Bobby's hand found mine, and I slept.

Full disclosure: I did get up once to pee, and he was totally passed out in the chair. It was kind of adorable, actually—he'd wedged himself into the corner of the chair, and his legs were sticking straight out, and I won't tell anybody if you don't, but he was drooling. Just a little. I got an extra blanket and covered him with it and went back to bed.

I did, for the record, hold his hand again.

When I woke, he was gone. The day had a fiddly kind of grayness to it, unable to settle on rain or not, and the smell of the sea was stronger than usual. I had a noonish breakfast with Indira, Fox, Keme, and Millie, and I caught them up on everything. (Breakfast, for those who need to know, was heart-shaped pancakes, and they were red velvet, with a cream cheese, uh, syrup? Okay, it was frosting, but that doesn't sound breakfast appropriate.)

Indira said, "Next time, I want you to take my gun."

"I really don't think I should be carrying a gun," I said.

Keme nodded. His face was dark, and he kept pushing his hair behind his ears. He couldn't quite look at me as he spoke. "Yeah, you definitely shouldn't be allowed to carry a gun."

"Well, I mean, I think I'd be pretty responsible—"

"You also shouldn't be allowed to drive. You shouldn't be allowed to talk to strangers. For that matter, you shouldn't be allowed to leave the house without a babysitter, you donkey!"

(I had to clean it up a little—there were, uh, some more colorful turns of phrase in there.)

Before I could respond, he pushed back his chair, the legs screeching on the floor, and ran out of the house.

Indira sighed.

Fox helped themselves to another pancake.

Wiping her eyes, Millie said, "He's upset because you could have gotten hurt."

"You know what would make him feel better?" Fox said. "You should let him break your nose or something."

"Break my nose?" I asked.

"Or something. You know, punch you in the face. Oh! Or he could give you noogies, or an atomic wedgie, or humiliate you in front of a prospective romantic partner by wrestling you and showing how weak you are."

I stared at them.

"I'm helping," Fox explained.

"That would be cute," Millie decided. And then her face lit up. "JUST LIKE brOTHERS!"

"No," I said, "it wouldn't—"

Indira said, "I think Keme would make an excellent big brother."

My jaw dropped. I finally recovered enough to say, "I'm ten years older—"

"That's the vibe," Fox said over me. "I couldn't put my finger on it, but Keme's definitely the big brother."

At that point, I took my pancakes to my room.

A rap at the door a moment later, though, interrupted my solo pancake festival. (Which, now that I hear it out loud, sounds like it should be an indie band. Or a spiritual practice, like a meditation retreat.)

"I'm not moving in with Garrett," Fox said as they came in.

"What?" Then I swallowed my pancakes and said more clearly, "You aren't? Oh my God. Are you okay? What's happening?"

"I'm fine," Fox said with a small smile. "But I wanted to tell you because we'd talked about it, and because…" They didn't finish, but I knew why: because Fox was reminding me that I'd made a commitment too. "We talked this morning. Really talked. I'd been…making some assumptions. And, it turns out, so had he. He wanted me to give up the studio. He wanted me to help him with his business. He wanted me to get rid of the van."

That last one probably wasn't the worst idea in the world, since Fox's van was a deathtrap on wheels, but all I said was "Did you break up?"

They gave a little, twisted smile.

"Oh Fox, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. Millie and Indira will tell you that you should be thrilled. They are not fans."

But I studied their face. And then I hugged them (careful of the pancakes) and gave them a kiss on the cheek.

"It's settled, anyway," Fox said. "That's the important part."

"You were brave. That's the important part."

That little smile again. And then Fox said, "Thank you again. For listening."

"Anytime. I love you. We all love you."

Fox hesitated. And then, as they left, they said, "Dash?"

I made a questioning sound around more pancakes.

Their eyes searched my face, and finally they said, "Please don't be an idiot."

With that advice hanging over me, I finished my pancakes. They didn't taste quite as good now. Then I spent some time working on my story. "Second Impressions" was starting to come together—now that I knew the twist (the other dead person they were looking for wasn't dead either!), it was easier to start tying up the rest of the plot. I decided I'd wait a few days to write the big shootout scene at the end. For some reason, I couldn't quite dredge up my usual enthusiasm.

As I wrote, my thoughts kept turning to Bobby. To last night, of course. To his bottomless silence. To that unreadable face. And to my own thoughts when I'd been facing Lyndsey, sure that I was going to die. My realization that what I wanted, more than anything else, was to see Bobby one more time. The force of that realization was as strong as ever, and it had a dreamlike clarity. I forgot about the story. I stood. I tried to pace, but my ankle was killing me. I got a glass of water and forgot how to drink it and choked. And as I bent over the sink, trying not to throw up (and to remember how to drink a glass of water), I realized with rising horror that I'd been right. What I'd said to Fox was right.

I was going to have to talk to Bobby.

About my feelings.

It was like an intersection of all my nightmares. Like being naked in a pit full of spiders. Only the spiders were also super judgy about your body. And they were taking pictures. Oh, and they'd read all my stories, and they knew my writing was crap. See, you thought the spiders were the worst part.

I was looking at airline tickets, trying to find a reasonably priced one-way flight to Borneo, when the doorbell rang.

Chester was, against all odds, even more devastatingly handsome in the day's drab soapy light, and he had his arm in a sling.

"You're okay!" And then I blushed and asked, "Are you okay?"

Chester laughed quietly and nodded. "Could I talk to you for a moment?"

A horn blatted, and I peered past Chester to see Tony sitting in the family station wagon. He waved and shouted, "Hi, Dash!"

My wave back could best be described as dispirited. "Hi, Mr. Lamb."

"Great job on catching another murderer!"

I tried to smile.

Tony gave me a thumbs-up and an enthusiastic nod. "And did you notice Chester saved your life?"

"I did notice that, Mr. Lamb. Thank you!" And then, at a more appropriate volume, I said to Chester, "Actually, I haven't said that yet. Seriously, thank you. How did you know where I was?"

"He saw you running away from that woman!" Tony shouted from the car. "He called the sheriff, and then he ran in there to save you!"

"I am so sorry," Chester murmured as he nudged me into the vestibule.

"I'm going to shut the door," I suggested.

"Great idea."

But it didn't feel like such a great idea once I'd done it, because then it was just Chester and me standing there. He smelled good—something with ginger, but pleasantly faint. He had unbelievable bone structure. He had eyes the color of the first morning of winter. He had a beard, like, a really good one, perfectly trimmed. He could have been, I thought with something like despair, a beard model.

"The sheriff said they were no longer considering me a person of interest," he said. It sounded like he was struggling with the words, and color had come into his cheeks. "They caught up with Jessica, and she told them how Dagan and Lyndsey were blackmailing her with what happened at her last park. And I guess Tyler had his own suspicions about what was going on once Lyndsey disappeared. The two of them are helping the sheriff put together a case against Lyndsey. Janea, I mean."

"Janea?"

"That's her real name, I guess. It came up when they ran her prints."

"Oh."

Yes, this is the kind of witty repartee that make men flock to my door. Finally I managed to come up with "What's going to happen to the park?"

For the first time since I met him, Chester brightened. In fact, he looked dangerously close to happy. "Well, it'll keep running on its own for a while—I mean, there's not much to do until summer. But I—" He hesitated, and then the words rushed free. "I might buy it. Or try to, anyway. I mean, I have my business plan, you know? And I met with a friend to help me run some of the numbers, and I think it would work. That's where I was the other evening, when I told you I had plans."

"That's where you were?"

"Unfortunately, he left to go camping the next day, so—" A hint of annoyance slipped out. "—no cell service when I needed an alibi."

"Isn't that always the case?"

That made him grin. "I was planning on something a lot smaller, but Shipwreck Shores is already right here. It's an institution, and people love it."

"You really care about that place, don't you?"

"Are you kidding? It's great—the games, the special effects, all those moving parts." He glanced around us. "I don't know if you noticed, but the fun house was modeled after Hemlock House because the park's founder wanted the park to be unique—special to Hastings Rock, you know? Not enough people go in there, but I'm minorly obsessed."

"That's why I saw you there," I said. "That first night of the Sweethearts Festival."

"Oh. Yeah. I wanted to show my dad how they did the barrel room."

I smiled. "I think Shipwreck Shores will be lucky to have you."

He shrugged. "I know it won't be that straightforward. The estate is a morass, and it'll take time. But I'm excited about it. It's the first thing I've been excited about in a long time."

"I'm so happy for you. If I can help, just let me know."

"Yeah, about that." Chester switched tracks with a sickly smile. "My dad wanted—" He stopped again. "I was hoping you could come to dinner—"

"I don't want to date you." I blurted the words before I realized what I was going to say, and my face caught fire. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say it that way. I'm so grateful for all your help. For saving my life, actually. But I made a decision to try to be, um, braver. And more honest. And I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression or led you on or…stuff."

It was, admittedly, not my best speech. Or apology. Or rejection.

Chester's eyes were huge. And then, like he wasn't quite sure he'd heard me: "You made a decision to be braver?"

"Well, yeah. But it was only about ten minutes ago, so I'm not sure it's really taken yet."

That made him smile. It wasn't until he relaxed that I realized how tense he'd been. And then he covered his eyes with one hand.

"Uh, Chester?"

When he spoke, his voice was so low I almost couldn't hear him. "I'm ace."

"Oh." And then, even more eloquently: "Uh."

He laughed, but it sounded closer to tears. "Sorry. I did not mean to say that, but I—I had to tell somebody. I feel like I'm going to explode."

And then he did start to cry.

Listen, I had made a goal to be braver. But I hadn't planned on actually, you know, implementing said goal quite so soon. So, it took me a few extra seconds to scuttle up to him and give him a hug.

His answering embrace was solid and strong and surprisingly pleasant. He didn't cry for long, and when he finished, he patted my back, and I let him go.

"You know how my dad is. He's so…proud of me." He said it with a mixture of bewilderment and resentment. "For absolutely no good reason. I haven't done anything. I'm not special. And I have no idea why, but he's determined to get me married."

"Yeah, I got that part," I said.

"He's so excited about it. About me having a boyfriend and a husband and a family. About me having kids. And I don't want that. I'm ace. I'm aro. I like my life the way it is. And it's going to crush my dad when he finds out. Totally gut him. And my mom—I mean, I don't get along with my mom for a lot of reasons, but this definitely isn't going to help."

"Chester, I'm so sorry."

He shook his head as he wiped his eyes. "Talk about first-world problems."

"Hey, this is a big deal. You're allowed to feel like it's a big deal." I considered him for a moment. "Your dad loves you."

He rolled his eyes and nodded.

"No, Chester. I mean, your dad loves you . That's why he's proud of you. You're smart, and you're interesting, and you're kind. And also, you're a total babe. You're, like, human perfection. You've got all these muscles, and your eyes, and I know this is veering off topic, but blond with a beard is, like, maybe the best combination—" I heard what I was saying. I saw how big Chester's eyes had gotten. I managed to squeak, "I'm just saying, you know, um, objectively."

That made him grin.

"My point," I said—although the recovery was definitely not my strongest—"is that it's easy to let yourself get trapped into living a life you don't want—living someone else's life—because it's safe, or because it feels easier, or because you think, if you can put up with it long enough, you'll eventually get what you want. And I can say that because I'm the master of doing things because they're safe. But we should be living our own lives, the lives that are right for us. And your dad wants you to be happy, Chester. That's why he cares about you getting married. That's why he wants you to have kids. If you tell him, he might be disappointed. But he'll still love you. And he'll redirect all that dad energy into finding other ways to make you happy." I frowned. "Like maybe he'll buy you a better—uh, what do you buy someone who loves photography?"

Chester burst out laughing, but he had to wipe his eyes again. "I don't know," he said, and I could tell he was talking about more than just a potential gift. He was talking about himself and his family and his future.

"That's okay. You don't have to make a decision right now. But I think, when you're ready, he'll be more understanding than you expect."

With a nod, Chester seemed to consider the words. He said slowly, "Thank you."

I shrugged. "That's what I'm here for. General life and relationship advice. Because, you know, I'm so good at it myself."

The little grin that streaked across Chester's face wasn't exactly flattering, but he hugged me again and whispered, "Thanks."

When I looked over, Bobby stood in the hall. He was dressed in his running gear: a long-sleeved shirt, shorts, tights, shoes that had way too many miles on them. His hair was windswept, out of its usual part, and his cheeks had a hint of red. I wanted to believe it was from the cold. He watched a moment longer, and then his eyes met mine and ricocheted away. He turned and headed up the stairs.

"I guess I should try to be braver too," Chester said.

It took me a moment to find my voice. I was still seeing Bobby, still seeing those burnished bronze eyes, the hard, flat reflection before they flicked away.

"When you're ready," I said. "No rush."

"I'll tell my dad to leave you alone."

"You should tell him I'm a huge jerk."

Chester laughed. "He won't believe that."

"You should tell him I'm secretly married to a woman."

Chester laughed so much about that, it was kind of insulting.

"Thank you," he said.

"Thank you ," I said. "You're the one who saved my life."

The corner of his mouth quirked in a smile. "Good luck," he said in a different voice. "I don't know what's going on, but I hope it works out."

I gave a half-shake of my head because I didn't know what he was talking about.

The smile got bigger. "You know, Dad's right. You're cute, but you're a little thick sometimes."