Chapter 19

Expectations to the contrary, Sheriff Acosta didn’t murder me. I like to think that it was because she was so grateful, but the truth was probably that she didn’t want to clean up another mess. Deputy Bobby was slightly more gracious. He only used the word stupid once. He did explain, however, why my so-called friends hadn’t managed to warn me: they’d never seen anyone come back to the house, because Gary had never left. He’d stayed behind when Becky went out, and when I’d started my search, he’d heard me. I decided to forgive this lapse in judgment because the Last Picks had saved my life by immediately confessing everything to Deputy Bobby when he called to, quote, “make sure Dash wasn’t doing anything stupid.” Which was how he’d gotten there in time to save my life.

After the dust settled, I went home, ate as many tamales as Indira would let me have, and slept.

I woke way too early the next day (nine o’clock!), but I couldn’t go back to sleep. I lay there, listening to the ocean, the wind, the now-familiar sounds of an old house. When I got up and opened the curtains, a few clouds marred the horizon, like the sky was a chipped plate stamped with gulls. I showered. I checked the sky. The gulls were still there, skating along the chipped edge. I found a pair of joggers and a hoodie. Sailors used to say—I’d heard this, growing up in a port town—that the cries of gulls were the cries of dead men.

A knock came at the front door as I reached the hall, and I padded over to open it. Becky stood there, her hair pulled back into its usual severe ponytail, in a camelhair coat and business-forward shoes. The good looks that spas had maintained were cracked now. Her eyes were red rimmed and hollow. Behind her, Sharian and Penny looked like they were auditioning for the role of two wicked stepsisters.

“Mr. Dane,” Becky said in a stretched-out voice and then pushed her way inside.

We ended up in the den, which felt a little grounding: the leather wingback chairs, the stately volumes lining the built-in shelves, yet another cavernous fireplace. And, of course, this room had a secret passage—just in case, say, I needed to make my escape. Becky sat. Penny sat. Sharian drifted over to the window, where the morning sun was coming in. It fell over her in a broad, golden beam. It might have been a conscious choice, but I thought it was probably more like how a cat sees a box and immediately has to sit in it.

“I wanted to thank you for your help,” Becky said, opening her purse. She drew out a check and handed it to me.

“Mrs. Meadows, I can’t—”

“For the venue. Of course, I owe you more than that. The sheriff is reluctant to say so, but I understand that without your assistance—” She stopped there, and her fingers curled around the arms of the chair until the leather dimpled and creaked. I heard what she might have said, though: My son might still be alive. Finally, in that awful, stretched-out voice, she managed, “—things would not be resolved.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know Mason or your mother, but I knew Cole, a little. He was a sweet, sensitive person. I’m sorry about all of it.”

Becky stared at me. Through me, really, because I didn’t think she was seeing me. When she spoke, her voice was detached, and I thought maybe I was hearing the businesswoman who ran a multimillion-dollar corporation and had kept her family in line with an iron fist. “I should have ended things a long time ago. Gary and I were never—” She stopped again. Her hands opened and closed around the arm of the chair, where her nails had left indentations in the leather. “I should have ended things. Do you know what’s funny, Mr. Dane?”

The silence lasted until I shook my head.

“I was afraid, if I did, I would lose my sons.” She offered a terrible smile. And then she left.

With a downcast look, Penny hurried after her—pausing only long enough to mumble, “Thank you.”

And then Sharian and I were alone.

“She thinks Becky’s going to take care of her,” Sharian said as she perched on the windowsill. The rich light made a golden collar around her neck. “Because of the baby. So, she’s playing nice. And Becky’s playing nice. They talk about the baby. Nobody talks about how Penny cheated with my fiancé. Or how she attacked him because he wouldn’t acknowledge the baby. Or how it was all headed for a lawsuit.” She smoothed her sundress—a white, summery thing that seemed like too little for today, for this, for right now. “Of course, I think Becky’s going to take care of me too. At least for a little while. And we’re not talking about how Mason and I fought. About how we’d called off the wedding. At the funeral, I’ll still be his fiancée. They’re having tryouts for The Voice in January, and Becky already said she’d book me a hotel.”

Motes of dust drifted in the thick sunlight.

“I guess everything worked out, then,” I said.

She kissed me on the cheek on her way out.

I left the check on the table in the servants’ dining room and went to wash my face.

When I got back, the check was gone, and Indira was setting a place for me.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said.

She gave me a look and kept going. “I put the check somewhere safe. You can have it when I know you’re not going to do anything silly.”

I sat at the table and propped my head in my hands.

Indira set the spoon in its place, the way she always did, even if I didn’t need a spoon. And then she did something she hadn’t done before: she combed the hair back from my forehead. My eyes stung, and I closed them. Her touch was light, the motions repetitive and calming.

“I made a blueberry-oat breakfast cake,” Indira finally said as her hand stilled. “And you need some protein.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Really. But I’m actually not hungry.”

I tried to read in the living room—I couldn’t get past the first page; I didn’t even know what book I’d picked up. I tried to go for a walk, but I didn’t even get so far as my shoes. I remembered the first time I’d seen Fox, they’d been lying on the floor in the hall. That’s where I ended up, staring at the plaster ceiling and the electrolier and the spider webs that I couldn’t reach even with a broom. And then I closed my eyes for a minute.

When I, uh, opened my eyes again, the shadows had shifted and deepened, and aside from the crick in my neck and a lot of fresh aches from lying on the floor, I still felt like I was in that halfway place between sleeping and waking.

It didn’t even seem strange when Fox’s face floated into view above mine. “What’s going on down there?”

“Oh, you know,” I said. “Just living my best life.”

“I do know. I do indeed.”

Keme appeared next to Fox. He glowered down at me. And then he kicked me—and it wasn’t a cute little nudge, either. In the butt, if you have to know.

“Hiya, chief!” That was Millie, her freckles crinkling as she smiled down at me from Fox’s other side. “Did you fall down or something?”

“Did he fall down for six hours?” Fox asked.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “Did Indira send up the Bat Signal? Do we even have a Bat Signal?”

“We have a group chat,” Fox said.

“Keme found your high school yearbook photo,” Millie announced. “Dash, you were so CUTE!”

Keme looked way too pleased with himself. So pleased, in fact, that he decided to treat himself to kicking me again.

“Get up, Dash,” Fox said. “That’s my spot, in the first place. And in the second place, you’re too young to be full of despair. And in the third place, if you’re going to be full of despair, the best place to do it is on a couch while you binge a docuseries about a cult while eating an entire pan of Reese’s Pieces blondies. As a side note, that’s also an excellent opportunity to think about all the ways your life went wrong.”

At that point, I decided to close my eyes.

At least, until Keme kicked me again.

“Get up,” Fox said again. “Keme is worried about you.”

“Worried about me? I’m going to need a hip replacement.”

“He wants to play games with you. You should play Pong. Do they still have Pong?”

“What is happening?” I moaned.

“Come on,” Millie said, and she took my arm and helped me to my feet. I got up mostly because Keme was clearly looking for another reason to kick me. Millie wrapped her hand around mine and led me toward the stairs. “I’ve got a great idea.”

Millie’s great idea, it turned out, was to play dress-up with me like I was an adult-sized (and gloomy) doll. She’d pick out an outfit for me, and then she’d send me into the bathroom to change, and then I’d come out and “model” the clothes—which meant standing there while Millie gave helpful suggestions like “Turn around” or “Do that thing with your arms,” or “Smile, but like you’re on that show Fox loves—Fox, what’s that show called?”

“Harlots,” Fox informed us.

“And I call this Dash’s Sunday-but-I-forgot-it-was-Sunday-and-did-I-sleep-in-these-clothes-or-do-they-just-magically-look-rumpled look,” Millie announced. She was digging deep now, since most of my clothes were joggers, hoodies, and gaming tees. Fox had long since gotten interested in their phone, and Keme, who was lying on a cedar chest, was grinning uncontrollably. “Oh my God!” It was the sound of genius striking. “We should braid his HAIR!”

Keme laughed so hard he rolled off the chest.

I was saved by grace—while Millie started to look up instructions on how to braid short hair (“LOTS of braids” was a phrase that kept popping out of her mouth), my phone buzzed. Deputy Bobby’s name showed on the screen.

“Whatever it is, I’ll do it,” I said. “Rescue a cat from a tree. Save an orphan from a burning building. Rescue a cat from a burning tree. Did I mention I’d do whatever?”

Deputy Bobby’s laugh was quiet and…well, on anyone else, I would have said nervous. “Hello.”

“It’s an emergency, you say? I’m on my way.”

I could hear the smile in his voice when he said, “How are you doing?”

“Great. Do you want me to stick my head in a woodchipper or something?”

“Indira said you were…having a hard day. I’m sorry I couldn’t call earlier; there’s been a lot going on.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m great.”

Which was such a Deputy Bobby answer that it made me want to—to bite a goose. I don’t know. Is that an expression? (A consideration, every writer knows, for revision.)

“Wait,” I said. “You’re on that group chat?”

His silence lasted a beat too long.

“Oh my God.”

“What I want to know about the yearbook picture—”

“Oh my God!”

“—is if you were trying to be funny. Or did you actually wear a fedora to school?”

“Goodbye. Good luck. I’m off to take advantage of the nearest cliff, which is literally in my backyard.”

I got more of that quiet laughter, and it sounded a little less nervous this time.

“I know this is short notice,” Deputy Bobby said, “but I was wondering if you wanted to come over.”

“I can’t. I have to braid my hair.”

“So many brAIDS!” Millie agreed.

“Yes, God, please,” I said. “I’m on my way. I’m already dressed because Millie and I have been playing dolls. I’m the doll.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“I know. See you soon.”

When I disconnected, Millie and Keme and Fox were staring at me. They traded a look. They stared at me again.

“Dash,” Fox said.

“I don’t want to hear it,” I said as I sprinted toward the door. “I’m fine. I’m great. I’m so much better. Thank you, uh, for whatever this was.”

“Wait—” Fox tried.

By then, I was already taking the stairs two at a time. I pulled on my sneakers and ran to the coach house, and a minute later, I was on my bike (a gift from Deputy Bobby), riding into town.

When I got to Deputy Bobby’s apartment, the street was lined with cars. One of the neighbors must have been having a party, which my nose confirmed when I leaned the bike against the side of the building—the smell of hot coals and mesquite and grilled meat met me, and music with a steady, thudding bass line was playing nearby.

Play it cool, I told myself. He invited you to come over. He might be feeling lonely. Maybe he needs a friend, and you’re his friend, and so it makes sense that he’d call you.

As I made my way around the back of Deputy Bobby’s apartment building, the music grew even louder. People filled the small lot —men and women, most of them around my age, most of them holding drinks. The smell of grilling was stronger. It took me a moment to process that the party was here—happening at Deputy Bobby’s building. The realization sent a weird thrill through me. Maybe Deputy Bobby didn’t want to go to the party alone. Maybe he wanted me to go with him. He’d introduce me to his friends, and I’d have to explain how we knew each other—he wanted to arrest me—and everybody would laugh.

Part of my brain was trying to tell me to slow down. Part of my brain was trying to tell me to pump the brakes.

I passed the people spilling out onto the drive and made my way to the back lot. A rap song I didn’t recognize was ending, and something poppy—but moody—came on. I thought it might be Selena Gomez. And then I saw the banner: CONGRATULATIONS, WEST AND BOBBY!

I took another step. And then another. And then I stopped. The music was too loud. The beat felt off, like I couldn’t quite catch the rhythm—or like another, stronger rhythm was pounding through my body.

Congratulations.

Not just congratulations.

Congratulations, West and Bobby! With an exclamation point.

I started to turn around when a familiar voice shouted, “Dash!” West, pink cheeked and beautiful, broke away from a group of young men—to judge by the way they eyed me, dissected me, and dismissed me, these were West’s friends, not Deputy Bobby’s. In one hand, West held a champagne flute. He stumbled once on his way over, and he burst into a delighted laugh as he recovered his balance. When he reached me, he wrapped his arms around me in a hug, and then he stepped back and held up his hand to show off a gold band set with diamonds.

“We’re getting married!” West screamed. He fell against me again, arms around my neck, the sweetness of the champagne on his breath as it brushed my cheek. “Oh my God, we’re getting married!”

It was another long moment before my body seemed my own again. Then I pressed a hand to his back and managed to say, “Congratulations.”

“You’ve got to help me—” He swayed as he stepped back. “You’ve got to—you’ve got to help me pick out an apartment. You’ve got to help me.” To a passerby, West said, “Dash is going to help me pick out an apartment.”

The young woman smiled at me and kept walking.

“You’re moving?” I couldn’t hear my own voice, but I thought that’s what I said.

“Portland.” West grabbed my arm like he might slide right out of his espadrilles. “Maybe Seattle, but right now, Bobby is stuck on Portland. You can talk to him. You can tell him Seattle—” He swayed again. “You can tell him.”

I nodded. I said something. Fortune or fate or chance released me—West spotted someone across the lot, let out an excited scream, and hurried away from me. I managed to get myself headed back to the street, but I barely made it to the front of the building when I had to stop and lean against the wall. The volume of the party had dropped, and instead, there was a rushing noise inside my head. The shake siding bit into my back and, at the same time, it felt soft, almost spongy. I covered my face with my hands; my cheeks were hot, and I thought I could still smell West’s champagne.

Running footsteps beat the pavement. The old panic—of being seen, of being caught—surged up inside me, and I dropped my hands and wiped my face. I was straightening my hoodie when Deputy Bobby ran past me. He stopped. Turned. Looked at me.

For a single moment, pain etched his face. Pain, and shame, and what I wanted to call desperation—because I had the sense that Deputy Bobby was desperately trying to stay in control. And then he set his jaw, and he narrowed his eyes, and his look was...belligerent. An invitation to a fight. A challenge.

That made it easier. Because that wasn’t Deputy Bobby, not really. The dusk softened the hard lines of his face and body, blurred the combativeness of his expression. The day was gold bleeding into black. I remembered—and my eyes stung again, for a different reason this time—what Indira had said. I could see it then, and I wondered how I hadn’t been able to see it before. The confusion. The loneliness. The fear.

I managed a smile and, out of some place inside myself, I brought up words. “Hey! Congratulations!”

His eyes softened first. Then his mouth. He folded his arms and studied me. “Are you okay?” Maybe he heard how that sounded because he almost tripped over his tongue adding, “Why are you over there?”

I crossed the pavement. The music changed again, but I focused on the sound of my steps. Deputy Bobby shifted his weight like he wanted to move back, but he stayed where he was. “You know me,” I said. “Crowds. I, uh, got a little overwhelmed.”

Maybe it was the dark descending. Maybe that was why it seemed like the iron in his expression yielded by degrees, and I thought I saw the real Deputy Bobby. My Deputy Bobby.

“Are you okay?” he asked again. The same. Different.

I couldn’t keep the smile, but I nodded.

His voice was small when he said, “I didn’t know how to tell you.”

There was so much packed into that sentence. More than I knew how to deal with. But I understood enough of it, I thought. Or maybe I felt it. I knew what it felt like, after all. That was why I’d stayed with Hugo so long.

When I hugged him, he dropped his arms and stiffened, and it felt like a long time before some of the tension in his body relaxed. He put his arms awkwardly around me. He smelled clean and masculine—his deodorant or his aftershave, something that probably had the word sport in the name. I could hear his heartbeat.

“Congratulations,” I said again. “I’m so happy for you.”

He gave a funny little laugh, and his arms tightened around me, and his voice had an unfamiliar huskiness when he asked, “Yeah?”

For a moment, I thought he might ask more.

But the moment passed. In the distance, fireworks popped. Light bloomed, driving away the shadows between us for an instant. And then the light died again.

“Of course,” I said as I let him go. “You’re my friend.”