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  “No, sad because she kept that happiness from me—because she didn’t take me to the place where happiness existed.”

  “Maybe she was too scared to take you there.”

  “Too scared, too selfish, too weak. Take your pick. Which would be the most acceptable?”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  He nods. His chin quivers. “In some way, even though I was little, I kind of knew how she felt about that guy. I saw how happy she was when she got out of the truck that day. But I guess I didn’t realize it was—”

  “Pony-naming serious?”

  “Yeah.” He bites his lip—to stop the trembling maybe—and gazes at my mouth.

  I venture to reach into my pocket for the tape player, thinking about all the info I’ve already missed. “Is this okay?”

  Julian turns away in response. His whole body stiffens. Recording these sessions puts a definite wedge between us. But I push RECORD anyway.

  ME: Do you have any idea why your mother and Peter Hayden might’ve broken up?

  JULIAN: Her depression might’ve been a motivating factor; either that or the fact that she was married, or her fondness for prescription meds. Once again, take your pick.

  ME: Do you think it was your mom who broke off the relationship, or Hayden?

  JULIAN: I’m assuming it was my mom. She’d never leave my dad, even if she did love someone else.

  ME: What makes you say that?

  JULIAN: Well, for one thing, she never did leave my father. I also don’t think she wanted to leave me…even though, in reality, she was never really there for me after Steven’s death.

  ME: She could’ve taken you with her.

  JULIAN: I really wish she had.

  ME: Why do you think she didn’t?

  JULIAN: Because my father made her feel worthless, and deep down—even though it probably sounds nuts—I think that’s how she wanted to feel.

  ME: You think your mother wanted to feel worthless?

  JULIAN: I think that’s all she felt she deserved after what happened to Steven.

  ME: She looks so happy in the photo. Do you remember her like this?

  JULIAN: I remember her being like that before Steven’s death.

  ME: Not after?

  JULIAN: Only a handful of times, maybe. But then she’d walk into my room and see Steven’s bed, and that would be the end of that. I remember in a couple of instances Dad giving her crap about smiling too big or laughing too hard. As soon as you crossed the threshold of our house, it was like walking into a morgue.

  ME: I’m almost surprised she ever came home at all.

  JULIAN: You really think this is smart: going to Hayden’s Ranch, asking suspicious questions, and rifling through someone’s office?

  I push STOP. “No one suspected anything.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You’re going to have to trust me.”

  Julian gets up and runs his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Maybe this was a big mistake.”

  “Which part?”

  “This, me, staying here.”

  “You can leave anytime you want,” I remind him.

  “Is that what you want?” He turns to face me again. His golden-brown eyes fix on mine.

  “No.” My face heats up. “I’d really like to help you. But if I’m going to help you, I need to ask questions and do some investigating. How else am I going to find a loophole? And, to be honest, I think we may have found one. Where was Peter Hayden on the day of your parents’ deaths?”

  “So, what are you proposing? That he came over, found my mother like that in the tub, then killed my father?”

  “Could be.”

  “But there was no forced entry.”

  “So, maybe your dad let him in for some totally unrelated reason. Maybe Hayden then revealed who he was and killed your father in the heat of the moment? What if your mother didn’t know how to deal with your father’s death, took some pills, and then got into the tub? What if she even committed suicide to take the rap?”

  Julian sits down beside me again and stares out into space. “So what now? Ask more questions? Go back to the ranch? I really don’t think that’s smart.”

  “You can’t live in this barn forever, Julian. What happens when my dad comes back for his power tools? Or my mom goes looking for her gardening gloves?”

  “I really want to trust you.”

  I reach out to touch his wrist, running my fingers over the pickax tattoo. “So, trust me to dig up the truth.”

  He looks at me. There’s a startled expression in his eyes. “Just promise me.”

  “What?”

  His mouth trembles open, but he doesn’t utter another sound. He looks so fragile—like he could collapse from a single nudge.

  I rest my head against his shoulder, able to see the motion in his chest. “I promise,” I say, not finishing my thought either. But maybe the silent vow is enough for the moment.

  We don’t speak again until it’s time for me to go—until I hear the slam of Mom’s car door in the driveway.

  “Good night,” I say, hating to pull away.

  “Good night.” He musters a smile. His voice is soft, like velvet.

  If only I could curl up inside his voice.

  If only there could be another way.

  Later, in my room, I empty my bag. It’s full of Peter Hayden’s receipts. I collect them in a heap on my bed, cringing at the thought of having left some behind—on the floor, under his desk, behind the door.

  How long would it take for him to find a couple? To notice the folder’s missing? And then to ask the woman at the desk if anyone went into his office? How long after that would a lightbulb click above the woman’s head, remembering my visit?

  Remembering me.

  I sift through the pile, trying to put the receipts in order, from January until the present. The whole reason I took the folder was to see if there might’ve been any romantic purchases made—flowers, candy, dinners, trips—hoping to prove somehow that Hayden was still seeing Julian’s mother.

  Most of the receipts are for obvious work-related expenses: hay, feed, grooming supplies, cleaning stuff. I form a series of stacks. There have got to be at least three hundred pieces of paper here, small ones, full sheets, in every color of the rainbow.

  Finally, after about forty minutes of searching, I find it: the needle in the haystack. Not a romantic purchase, but one made on Saturday, May 4.

  The heading on the receipt says Wallington Hardware. The purchase was made in the morning, at nine a.m., and paid for in cash. There are two five-digit strings of numbers, for each of the items bought. The prices are $17.99 and $29.99.

  I grab my laptop and search for Wallington Hardware’s contact information. It closed two hours ago. I type one of the item numbers into the product search box. An error message pops up right away, informing me that the item cannot be located. I try the other number. The same message appears.

  I attempt to do a Google search, but nothing relevant comes up—just real estate stuff (address numbers and area codes).

  It’ll have to wait until tomorrow.

  Wednesday, October 21

  Night

  I stood outside the bathroom and knocked on the door. There was a puddle at my feet. Water had seeped beneath the door, sopping into the rug.

  “Mom?” I shouted, jiggling the knob. When she didn’t answer, I shoved my weight against the door panel until it finally gave way.

  Mom was lying in a tub of water. Her body had sunk beneath the surface.

  I saw her eyes first: piercing green, angled up toward the ceiling. I told myself it wasn’t her. I mean, it couldn’t possibly be her. This couldn’t possibly be real.

  She was still in her nightgown from that morning. Her slippers were still on her feet. Water spilled over the porcelain rim. Splash. Splash. At least three inches on the floor. A couple of empty pill bottles floated too. Painkillers, antidepressants.

  I can’t describ
e what I felt in that moment. It was like every horrible experience I’d ever had hitting me at the same time—only it was worse than that.

  I sank to the floor, able to hear my father’s voice playing in my ear: “Steven would’ve been a far better son than you.”

  I’m not sure how long I stayed like that—if it was for an hour or a minute—before I shut the water off. The silence made things worse somehow.

  I tried to pull her out. Her limbs were already stiff. Water gushed over the rim, over me. I held her body in my arms. She was so tiny. Her ribs poked through the fabric of her nightgown. The bones in her neck were almost visible through the skin. Why hadn’t I done more to help her?

  Why hadn’t she done more to help me?

  It’s early morning, before school, and Mom’s in the kitchen making breakfast.

  “Waffles on a weekday? What’s the special occasion?” I ask her.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I have a meeting with a new client, and then I have to work late again tonight.” She’s dressed in her navy blue pantsuit (the one she reserves for all-important meetings), and her hair’s hiked up in a bun. “Syrup? Nutella? Whipped cream?” She’s standing over the plate of waffles, armed with all three.

  Before I can answer, the doorbell rings. My insides jump.

  Mom’s eyebrow darts up in suspicion. “I’ll take that as a ‘none of the above’ on the waffle toppings. You’re jittery enough without the added sugar. Better to just eat them straight up. Now, would you mind getting the door?”

  I head for the front entrance, wondering who it could possibly be at this hour. Standing on tiptoes, I look through the peephole.

  Max is there.

  Still dressed in my sweats from bed, I open the door. “Hey,” I say, stepping aside to invite him in. “You’re up early.”

  “I have an early-morning soccer practice.” He hands me a cup of coffee. “Let’s try this again, shall we? Me bringing you coffee, that is, without any weirdness.”

  “I take full blame for the weirdness. I think I must’ve been temporarily body-snatched by the aliens of Planet Bizarro.”

  “There’s a response to a kiss that I haven’t heard before. Most girls just don’t answer my calls.”

  “Max—” I cringe. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know.” He smiles. “Anyway, I’m sorry that I was such an ass when you came to talk to me before class.”

  “It’s fine. I deserved the asshole treatment. Oh, wait”—my face goes fireball red—“that totally didn’t sound right.”

  Max laughs. “But I didn’t come here just to apologize and bring you coffee.”

  “You didn’t?” I bristle slightly, afraid he might still be getting the wrong message.

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I still went to that party with Jeannie. I mean, if it’s weird, please say so. It’s just—”

  “It’s not weird at all,” I say, cutting him off.

  “Okay, cool.” He smiles. “And, of course, you’re welcome to come too. It’s just that she asked me. Last night. On the phone. And, I don’t know, but I was pretty excited she wanted to go.”

  “So cool,” I agree, psyched to hear that Jeannie called him. “You guys will have a great time together.”

  Max smiles wider, seemingly relieved. I’m relieved as well, and not just because he’s no longer upset, but because maybe—finally—we’ve arrived at a mutual place.

  After he leaves, and once Mom’s gone off to work, I head out to the barn, en route to school, with a plate full of waffles. I rap lightly. Julian opens the door. The sight of him, despite my unending questions, makes my entire body quake.

  “Good morning,” he says.

  I force myself to look away. “Breakfast?”

  He takes the plate. But still I linger in the doorway, half wanting to go in, but knowing I should go.

  “Did you want to come in for something?” he asks.

  I open my mouth to tell him no, but instead I step inside. His journal is open on the floor. I rack my brain for something to ask him—some detail about the case, some reason beyond waffles for me to even be here right now. “Will I ever get to read your writing?”

  He sets the waffles down and comes a little closer.

  “Do you ever write about us?” I ask, before he can answer. “About our time together, I mean?”

  Julian takes my hand and traces the lines of my palm. “What do you think?”

  I swallow hard, looking down at our hands, knowing I’m in way over my head.

  “So, I was just kind of wondering…”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Who’s that guy?”

  “That guy?”

  He peeks up from my palm. “The one who drives the Jeep.”

  “Oh.” My heart hammers. “He’s just a friend.”

  The tiniest of grins forms across his lips. “So I guess I’ll see you later. After school.”

  But I don’t want to go. I squeeze his hand, and he draws me slightly toward him. His mouth is so close—just a hairbreadth from mine—that if either of us were to speak another word, our lips would bump together.

  I close my eyes, feeling the warmth of his breath smoke against my mouth.

  “You should go,” he says, taking a step back, and making my heart squelch.

  Still, I know.

  It’s true.

  He’s absolutely right.

  I turn away and slip out the door, grateful to him for halting the moment, disappointed in myself for not.

  All during school, I try my best to concentrate on the case. In my study block, I go over my audio transcripts, come up with a list of more questions, reread news reports, and create a timeline for Saturday, May 4.

  But then my mind wanders back to this morning—what coud’ve happened, that almost-kiss.

  And all other thinking stops.

  After school, in my room, I grab Hayden’s file folder and open it up. The receipt from Wallington Hardware is sitting on top. I dial the store’s number. A male voice answers right away.

  “Hi. I’m wondering if you could help me,” I begin. “I have a receipt for a couple of purchases I made at your store back in May. I’m trying to figure out what they were. It’s sort of a long story.” I fake a laugh. “But I have the item numbers and I was hoping that you could look them up.”

  “Wait, are you looking to make a return? Just bring in the unopened items, along with the receipt.”

  “No. I’m not making a return. I want to figure out what I bought. I have the item numbers,” I tell him again.

  “Um, okay. But I’m not really sure how to do that.”

  “I think you can just type the numbers in. I’ve seen people do that.”

  “Wait, can you hold on for a second?”

  “Sure.” I sigh, hoping that someone’s there to help him.

  He comes back on the line a few moments later. “The manager will be in tomorrow. Do you think you could call back then? Sorry, I’m new here.”

  “Okay,” I say, thoroughly disappointed.

  I hang up and head down to the kitchen to fix dinner for Julian, reminding myself that I need to stay focused on the case. I can’t be getting emotionally involved. I cross the yard to the barn, wondering if I should broach the “need-to-stay-focused” topic, but the door opens before I can decide.

  Julian looks just as amazing as he did this morning, with his wide brown eyes and perfectly rumpled hair. There’s a thin layer of stubble over his chin and cheeks.

  “Could we talk some more?” I ask, handing him a bag of food and closing the door behind me.

  We sit down across from each other, and I do my best to avoid looking into his face, or staring at his mouth. Instead, I take out the tape player, putting a palpable wedge between us, and push RECORD.

  ME: I need you to remember back. Is there anything at all—ticket stubs, restaurant receipts, lies your mother told—that might’ve suggested that she and Peter Hayden were still dating these past coup
le of years?

  JULIAN: My mom hadn’t been well these past couple of years. She barely even left the house.

  ME: But you were in school most of the day. Is there a chance someone might’ve visited her while your dad was at work?

  JULIAN: I suppose there’s a chance, but I really don’t think she was still seeing that guy.

  ME: Because…

  JULIAN: She was frail. She barely spoke. She slept most of the time.

  ME: All because of your father?

  JULIAN: He certainly didn’t help.

  ME: Can we talk about the way your father treated you? You said before that he would often compare you to Steven—the person he imagined that Steven would become.

  JULIAN: That’s right.

  ME: Why do you think he did that?

  JULIAN: Hell if I know. Maybe to put distance between us. Maybe if he didn’t love me, it wouldn’t have been hard to lose me if something happened.

  ME: What were you and your father fighting about on the day of his death?

  JULIAN: It was just something that he said.

  ME: What did he say?

  JULIAN:…

  ME: Julian?

  JULIAN: He said he wished that it was Steven who lived and…

  ME: What?

  JULIAN: And me who died.

  ME: He probably wasn’t thinking when he said it.

  JULIAN: He knew what he was saying. He said it all the time, blaming me for taking Steven’s car seat and distracting Mom from driving that day. He said it was because of me that she hit the tree.

  ME: You know those things aren’t true though, right?

  JULIAN:…

  ME: Julian?

  JULIAN: Steven should’ve been the one to live.

  I press PAUSE. Julian’s turned away now.

  “I know this must be hard,” I say, referring to his openness. I’m not his journal; he’s probably never told these things to anyone. “But you have to understand: your father comparing you to Steven…it wasn’t rational. He was making comparisons about things that hadn’t even happened yet, not giving you a chance to grow into the person you were meant to be.”