Only there’s a flaw in this reasoning. If someone were trying to make it look like Bram killed Kennedy, it would make more sense to plant the sweatshirt somewhere—make sure it would be found covered in Kennedy’s blood, ready for traces of Bram’s DNA to turn up when tested. So far, though, that sweatshirt is still missing, and things aren’t adding up. I have no idea why neither Bram nor Henry will be forthcoming with me—aside from the obvious implications.
The bad ones.
When I check my phone, Adam has left my text message onread. A lot of help he’ll be. And Bram made it sound like Adamcouldn’t even help me if he wanted to, since he was in the car with Henry the entire time. All signs point to Bram, who swears he wasn’t the guy caught on camera with Kennedy.
And the thing is—despite his shaky story and the fact that he lied to me yesterday—I believe him now. I want to help prove to those detectives that he didn’t do it.
I try to rack my brain for who might’ve hated Kennedy—or even Bram—enough to do this, but the problem is that no one hated Kennedy Russo.
Andeveryonehates the Abbott brothers.
7
After knocking on Adam’s door and getting no response again, I walk home and spend my time scrolling social media like a truewinner.
As soon as I click on one post about Kennedy, another half dozen related posts pop onto my feed.
Then I see a new post by Lydia Costas, time-stamped ten minutes ago, this one decidedly darker than the first.
The caption accompanies a photo of Lydia and Kennedy as grade school students with matching pigtails:
To the person who did this, I know who you are. And it’s only a matter of time before the cops have enough evidence to pull you in. I hope you get everything you deserve
An electric buzz rushes through me, and my spine stiffens. Who is she talking about?
Apparently, the rest of Lydia’s followers have the same question, because already, the post has forty-nine comments.
STACYDORMER:??
LYDIACOSTAS:my lips are sealed
SAGEWHEELER:who are you talking about?
TELLISON:put this psycho on blast, Lyds
THEREALDEALNEIL:@Lydiacostas yeah this freak doesn’t deserve to stay anonymous
But Lydia hasn’t replied to anyone apart from Stacy. I have to assume one more attempt to get her attention in the comments will go unnoticed and that her DMs are likely flooded.
Still, I have to find out what she knows. If she saw whoever was out in the woods with Kennedy—if it’s the same person who stole Bram’s hoodie—then she has to go to the cops with what she knows.
Maybe there’s a less direct way to go about this. Lydia and I have never really been friends, but as of the election two weeks ago, she’s on the student council with me. And in a school the size of ours, everyone knows everyone. We’ve been at the same parties, in the same classes over the years. Once we were partnered up for an English project, and we hit it off pretty well. She came over to my house a few times and even stayed late for pizza and a movie. Assoon as the project was turned in, though, we went our separate ways again. She’d find it strange if I suddenly reached out to check on her.
I go to Lydia’s profile and scroll past the Kennedy posts, past her cheerleading headshot, pausing on a post from last week of Lydia holding a black kitten. The post is a slideshow, so I swipe to the second photo of a whole litter nestled on a blanket. There’s a caption:
Aren’t they adorable? Message if interested
A plan forms, along with a little knot of guilt. The timing would be insensitive—bordering on callous—but it’s the only play I’ve got. I click on her DMs and typeHey Lydia, do you still have any kittens for sale?
Then I head to the kitchen to figure out dinner. Dad should be home soon. It’s not like I’m expected to cook every night, but he appreciates it. And I did have the whole day off. I root around in the cupboard for something easy to whip up. Mom used to make the most amazing lasagna from scratch. I can barely remember how it tasted, those rich flavors, the intoxicating scent of the kitchen as she cooked. I’m sure that, like my other memories of her, that dish will eventually fade into oblivion.
I’m dumping a box of rotini into boiling water when my phone dings. It’s an Instagram notification. I open the app to find a reply from Lydia.You can come by tomorrow morning around 9
Another message pops up from her.43 Farrow Lane
I start to wonder if I missed a message about school being cancelled again, and then I remember that tomorrow is Saturday.I’ll be there
* * *
