Kennedy had been afraid of Dr. Russo? Her own father? “You never figured out which brother Kennedy was meeting?” I clear my throat and add, “Allegedly.”
Lydia shakes her head, eyes tearing up. “This was only a few weeks ago. I tried to dig up something, but like I said, she was so secretive. And now, I’ll never…” A sob racks her body and the words crumple. “I’ll never forgive myself for not saving her.”
I freeze, unsure how to help. Spotting Cal rolling in the grass, I scoop him up and, holding my breath, place him in her lap.
Fireball, because he’s just as mischievous as he is energetic, bounds into my lap like a little devil. I sneeze again.
Lydia is cuddling Cal to her chest, letting her tears drip onto his spotted fur.
I attempt to nudge Fireball off my lap, but he stays planted, looking up at me with devious amber eyes. “I’d hate to separate these two,” I say, which is both the truth and the only excuse that will save me from taking a tiny bundle of allergens home. “Do you think your parents would let you keep both?”
Lydia sighs. “Honestly? After everything with Kennedy? Yeah.”
“Then you should,” I say, handing over Fireball, who digs his baby claws into my sweatshirt sleeve like he’s holding on for dear life. “You need them more than I do.”
“Thanks, Hayden. I forgot what a good person you were.”
I get to my feet, wiping grass and fur off my clothes, that knot of guilt solidifying in my chest.
8
I still don’t believe it. I need someone else to corroborate Lydia’s account, and maybe even point out which Abbott brother Kennedy had gone to see.
I open Instagram again and DM another of Kennedy’s close cheer friends, Desiree Watts.
Hey, I’m really sorry about Kennedy. I’m hoping I can ask you some questions about what you think happened to her. I’m wondering if I should be concerned for my own safety. If you know something, can we talk?
As soon as I send it, I feel horrible; it’s a betrayal.
But in the end, I’m doing it for the triplets. For Henry, who asked me to help clear their names. I close the app and pray that none of the Abbott brothers ever find out I sent that message.
The whole drive back from Lydia’s house, I tried to think up some other reason Kennedy may’ve been on the Abbotts’ property the night Lydia followed her. I refused to believe it was drugs, since I’ve never seen the Abbotts with so much as a cigarette. But nothing else came to mind.
Now, I try in vain to picture any of the brothers having dated Kennedy in secret. Bram has always seemed too torn up over Mariana to move on, and Henry…well, I don’t think Henry wasseeing Kennedy.
That leaves Adam, a boy who, since the accident, is merely a shell of his former outgoing-king-of-Silver-Creek-High self. A boy who practically has to be dragged to school by his brothers and, apart from that, never goes beyond the mansion walls.
Unless he actuallyhasbeen going beyond the mansion walls.
* * *
Henry lets me inside, his brows furrowing when I tell him I need to talk to Adam.
“For the investigation,” I explain.
“It’s your funeral.” He points me to the backyard, which is more like botanic gardens than ayard, complete with a pond, a hedge maze, a white gazebo, and probably five hundred flower varietals. I find Adam sitting cross-legged on the small arched bridge that overlooks the lily pad–strewn water. His head rests on his folded arms.
“Hey,” I say, to which his chin lifts almost imperceptibly.
“Henry isn’t out here,” he mumbles.
“I know that,” I say, trying not to sound as hurt as I feel about the state of our friendship.
I’ve never been as close to Adam as I am to Henry or Bram; still, I’ve always considered him a friend. I guess that’s changed over the past year. Adam pushed me away like he did everyone else who cared for him. “I came to seeyou. I tried yesterday too, but you ignored my text.”
He grumbles an inaudible response. As I round the path to step onto the bridge, he slips the hood of his gray sweatshirt over his head.
“You know you don’t have to do that.” I near him cautiously, like a child trying not to spook a lizard. He remains seated, making no move to pull back the hood or to look at me. “What are you doing out here?”
