“Up until this investment went sour?” I ask, reaching for my water glass.
Dad nods. “It sounded like Dr. Russo lost every penny he put into the shop. The accountant said Russo suspected the shop was actually in trouble and that Abbott never invested the money. That he’d stolen it to attempt to curb the damage and lied about everything.”
I think of that article and the anonymous source who claimed the auto shop had been bleeding money for years. If Russo believed he’d been lied to, did he speak to the press, not as a doctor, but as a businessman who felt he’d been scammed? “So,” I say, trying to connect the dots, “you think the whole school board thing was because of the money? Not because the doctoractuallysuspected one of the Abbott brothers?” Did Dr. Russo want revenge on the Abbotts in whatever way he could get it? Seeing the family name demolished, one of them locked up—was it all the same to him?
Dad clears his throat. “Look, Hayden, is there something you’re worried about? Maybe you shouldn’t be spending so much time over at the Abbott place. Not if you’re…unsettled.”
“I’m not unsettled,” I say, though it’s a lie. “Dad, did Dr. Russoever try to take legal action?”
“That was part of the reason this accountant wanted my opinion.” Dad shrugs. “But there was nothing illegal about the transaction. An investment’s a risk. This one may’ve had more to do with dollar signs than good judgment. And I guess, if not for the accident, he still could’ve made a return on that investment, eventually.”
“Do you think Russo told anyone else?” I ask, still thinking of that online article. “That Abbott Auto Repair had been in financial trouble?” I wonder if the boys know the extent of the shop’s struggles. They’ve never mentioned anything to me.
“No idea, but I wouldn’t put it past him.”
So even if Russo wasn’t that anonymous source, he wanted this story out there. He hated Jonathan Abbott, and he’d been biding his time, waiting for some way to ruin him. But as much as he’d been wronged, I don’t see how he could extend his hatred to Mr. Abbott’s children.
Then I remember the rest of that anonymous source’s statement:It’s no surprise the boys would cut corners. Probably learned it from their father. And now, a young girl is dead.
Another question needles its sharp point into my mind. Could Dr. Russo have believed that Adam knowingly endangered a life? If the anonymous source was the doctor, maybe, at least inhismind, there was more than revenge motivating him. And maybe, when the press failed to blow up the story the way he’d hoped, Dr. Russo decided to leak those medical photos and rumors about Adam as a murder suspect.
Would Mr. Abbott have asked his sons to take shortcuts in order to save money on jobs? For all the time I’ve spent in that house, the man remains an enigma. Sort of like Bram, in a way.
“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” Dad asks abruptly, causing me to lose my nerve. Besides, even if Mr. Abbott asked, the boys never would have complied. “Why are you asking about the doctor?” he presses. “Is this about Kennedy’s murder? Do you need to speak to someone? Like”—his eyes veer to the table—“a professional?”
“No, Dad. I was just curious.” Smiling, I get up to remove my food from the microwave. It’s barely warm now. Still, I sit down and start to eat. When my dad says he’s going to start watching “the game”—whatever that means—I set down my fork and grab my phone.
Navigating back to the social media post, I force myself to look at the photos again, at the raw flesh. I never personally witnessed Adam in this state. By the time he’d returned home and had his bandages removed, the wounds were much improved. I don’t need the IV tube dangling in the corner of these photographs to tell me these photos aren’t the same kind that Mrs. Abbott’s home staff leaked. No, these were taken in the hospital, which means someone who worked there could have leaked them.
Regardless of whether it was Dr. Russo himself, it happened on his watch. He was the surgeon in charge of the case. Dr. Russo, who seems to hold a grudge against the Abbotts, stemming from what went down between him and Mr. Abbott. The doctor attemptedto turn the press, the school board, and the entirety of Silver Creek against Adam Abbott. He’s been accused online of making questionable medical decisions—ones that could keep Adam from ever playing football again.
And if Adam found out—which would’ve only required clicking on his social media notifications—what would he have done about it? I think back to Adam’s icy comment this morning about the doctor and Kennedy.I’m not sorry that man lost a daughter.
Adam claims no one has wanted to date him since the accident. Maybe he lied. Maybe he knew Kennedy liked him, so he drew her in and lured her into the woods—a way to punish her father.
I banish the thought. Just because Adam made one cruel remark in his anger, doesn’t mean he’s capable of murder. I may not know Adam as well as I know Henry or Bram, but we grew up together. The whole reason I agreed to help was because I trust all three of them.
So why am I having these doubts?
Henry will talk me through it. He’ll know what to do. I need to see him, face-to-face. After hurrying through the rest of my lunch, I grab my phone and book it down the road to the Abbott mansion.
10
On the walk, I text Henry that I’m on my way. I stick to the shade, trying to work out exactly how to tell him about Adam without making it seem like I suspect him. It isn’t until I ring the doorbell and Bram answers that I realize Henry never replied to my text.
“Oh,” I say, “hi.”
He rests a shoulder on the doorjamb, a coy grin on his lips. “Weren’t you here earlier?”
“Yes,” I admit. “I didn’t seeyou, though. Were you spying on me or something?”
“Your visit put my little brother in bad spirits.” Bram loves to call his brothersyounger, simply because he was born first. And we’re talking the oldest by seconds; they were all delivered via C-section, one right after another. “He slammed a door so hard my hair got a little messed up from the draft.”
I cover my mouth with a hand in mock astonishment. “Whatever did you do?”
“Cried a little. Took a nap to recapture the bedhead look.”
I roll my eyes. “Adam is always in bad spirits.”
