I nod. “I know, if I hadn’t heard him myself, I probably wouldn’t believe it either.” I debate sharing what I learned about Dr. Russo’s investment, the quarrel that may have driven him. But I decide against it, not wanting to pile onto Henry’s list of problems. The last thing he needs to worry about is his parents’ financial situation. “We both know that after the accident,” I say, “Dr. Russo likely led that campaign against you guys with the school board. Only I don’t think he stopped there.”
“What do you mean?” Henry asks.
“I think he spread rumors that Adam had something to do with Mariana’s death on social media, maybe even to the press.” My hands are starting to shake, and coffee sloshes around in my mug. I lean forward to set it on the table and pull up the social media post on my phone, filling Henry in on my findings, including how Dr. Russo may have failed Adam from a medical standpoint.
“I didn’t know any of that,” Henry says, gaze downcast as he hands my phone back. “I must’ve been too worried about my own name being thrown around. I tried to stay off social media. This does explain a lot.”
“But Henry,” I say, wincing, “it’s also a motive.”
His mouth falls open. “You can’t actually think Adam would murder Kennedy Russo to get back at her father.”
“It doesn’t matter if I believe it or if it’strue, Henry. It matters if the cops find out that Adam blames Dr. Russo and has a reason to want to hurt him. There’s no better revenge than taking away someone’s child.”
“That’s just sick,” he says.
“Murder is just sick. But if it turns out Kennedy really had a secret boyfriend, and it was Adam… ” I shake my head. “Well, then…”
“We’re screwed.”
I want to tell himno, it’s not that bad. But sugarcoating this isn’t going to help anyone.
“Hayden,” Henry says, inching closer to me on the couch. “This is exactly the kind of information I needed. Thank you for telling me, and thank you for not going to the cops with it.”
There’s something odd about the way he says it. The words slide over me, sticking to me like a fine layer of sand on skin. Making me feeldirty.
But I look at Henry with his messy hair and neatly pressed polo shirt, and I know I must be overthinking things. Especially now, as he looks at me with those tired eyes like I’m the only person in hisworld.
“So,” I say, sensing that we both need to switch to a lighter subject, “Bram says you’re actually going on the student council retreat?”
He shrugs. “We haven’t received approval from the school. Just from Mr. Fuller.”
“Why does the school need to sign off?”
“Because of the other parents,” he says bleakly. “As soon as they find out we’re spending two nights in the same cabin as their precious offspring, they’re going to freak out. In which case the school could take our side, since we haven’t even been officially named persons of interest. Or the school could prohibit us from attending to keep the peace.” He throws a hand up. “And to keep more than four people on the list of attendees.”
“This is complete bull,” I say, though the frame from the security footage pops into my head: that navy-blue hoodie with the letterAtrailing behind Kennedy Russo. “I’ll talk to Mr. Ortega myself. You guys need student council for college applications. How can he let you sacrifice your futures for—”
Henry reaches for my hand, taking it in his. I’m so stunned, I forget what I was rambling about. I try to swallow, but my throat is dry. He’s trying to shut me up; that’s all this is. And it obviously worked. I open my mouth to apologize, but he’s smiling at me with one side of his mouth, and I can’t remember how to speak.
“What would I do without you?” he asks, letting out a soft laugh. He moves his free hand over, cradling mine between the two of his. Excitement and panic clash in me, but then warmth settles in mystomach. I’ve imagined this moment since I first developed a crush on Henry, back when we were eleven years old. And now that it’s actually happening, I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Is this awe’re good friends holding handsmoment? Or is it something else?
He lifts a hand to brush my hair off my forehead, tucking it back behind my ear. And when his fingers move to my cheek, I’m so still, I’m not even breathing. His fingers slide down to my chin, and his eyes slide down too, resting on my lips.
I’m getting the strong feeling that this is something else, especially as he angles my chin with his gentle touch and leans close enough for me to feel his warm breath on my neck.
But a thump sounds, and our heads wrench apart.
A crash. Glass shattering. And then, an unearthly moan.
12
Henry and I race through the living room and down the hall, checking each room until we find the wreckage. The ornate window of Mr. Abbott’s study—arched and filled with over a dozen panes—is decimated. Outside, the agonized sounds continue. Immediately, my mind goes to last year’s vandalism incidents. Did someone do more than attack the house this time? Have they hurt Adam or Bram?
But then Henry rushes to the desk chair and leans over, retrieving a football. He slaps it into his opposite palm, his face a mixture of irritation and concern. Then he strides out of the study and around to the French doors. I follow until we both reach the large grassy knoll where the boys used to practice football.
Now, Bram is hunched over Adam, who is writhing around, crying and clutching his bloodied hand.
“What the hell happened?” Henry demands, rushing to them.
