His face shifts through emotions I can’t read. “You don’t understand—”
“Then explain it! Tell me why you sent those messages. Why you scared us half to death at the lumberyard. What were you hoping to achieve?”
Everett falls silent again. It’s maddening.
And the longer it drags on, the more time my mind has to flash back to every encounter I ever had with him.
“Oh my God.” I suddenly feel sick. “You knew who I was when you took me to the bridge.”
“Yes,” he admits.
“And you were pretending to try to get to know me—”
“I wasn’t pretending.”
My eyes feel hot. Stinging wildly. “Did you ever even like me, Everett?”
“I did. I do.” He hesitates then, and that speaks even louder than his words. “I was attracted to you when we met on the trail, when I thought you were a Shipley. I wasn’t faking any of that. I asked you out because I wanted to.”
“But?” I say stiffly.
He visibly gulps. “But once I knew who you were, I guess a part of me figured it wouldn’t hurt to keep you close, try to figure out what you knew.”
That’s why he was so angry when I ended it, I realize. Because I’d deprived him of access to me. And why he was always pushing me to talk. He wanted me to spill my secrets because heknewI had them.
“Those messages,” I say, my voice sounding weak to my ears. “Why, damn it?”
He stares down at the porch, running his fingers through his hair. For a moment, I think he won’t answer. And maybe a part of me hopes he won’t.
But then he does.
“I didn’t want you to find the bodies.”
The admission sends a shiver down my spine. “Why not?”
“Because if you did, everyone would know my mom wasn’t among them. It would open up questions, things I didn’t want people to start digging into.”
My brain is still struggling to piece together what he’s telling me. “You’re saying youknewyour mother wasn’t in my dad’s bunker? You knew she might’ve just run off?”
Instead of answering, he lets out a frustrated groan and stalks away from the porch.
“Everett,” I protest, but he only picks up his pace, his feet bare as he walks across the grass.
I reach the small clearing just as he lowers himself onto the bench in front of the wishing well, burying his face in his palms. Then he lifts his head and stares at the well as if he blames it for all the wishes he’s made that haven’t come true.
“How did you know your mom wasn’t one of my father’s victims?” I push.
His eyes flash to mine. “Ryan.”
“Yes?”
“Drop it.”
Yeah fucking right.
“No. I’m not dropping it. You scared the crap out of me because you didn’t want me or my cousins to look for the bodies. How did you know your mother wasn’t there? You knew she was alive this whole time?”
“She’s not alive. She’s dead. She’s been fucking dead since the day she disappeared.”
