She leans close, studies it, but then shakes her head. “Should it?”
“It’s Steffani’s. Why does he have a missing girl’s necklace in his room?”
I wait for the moment of impact, when she realizes what this evidence must mean, but it never comes. Instead, she says, “It could’ve fallen off. Look, the clasp’s broken.” She points to where a section’s snapped off. “Connor probably found it, then set it aside in case anyone came to claim it. He sometimes uses his room as the lost and found.”
“Which one do you think’s more likely? That her necklace fell off without her noticing, or that someone ripped it off right before she disappeared? Look at this.” I produce the driver’s license. The moment Greer reads the name printed on it, she stiffens; her mouth pinches into a tight line. “This was in the firepit. Steffani couldn’t have thrown it in because Connor escorted her straight upstairs. This looks, to me, like someone was trying to dispose of evidence.”
A clatter from downstairs. “We can talk about it later. Right now, we need to get somewhere safe. We can reach town before sunset, turn this”—I retrieve the camera—“over to the police. The trails might not be well marked, but it’d be more dangerous to stay here.”
I lace my fingers through hers, try tugging her toward the door, but she doesn’t budge. “Nic, I’m sorry, but this doesn’t make sense. Connor wouldn’t kill anyone.”
I think about the way he forcefully pried my fingers off that envelope. “I don’t think you realize what he’s capable of.”
“I’ve known him for a long time—”
“You also knew your father for a long time; you never guessed the truth about him.”
She yanks her hand away. “What are you trying to say?”
“Nothing.” God, I don’t want to fight about this. “Nothing. It’s just maybe when you’re too close to something, tosomeone, you have a hard time seeing them for what they really are.”
“I’m not the only one with that problem. You never guessed what your father was, either.”
“You’re right.” I shake the necklace. “But this time, I figured it out. We have jewelry that belongs to a dead girl—the same evidence you used to arrest my dad.”
Why can’t she see it? It’s exactly the same as back in Oliante.
“We don’t know that Steffani’s dead,” she argues. “And even if she is, he couldn’t have done it.”
Why does she keep defending him? We have the necklace, the driver’s license; she had my dad convicted with less. But that wasmydad, someone who didn’t matter to her, whereas Connor… I recall the photo in his wallet, how he gripped her hip—possessively, the way a boyfriend might. But that would be ridiculous.
Wouldn’t it?
What if they’ve been in a relationship this entire time? What if she pity-fucked me, feeling guilty about how her show ruined my life, and then afterward, when they were alone together, provided him with a blow-by-blow of how our night had gone? It wouldn’t be the first time a woman’s used me to entice a very male, very straight partner. Spice up a romance that’s gone a little stale.
The storage room door slams.
“Please,” I beg. “Please come with me.”
Please choose me over him, I want to say, but she just shakes her head. What now? I could leave, but it would be almost a full day before I reach town.IfI reach town. What could he do while I’m gone—to the other club members, to Greer? If I stay here, I can at least try to protect her. Footsteps on the stairs. I scan the room for something that could be used as a weapon before settling on the hobby knife on my desk, the one used to sharpen pencils. I covertly shift it into my pocket, then position myself in front of Greer.
The footsteps grow louder and louder, my heart rate ticking up the closer he comes. “It’ll be okay,” she whispers to me.
He pushes open the door, arms loaded with gallon jugs of chemicals, a black fabric bag draped over his shoulder. “Here,” he says. “Give me the camera, and we’ll see if any of this still works.”
He reaches for it, but I wrench it away.
“I’m the one with a BFA; I should develop the film.”
I might not be a professional photographer, but I’ve taken enough undergraduate classes to feel confident. If we leave him alone with the camera, he’ll destroy whatever’s inside. All he’d need to do is expose the film to light.
“Not a chance,” he says. “I’ve done this thousands of times.”
Maybe I should let him destroy the evidence; after all, if we never see what’s in those images, he’ll have no reason to come after us. We can feign ignorance and go our separate ways. But what if, as Greer suggested, Steffani isn’t dead? What if she’s alone and injured, or what if he has her locked up somewhere? Letting him go would be the same as leaving her to die.
I match his glare. “Then you know how easy it is to make a mistake.”
“How about this?” Greer says, clearly trying to defuse the tension. “The bathroom’s large enough for all of us to fit inside. We can develop the film together, make sure no mistakes are made.”
