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So… Scarr’s neighbor’s ex and their three-year-old son disappeared about fourteen years ago and were never heard from again. Like, there was no trace of them. No clues about where they might be or anything. Then just a couple months ago, some kid was arrested for a break-and-enter or something out in California, and when they took his prints, they discovered he was Philip Braun’s lost son—all grown up. Seventeen years old, now.
They also realized they were the same prints found at a couple of murder scenes when he was just a little kid. And long story short, it turns out a serial killer abducted him and his mom all those years ago. He killed the mother and raised the boy as his own, so the kid grew up thinking this nut-job was his real father.
The killer is behind bars now, and Philip Braun’s son has been in a psych facility or something out in California for the past couple months. Scarr says Philip has been flying back and forth to see him, with the plan being that his son will eventually come live with him and his current wife and daughters whenever his shrink gives the green light.
Now a firm date has been set; Dylan Braun is going to be moving back in six weeks. Reporters just got wind of it.
And Scarlett is in a mood.
“God, I can’t fucking believe this,” she rails, sounding almost panicked. “Some psycho murderer is going to be moving in with the Brauns. Nextmonth!”
Ah. So, those phone calls were not about a milkshake at all. They were about her neighbor’s notorious son moving in next door and Scarr’s too proud to admit she’s freaked out.
“Isn’t the guy who kidnapped him the murderer?” I point out.
Scarr whips her head around and glares daggers at me. “He was with the murderer when he killed all those women. They found his fingerprints at more than one crime scene.”
“Okay… That was years ago, though, right? He was just a little kid then. And it wasn’t his fault. He was kidnapped, Scarr. His mom was murdered.”
“Yeah, but you can’t tell me he didn’t grow up to be a total psycho. He was raised by a serial killer! He’s in a psych ward right now!” Scarr practically yells. “And they’re letting him just… just move in with his dad like everything’s normal!”
“Scarr… Scarlett. Just breathe, okay?” I glance over at her. “You still want to go to Hooks?”
Now that I know her call was really about the Braun kid moving in next door, I’m not sure if she even wants a milkshake at all.
“I told you I’m craving a Hooks shake, didn’t I?” she snaps.
Okay then. She still wants the shake.
“The Braun’s youngest daughter is best friends with my little sister!” Scarr continues, like there wasn’t any break in our conversation. “Don’t you get that? Sadie is over there, like every day!” She opens her purse and pulls out a tube of lip gloss, swipes it a couple of times across her lips, then throws it back in her purse. Now the whole car smells like watermelon. From one little stick of lip gloss. What the hell do they even put in that shit, anyway?
“I do not want that guy around Sadie,” Scarr finishes. Like she hasn’t made that fact perfectly clear already.
I get why Scarlett is freaking out. I do. But I still think she’s over-reacting. If Philip Braun is letting his son move in with him and his family, then he trusts the guy isn’t dangerous. And that he won’t do anything weird. But Scarr is Scarr. And she has her reasons for being freaked out over this.
We pull into the parking lot behind Hooks and I try again to put the situation in perspective for her, but she just shuts me down.
“Whatever. It’s fine,” she huffs. “Let’s just go get a milkshake.”
She’s putting a lot of faith in this one chocolate mint shake, if you ask me. But I don’t point this out. Honestly, I’m hoping the shake has better luck at calming her down than I did.
Hooks is pretty busy for this late on a weeknight, and we hear people calling out to us just a few seconds after stepping through the faded turquoise doors. I’ve always loved the way it smells in here. Like bacon and fried clams and banana cream pie. Probably because it reminds me of dinner after peewee football scrimmages, and first dates, and late-night pancakes after summer days spent on the beach. Also, hangover Sunday breakfasts after Saturday night parties.
“Scarr and Sebby! Over here! In the corner!” a girl’s voice calls over the steady chatter and clinking of cutlery.
I follow Scarr to a large booth where three seniors from SH Prep are just tucking into heaping plates of pie and ice-cream. I know one of them. Sort of. Taylor, I think. Or maybe Tanya. Pretty sure I don’t know the other two girls, though. But they obviously know me, because they say “Hey, Seb. Hey Scarr,” as they scoot over to make room for us at their table. So, it’s possible I do know them. No secret by now that my memory is crap.
I shuffle through the mini-jukebox song choices as Scarr catches up with them, back to her calm and stoic self, like the freak-out in my Jeep five minutes ago never even happened. I reach into my pocket and pull out a couple of quarters and slot them into the jukebox and select some country song with a weird-ass name… and a Carlie Rae Jepsen song. Because how could I not? Then I sit back and zone out for a bit, tapping my thumbs against the smooth metal edge of the table as I scan the restaurant.
This place is almost as familiar to me as my own bedroom. Scuffed black and white diamond checkered floor, rust-red booths and pale pink walls covered with framed photos of Sandy Haven, band posters and postcards. And at the center of it all, a bustling kitchen with turquoise appliances, surrounded by a pink-tiled counter and circular stools. It’s a total one-eighty from the classy décor at Scoopies. A mess of color and textures and patterns—but it works. I mean, it’s The Rusty Hook. It’s kind of an institution around here.
Scarr gets her chocolate mint milkshake and I get a stack of pancakes. I don’t pay much attention to the conversation if I’m being honest; just stuff my face and take occasional sips from the huge-ass milkshake Scarr will never finish on her own. They’re talking about movies and celebrities and some history project they all have. And my mind is still on the last couple hours I spent with Caroline. The way she has no filter and says whatever’s on her mind. The stupid stuff we laughed about. The weird conversations we had. It was so different than what it’s like hanging out with most people I know.
To be fair, the girls I’m hanging with right now are halfway to drunk. Not Scarr, obviously. But Taylor and her two friends. They were drinking at Halcina Cove before coming here, and now they’re loud and giggly and flirty. Taylor keeps rubbing her hand up and down my bicep, squeezing it and saying things like, “Oh my God, you’re sojacked.You must work out a hundred hours aweek.” Over-emphasizing the last word of every sentence in a way that is five times more annoying once I notice it.
There’s no way any of them can get behind a wheel, so once we’re all ready to bail, I offer to drive them home. I drop Scarr off first, because she’s decided to crash at Victoria’s house for the night and her house is closest to the boardwalk. I get out with her when we get there and walk around to her side so I can talk with her without the other girls hearing.
“You doing better?” I search her eyes, because even when she lies, I can always tell.
