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“Are there any pics of Ivy?” Riot asks.
“Summer was in mine. But yours were all random women.” Rebel looks over his shoulder at Riot. “And you were clearly sleeping with groupies. There were none of Ivy.”
“So this has probably been sitting down there for months,” Riot says. “Gross, bro, do you even clean your car?”
“You fucking know I do.” He sounds ashamed even though he’s usually fastidious and anal about it. “I gave her a wipe down. A quick vacuum. I’ve been… preoccupied. Plus she’s been in the shop for weeks.” He trails his fingers over the dashboard and whispers to his car, “I’m sorry, baby. Daddy will do better.”
I shake my head into my hand.
“This one has a number on the back of it.” I can hear the frown in Riot’s voice as he hands me another photo from the party.
I study the number eight. It’s circled in red. Why would someone want us to have these photos? I flip over the others from that night. “They’re all marked similarly. One through to twelve.”
“It’s a series.” Riot grows excited. “Like, if you line them up in order, they’re meant to tell a story. That has to be it, right?”
“What story are they telling?” Rebel asks.
My heart starts to pound as I quickly shuffle through them. And then slower. It isn’t until the third pass I move past the fact that some asshole has been in our home, taking photos of us. It isn’t until I stop thinking about it from that angle that I see what I should have seen from the beginning. “Holy fucking shit.”
“What?” Rebel grabs them from me. Stares at them under the interior light. “What aren’t I seeing?”
“Look who is at the bar.” I’m practically panting. “Look what he’s doing.”
Rebel flips and then passes the photos off to Riot wordlessly. He’s probably confused. Furious at what he’s witnessing. Ecstatic that we have the kind of proof a good lawyer can use to put Hawthorne away.
“Fuck me,” Riot says under his breath while he takes the same journey back to that night.
I want to throw up as the images confirm Alec getting a drink and spiking it before giving it to Ro while she was upset about Rebel rejecting her. I want to punch the air and run a victory lap. For the first time since Ivy told me about Alec I have a moment that feels sweet. I want to tell her about it. She’d want to know that we’ve got him now.
I sober up immediately. I don’t know that is true. Only that I want it to be. I love her. But how can I trust her? Even if Riot was right earlier and I’ve been letting the way Mom shut us out cloud the way I feel about Ivy, I can’t be certain. This might be exactly the kind of thing she was hoping to find so she could save him from it.
“So how do we use it?” Riot asks.
“Take it to the police. Pass it off to Marty,” Rebel suggests as he turns the car around and onto the road back toward the party. “We have to tell Ro first. She needs to know that there’s evidence.”
“Evidence,” I say under my breath as I reach inside my jacket to scratch my armpit. Something Ivy said; about evidence and recording… what if she was talking about trying to take her brother down? And by evidence she meant confession? I was so angry, I didn’t want to listen. So certain that she couldn’t really love me anyway.
“Is it just me or is this chick everywhere these days?” Riot asks.
“Huh?” Rebel and I both say.
“Your playlist.” Riot taps his fingers on the back of the front seat as he starts to croon along to the pop song playing so quietly it didn’t make a dent in my thoughts. It’s fitting. Something about remembering the girl in his dreams long after she’s gone. Nice dresses, and sunsets, and red lips, and rosy cheeks.
I’m thinking about Ivy. I’ll never get over her. Of course it would be this song.
Riot clicks his fingers. “It’s your girlfriend, Rogue. Taylor Swift. You’re damn near obsessed with her.”
Like I didn’t recognize the song is the same one Ivy had on her phone the second he brought it to our attention.
Rebel flinches.
If I were anyone else I probably wouldn’t clock it. And more than likely I wouldn’t read into it if I did. Would have figured it was just his reluctance to divulge he has a soft spot for pop. If I ask him he’ll say it’s Summer’s playlist, guaranteed.
I don’t ask him. I watch him. I watch him like I’m trying to divine the deepest secrets of his soul. That flicker of guilt. We went for this drive to talk about Ivy, but he hasn’t said anything other than I might kill him.
My cogs are turning. If we hadn’t found those photos what would he have told me? What would change his mind about trusting her? What could he possibly believe would change mine?
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t even side-eye me. Barely moves a muscle in his face. His knuckles whiten though, just a shade. He realizes his fuck up and that I’ve caught it. Our connection is practically telepathic.
