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“She’s beautiful,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
He nodded. “Yes; that’s by far her best quality.”
“When did she meet my dad?”
“Oh,” he said, as he swung open the door to the carriage house. The trees all around us were shedding their leaves, the autumn fire show ending and winter graying the sky, turning the trees into line drawings.
“He came to see us when we first moved to town.”
“He did?” This was news to me. I remembered his stiff reaction to Evan’s name, how cold he was during that first visit when he asked us to stay in the kitchen. But neither one of them mentioned an earlier meeting. In fact, they both made it seem as if they’d never met before.
“He wanted us to know that my reputationhad preceded meas he put it. That the local police were aware of my history and would be watching.”
That did not sound like something my father would do. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned it's that we don’t really know our parents unless they show us. And parents don’t always show their children who they really are.
“That’s messed up.”
“Just so you know,” Evan said, turning to me. His face—deep-set gray eyes, his mother’s gorgeous facial structure, a full, wide mouth. I still see it in my dreams, how it looked when he smiled, or watched me with desire, or how still it became when he was serious. His beauty, it mesmerized me.
“I never hurt anyone,” he went on. “Lilith was my first love. But she just got so crazy, so jealous, so possessive. When I broke up with her, she wanted revenge. I don’t know who hurt her, but it wasn’t me. I cared about her. Still do.”
His expression was so earnest, his touch so gentle. I believed him. Of course I did. Completely. I didn’t even mention the rumor that his parents had paid off his accuser. Or the other things my father told me about the girl he was rumored to have hurt. That he stabbed her. That he left her for dead in her family’s beach house where they had sneaked away.
Stay away from him, Maddie. I know a sicko when I see one.
“I know,” I said to Evan that night. “I know you would never hurt anyone.”
We kissed as autumn turned to winter and new feelings stirred in my body for the first time. I remember the scent in the air, rotting leaves and a wood fire burning somewhere, the first snowfall coming. Being there alone with him, having ridden on his motorcycle, I was breaking every rule, every promise I made to my dad. And I couldn’t have cared less. It never even occurred to me that my father’s preemptive visit to the Handy house might have been why Evan sought me out in the first place.
As he kissed me again, movement from the big house caught my eye. Evan’s mother was watching us from the window. She let the curtain drop and moved away when I glanced in her direction.
“I spoke to her,” Harley says now in my shop when I stop talking. “Evan’s mother. She, too, asserts his innocence.”
“I am aware.”
Evan’s mother Mindy Lynn Handy has been vocal on social media about how she feels Evan was framed. That the police already had him in their sights because of the lie his ex-girlfriend told. That they never looked at other suspects, that they relied almost completely on my statements. That the jury convicted him based on my testimony and not enough physical evidence. She also has an interesting theory about who killed Steph.
“She thinksyoukilled Steph,” says Harley.
I nod, my voice failing me. I sit on my hands so that he can’t see how I’m shaking.
“She thinks you did it because you discovered that Steph and Evan were sleeping together while he’d been seeing you.”
I look down at my lap so that I don’t have to look at him. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know until the night of his party.”
“She thinks that you killed Steph and then injured yourself to frame Evan.”
“That’s—no.”
“And that they never even considered you as a suspect because your father was the Sheriff.”
I just keep shaking my head. It’s not true. The images from that night batter me, disjointed, nonlinear—Evan on top of Steph like a vampire drinking her blood, the cold of the river, my struggle with Evan to try to save Steph, the slicing pain of a knife to my face, the warmth of my own blood. The distant sound of Badger’s voice calling my name as I felt my life draining from me, no strength to answer. Panic starts to rise in my throat; I glance at the door. Badger said he’d come tonight, not to talk but to support me. But he’s late. He’s always late. I feel the irrational lash of anger at him that I sometimes feel. He wasn’t there, not in time. If he had been, everything would have been different. But then sometimes in my dreams, heisthere. Sometimes he’s the one hurting Steph. Or he’s the one slashing my face. Sometimes he’s the one carrying me from the river, yelling,Madeline Martin, don’t you dare die on me.
Harley is still looking at me, tilts his head. “She thinks there was someone else there that night. And that whoever it was took Ainsley and Sam. That it was unrelated to the drama that unfolded between you, Evan, and Steph.”
I find my voice, finally. It’s stronger and more solid than I feel. “I know about Mindy’s theories. All bullshit and lies. She’d sayanythingto free Evan.”
Harley sits up in his chair, gives that easy nod that he seems to have perfected, the careful, nonjudgmental listener.
