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It helps with my conscience.
“Bear,” I say. I let my knowledge resonate in my voice. “I thought you were familiar…”
I’ve got to give it to him: He removes that stupid Zoro mask and looks me in the eye, and I can see he’s sorry. I can see he’s eaten up with guilt.
“You’re my brother’s friend. The one…” I start.
I struggle to keep my face neutral as his eyes glimmer. He nods, solemn. He seems penitent. I tell myself that’s good. He should be.
“You were close to John,” I say. “He told me you were his best friend.”
I watch his teeth come down on the inside of his cheek, his throat working to keep his emotions silenced.
“He was mine,” he says hoarsely.
I step closer to him. “It’s a shame what happened. No one’s fault,” I lie. I raise my eyebrows. “If nothing else, we can know that he died doing what he loved.”
Barrett nods. His jaw is tight, though. He won’t look me in the eye.
“So, how long you been with Gwen?”
His eyes lift to mine. “Why?”
I can see aggression push the sadness off his face.
I hold my hands up. “Just asking.”
He surprises me by stepping closer to me. “No, you’re not.”
I laugh, as if he’s crazy, still holding my hands up.
“You think I didn’t notice how you followed us around all night?”
“Is that a crime?”
His jaw clenches. He shakes his head. I watch his nostrils flare as he exhales. “I’m sorry.” He shuts his eyes, rubbing his temples. Opens his eyes and holds my gaze. He looks exhausted. “What can I do for you, Nic?”
“I was watching you,” I murmur.
His eyes sharpen. “Why?”
“John told me something. About you. And Gwen. He was always asking about her.” I lower my voice. “He told me, Barrett. John told me.”
I feel a bubble of satisfaction as the blood drains from his face.
“What do you mean?” he rasps.
“I think you know what I mean. Don’t worry, Bear. I won’t tell.”
I can see it on his face: the distrust. He doesn’t believe me. And that’s exactly what I want.
GWENNA
December 31, 2015
Our rental car is a Ford Explorer: midnight blue, according to the small bottle of touch-up paint inside the glove box. Fitting, I think, as I watch pearly moonlight pool atop the hood. Snowflakes swirl in front of us, flying up over the windshield as Bear drives toward the general store.
The drive’s not far—somewhere between a mile and half a mile, I know by now—but Barrett’s going slow. We’re supposed to get some crazy snow tonight, and he probably figures, rightly, that I’m already on edge.
