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“Cooperation?” Izzy interrupts. “He was part of it. He?—”
“He backed up what happened. Confessed to taking the picture. But it was Ethan who…who hurt Jeremy.”
My gaze grows hazy, anger once more rising to the surface.
“And Clay? What about his role in this? He’s the one who orchestrated it all. He’s been the problem all along. The others are just his…”—she waves a hand—“idiot lackeys.”
Ray nods. “I know. But…” He lifts a shoulder. “This time…this time it was Ethan.”
Shaking my head, I aim a glare out the window, watching the trees pass in a blur without really seeing anything.
“So Jeremy’s home?” I say.
A beat passes, then, “Yeah. He ran home. Eva left work early, same as me. She went right home and checked on him.”
Jaw clicking, I nod.
Izzy mutters, “This is bullshit.”
“Isobel.”
“What?”
“Do you kids think we’re not aware of what’s going on?”
“Then why aren’t you doing anything?” she shouts again.
“We’re trying. He—he told us it got better. We keep tabs as much as we can without violating his privacy, same as you. We can’t fix what we don’t know about.”
There’s a sniffle from the front seat, then, “I should’ve known.”
“This isn’t on you, Bells.”
“He’s my twin. I should’ve…I should’ve sensed it. Should’ve protected him.”
No one says anything after that, not for the remaining two minutes of the drive.
I check my phone again, but still no response to my messages. As soon as I was in the car and buckled up, I popped back in the battery and turned my phone back on—they’d confiscated it when they broke up the fight and escorted us to the office. I’ve tried texting Jeremy. So far, no response.
But he’s home.
His mom’s there.
He’ll be fine.
The car turns, slowing to a crawl as my house appears through the trees. When he stops the car, I unbuckle, and throw my door open at the same time Izzy does the same.
Our eyes meet, and she smiles, shrugs. “A whole week.”
My mouth twists. “Whatever will you do without me?”
She presses her swollen, bruised hand to her chest, and the back of the uninjured one to her forehead, pretending to swoon. “Surely, I shall perish.”
We meet together in a hug, being mindful of our injuries.
It feels weird that Waylon’s not in on this this time around, but he’s been out sick with the flu the last couple days. Which is probably for the best. His dad’s a real piece of work—drunk more often than not. A total deadbeat. Waylon’s all but raised himself, with the exception of the Montgomerys of course. And my mom. Linda and Gavin too, to some degree, over the years. And occasionally, an uncle who I’ve only met a handful of times.
Waylon insists his dad’s just neglectful—that he doesn’t hit him or anything—but sometimes I have my doubts. Izzy too. But he insists it’s never gotten that bad. That he can handle it.
