This Is How It Ends (Page 15)

“You’re a thinker,” she said. “You’re deep but not morose. You’re funny, and there’s just . . .” She paused, gesturing for the words that were missing. “There’s so much there.”

I held her gaze, aware—like she must have been—that we were looking at each other for way too long, but unable to tear away. I think if we’d been anywhere else, I might have tried to kiss her then. But we were on John Peters’s deck and she was my oldest friend’s girlfriend.

“It’s all bullshit,” I said hoarsely.

She smiled wryly. “It sure is.” Her comment seemed to mean more than just the way I acted or what she thought of me.

Natalie came back to us then, smiling and more relaxed than I’d seen her all day. Eventually Trip drifted over too, and I stepped aside, letting him take the spot beside Sarah, where he was supposed to be. We only saw Tannis briefly when she and Matty Gretowniak came over, bizarrely hand in hand. I smelled alcohol on her breath as she said, “Matty’s driving me home.”

I’d seen the flask and had known it was circulating, even under Mr. Peters’s watchful eye. I wasn’t surprised Tannis was drinking, but Matty? I gave him a hard look, and he grinned sheepishly. I had no idea if he was drunk or just feeling foolish or something else entirely.

“You okay?” I asked Matty. “You shouldn’t drive if—”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Ninety-eight percent sober.” He held up a hand. “Scout’s honor.”

“Well, then . . .” I shrugged. “Mazel tov.”

“Dude,” Tannis said fuzzily. “You know I suck at Spanish.”

Trip dropped me off sometime after midnight, Sarah asleep on his lap in the front seat and Nat already deposited at home. My mom was at work, and I crashed hard, feeling the full exhaustion of the Dash and the high of being with Sarah and everything else.

I woke up to the shrill ring of my phone, the red numbers of my clock blurry but definitely not double digits.

I checked the caller ID, then picked up hesitantly. I couldn’t imagine why Tannis would call me at all, much less before six on a Sunday.

“Riley,” she said breathlessly. “Natalie’s dad is dead.”

CHAPTER 7

I STOOD IN MY ROOM stupidly, trying to figure out what to do. Trip was on his way.

“Shot.” Tannis’s words echoed in my head. “And, Ri?” she’d said. “Nat found him.”

“Oh my God.” But she’d already hung up.

I couldn’t remember the last time there’d been a murder in Buford. The girl who’d died last year had been a big deal because before that it had been just the usual stuff—heart attacks, old age. My dad’s shooting four years ago had made all the papers, and a TV station had even showed up. Maybe they’d thought that was a murder, instead of what it had turned out to be—a hunter shot by a stray bullet, bleeding out in the woods. I’d been thirteen, and now I remembered only fragments: my mom crying; people bringing food; dishes and dishes of it piling up, uneaten. Staying in the McGintys’ old-people-smelling house, wondering when my mom would be back, worrying that she wouldn’t be. And after, the absence of my dad, a gaping and permanent hole of never. He’d never take me hunting again or teach me to drive, see me graduate, get married, have kids. There was an icy feeling in my gut, thinking of him and of Nat and her dad. And what she’d seen that night at the cave.

Trip’s honking out front startled me. I zipped up my backpack and went out to meet him, careful—for once—to lock the house door.

They were all there—Trip, Tannis, and Sarah—their faces pale and serious. Sarah had been crying.

“What happened?” I asked.

“He was shot in the head and chest,” Trip said bluntly.

“Who . . .” I couldn’t even finish the sentence.

“I don’t think they have any idea yet, Riley,” Sarah said. Her voice was shaky. “And Nat—”

She stopped, trying to catch her breath. My brain called up the inside of Nat’s trailer, painted it in the splattered blood from the physics closet. “Jesus,” I whispered.

We rode silently, Trip’s headlights swinging across the bramble as he turned onto Ohoyo Road. Everything looked gray in the early morning light, a sheen of silver dew coating the bushes and grass. I kept hoping we’d round the final bend to find the trailer quiet, all of it a case of mistaken address or identity.

It wasn’t, of course. Every police car in Buford was there—all six of them—lights flashing, colors and shadows bouncing off the woods. I got out of the car slowly, eyeing the yellow tape already strung around the yard. A handful of gawkers had gathered—a fat lady in a housedress, an old guy, three men I recognized from the restaurant.

Trip was already talking to the old guy when I reached them. William Johnson. He lived up the road a mile past Nat’s house.

“. . . heard the sirens an hour or so ago. After ’bout the third one, figured I better come see what was goin’ on.” William Johnson shook his head. “They already had the girl out by the time I got here. Saw her sitting in the back of a cruiser. She was still there when they brought out the body. I’da thought they’d take her away before that, but I guess seein’ the black bag prolly wasn’t any worse than seein’ what she did inside.”

“Do they know what happened?” Trip asked.

“If they do, they didn’t tell William Johnson.”

“Where’s Natalie?” Sarah asked.

Mr. Johnson looked her over. “I reckon they didn’t tell that to me neither, sweetheart,” he said. “Maybe you’ll have better luck with them police types.”

We turned toward the house, watching silently as shadows moved inside. John Peters’s dad had to be in there somewhere. Maybe he could tell us more. But it was Bob Willets and Lincoln Andrews who came out first and stopped to talk by the door. Then Lincoln went back inside and Bob headed down the yard, toward the police van parked just outside the tape. I moved to that part of the cordoned-off area.

“Hey, Bob,” I called. He was a regular at the restaurant, friendly with everyone there.

He glanced up, his face grim. “Riley Larkin,” he said tiredly. Some guys probably were excited by the idea of “real” police work, but Bob wouldn’t be one of them. He had a little girl and a pretty wife and seemed content to shoot the shit with the townies and write the occasional parking ticket. “What are you doing here?”