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38

SAWYER

F our days pass in a blur.

I’m questioned twice by the police but don’t have anything helpful to tell them either time. The first night they grill me about what I saw and heard. I explain about mistaking the cracking sound—the gunshot—for fireworks. I share that I didn’t see when or how the bullet struck Brad.

After repeating their questions in various ways and hearing the same useless answers, they move on to background information about the trip. I tell them about my change of plans and that Brad and I drove to the airport together, that we’re at the same university but rarely saw each other. I don’t mention his punching me or any of the times I’d seen him recently.

By the Friday after Thanksgiving, the police have gone through Brad’s phone. Apparently, there are some very negative texts about me. I wonder if one of the people who received them is Clare Duffy because they ask repeatedly if he’s done anything to me that I’m angry about, and of course, it was probably at Brad’s suggestion that she took my mom’s bracelet. He’s one of the few people who knew how much that would hurt me.

To the police, I deny he did anything to upset me. I hope I sound convincing. The nagging soreness in my arm mocks me the entire time. I’m not sorry he’s dead, but I don’t want to land on their suspect list. I was alone with him. Maybe they’ll think I killed him and stashed the gun somewhere.

I try to sound concerned. And maybe I really should be. I was only a few feet away when a sniper gunned him down. In addition to potentially being blamed, could I become a target for whoever murdered him? There’s a lot of uncertainty.

During the second interview, the detective is interested in campus gossip and whether Brad seemed worried that someone was after him. It’s hard to piece together why he would’ve been, but from their questions, I take it there was a scandal involving his fraternity that might have made someone want revenge.

Dad arrives, looking shell-shocked. I try to comfort him as best I can. But even when I try, I can’t muster fake tears. I wonder if the police notice. My Allendale grandparents seem to.

On Sunday, I fly to Boston.

Ash picks me up from the airport, and after I get in the car, she reaches over to hug me. I accept the hug and return it, feeling awkward. She wears an enormous cobalt sweater that I could fit inside with her, gray leggings and a blue beanie. It’s such a “bed hair don’t care” look that I feel envious of her seemingly carefree life.

We exit the airport, and Ash shifts lanes and points us toward the highway.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, Sawyer.”

I know why she says this. I texted her about the murder, but when she tried to call I didn’t pick up. Partly because I didn’t know what to say, and partly because I was paranoid someone might overhear my lack of emotion when telling the story.

“Okay, good,” I murmur, rubbing the side of my neck. “Because I don’t want to.”

She glances at me. “Have you talked to Jamie?”

“No, why would I? I told you we broke up.”

God, that seems a lifetime ago now. I’ve thought about Jamie, of course. Too much, and even in the midst of my brother’s murder investigation. It’s ridiculous.

“I thought he might have called.” Ash glances at me again, her china blue eyes full of concern. “He’s worried about you.”

“You told him about the shooting?”

“Yeah.”

I shrug. “He didn’t call.”

“Did you want him to?” When I don’t answer, she speeds up. “I think we’ll stop by his place. Just for a couple of minutes.” Her tone is light and casual.

I want to see him. So badly. But I force myself to say, “There’s no point. Just tell him I’m okay.”

“You sure it’s pointless? He’s called me twice, wanting to know whether you’re all right. And when you would be back on campus.”

My insides twist in knots. There’s pleasure and pain in hearing he’s been worried.

“Jamie doesn’t want me…” My jaws clench and release. “Because of something my mom did. And that, to me, is so unfair that I don’t want him, either. Not anymore.”

Ash’s brows wrinkle. “Something your mom did?”

“She’s in jail.” I can’t believe I blurt it out. My admission, more than anything, shows how off kilter I am.

“I thought your mom passed away?”

“That’s my adopted mom. My bio mom is in prison in Tennessee.”

“And Jamie told you he didn’t want to be with you because of your former mom being in jail?” Her tone is so skeptical it almost makes me question what I heard.

“Yes.”

She wrinkles her nose, looks over at me, and then shakes her head. “There’s no way that’s right.”

“You weren’t there, Ash. He was furious, too, because I didn’t tell him.”

“No way. There’s some kind of disconnect.” She blows out a breath. “Look up the name Scott Patrick on your phone.”

“Your brother?”

She nods and points. “Do it.”

I type the name into the search bar and click. Several articles surface related to him and his business partners renovating areas of Coynston, Massachusetts where they live. As I scroll, I find posts and columns about his wedding.

And then there are others . About him being arrested.

When I search by the arrests and click on images, there are two mugshots. In them, he’s younger and, except for his short brown hair, he looks so much like Ash and Jamie, my brows rise.

“Find him?”

“Yes,” I say softly. I’m so confused I’m at a loss.

“My brother’s never been to prison, but he’s been arrested a bunch of times. He’s no angel. And Jamie and Scotty are close. We all are.”

My mind reels, trying to remember exactly what Jamie said.

Ash shrugs, and her tone is certain. “There is zero chance Jamie broke up with you because your mom got sent to prison. Zero .”