“No, I’m good.” He furrows his brows at Zoey as he pulls his chair in.
I give a brief nod of dismissal and wait for the door to click shut before I look to the kid seated before me. I want to hate him. Just up until five minutes ago, I wanted to wrap my hands around his neck until he stopped kicking and clawing in protest. I hate the fact he had Kennedy first, that he defiled her with his body when all I wanted to do was love her with mine. But now, seeing him here in the flesh, he seems harmless, pissed, and perhaps, most frightening of all, he wears the grim patina of innocence. Don’t ask me how I know. I’ve always had radar for weird shit like that. It’s another reason I thought maybe, just maybe, I might make a damn good lawyer one day—perhaps even move on to judge when I’m ready for a sit down position that requires equal amounts of listening and silence—a touch of restraint like it does now.
“Say your peace.” I fold my arms over my chest and wait for something to fall off the cliff of his mouth. It wasn’t wise of him to ask to speak with me. I’m betting his attorney is going to take a baseball bat to his balls for even attempting to throw a wrench in the legal process.
“I love Kennedy,” he says it plain like a fact.
Sucker punched. My eyes round out at the strange words that spewed so seamlessly from him, so believably.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he continues. “I’m fucking pissed. I get it, though. I cheated, and if anything sends her sailing off the deep end it’s a cheat. But I knew that going in, so, in a small way, I guess you can say I expected it. But this level of psycho bitch? This is the fucking big leagues, and I want nothing to do with it. You better control that girl before her ass gets locked up in a mental ward along with all the other prison psychotics.”
“There’s a U-turn for you.” A wry smile comes and goes. “I thought you just said you loved her?” I’m still hung up on those words. Not one part of me wants Keith Stearns to love Kennedy—my Kennedy. I’ve bared witness to some pretty horrible breakups, and just when you think a couple is beyond repair,bam—they’re doing each other against a wall at a frat party. Love is a dirty four-letter word that incites the bloodiest battles and the most beautiful victories. Sometimes the battle and the victory are simply opposite sides of the same coin—toss it in the air and see where it lands tonight. It’s a vicious game that volatile couples play, and I’m hoping Kennedy and Keith don’t fall in that category.
“I do love her.” His features soften letting me know it’s true. My stomach sours in that familiar way it only has for my younger brother up until this point. “That’s why I’m here. I want to talk to her. Maybe you can mediate?”
Me, play a love match? “Fat chance.”
“I figured so.” He leans forward. “So let me tell you—exactly what I’d say to her if I could. All that video shit? I didn’t put it up. I’ll take a polygraph right fucking now, and again next week, next year, in a decade, and it’s all going to say the same damn thing. I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t do that shit, not to anyone, especially not to Ken. She’s special. And, as fucked up as our relationship was, I didn’t set out to hurt her.”
Shit. I slouch in my seat and blow out a mean breath. Usually when someone cries foul and swears they’ll pass a polygraph you can pretty much declare their innocence.
“Consider it scheduled.” I scribble something down on the pad in front of me, but he doesn’t flinch. “What else?” The only thing I want right now is for him to get out of my office. “Who else had access to your computer? You have a roommate? Frat brothers?” Unfortunately for him, the suspect list could be staggeringly long.
“Nope. Lived in an off campus apartment. I wasn’t into dorm life or a frat.”
“Plus that way you could bring the girls to your room, and there was no one to rat you out to your girlfriend.”
“And that,” he admits freely. “Look. I’m assuming she briefed you on all the stupid pranks she’s been pulling, the dirty magazine subscriptions sent to my father, the box of dildos she sent to my kid sisters? Those were the big ones—up until now, until she uploaded those videos to make it look like I did it.”
“What?” I’m taken for a loop. “She didn’t know the videos existed. Usually the first thing a girl does when she discovers her boyfriend has dirty footage of her on his laptop is hit the delete button—not look into a dozen porn sites to distribute them through.”
“Well, it turns out she’s not your average girlfriend, now, is she? And she’s selling them by the way.” He pulls a DVD jacket out of his pocket and flings it onto my desk. “Merry Christmas a couple months early,” he says dry, very much pissed, still holding the poise of an innocent man, and I’m not liking it one bit. “Did she fill you in on her latest high-jinks?” He waits a beat, but I don’t answer. “I didn’t think so. Let me be the one to fill you in.” He pulls out his phone and scrolls for something before flashing the screen at me.
“What’s that?” I pull it forward. It’s a lawn of some sort with a very bad burn.
“Let me get you a better shot.” He thumbs over to the next photo, an aerial view, and I can see it clearly now, burned into the grass are the words,Keith Stearns is an asshole.The last word is smeared a bit. “Someone”—he says it rigid implying we both know who—“set fire to the lawn outside the Dean’s office last night, and that was the message. Who the hell does that shit? I bet if you check the trunk of her car, you’ll find a lighter fluid and matches. She’s batshit like that. And then—” He animates as he taps into his phone, pulling another doozy up I’m sure. I’m growing hot under the collar and fight the urge to turn up the AC. Never let them see you sweat, and, yet, I’m sweating. This is looking bad for Kennedy. We just need to get his polygraph underway, and I’m sure he’ll start whistling a different tune. “This.” He slides his phone across the table once again.
I’m met with a Wikipedia page on one, “Keith Dickhead Stearns.”
Shit. It reeks of adolescence. I’m seeing a pattern here.
“Read the third paragraph,” he insists through heavy finger pointing.
One of his most self-indulgent pastimes is sexual dalliances with corpses.
I slide his phone back refusing to entertain the rest.
“Anybody could have written that. You can alter it or take it down yourself.”
“Dude, this is stupid shit.” He shakes his phone at me aggressively. His eyes bug out with exasperation. “You’ve got to make her stop. Just yesterday three guys came knocking on my door asking if I was Keith Stearns, and, when I said yes, they said they were there for the gangbang. A fucking gangbang!” He bounces in his seat as if he’s about to jump out of his mind, and my heart sinks just watching the frustration pulsate from him. “She’s got women calling me, texting me at all hours, old women come to find out, asking where I’d like to meet for our dinner arrangements. She’s nuts.” His voice raises an octave. “She should come with a fucking warning label that reads, I am disturbed—do not tamper with. Oh and, before I go, I need to tell you that I found a pair of my old jeans stuffed in my mailbox this morning with the crotch cut out. If I wasn’t already worried, I’m starting to fear for my balls. Last Saturday, I went out for a quick jog, and, when I came back, I found out someone Super Glued all the locks to my house. A pizza was left on the porch Sunday afternoon, ding-dong-ditch style. You know what we found on it? Dead fucking flies. My mother wants me to find my own place. She’s worried my sisters are going to get knifed by that bitch.”
“Aren’t you at school?”
A dull huff rides through him. “Who can focus on classes with that kind of shit happening?”
He rises to leave, and I try to catch my breath, organize my thoughts—strategizefor Kennedy, but all I can think to do is pull out my business card.
“Here.” I hand it to him. “That’s my cell, text or call anytime. Anything else happens, feel free to let me know. I can have that polygraph scheduled for tomorrow if you’re up for it.”
