The adrenaline surge has worn off, and fatigue kicks in as we wipe down the stolen vehicle, before rolling it into a swamp and watching it sink.
After shedding our operation clothes and disposing of them elsewhere, along with our burn phones, we go to the rental car we left parked in a structure near a hotspot of bars and restaurants.
When we finally reach our vacation rental house, we’ve already run through our checklist twice. Everything we can do to protect ourselves from getting caught, we’ve done.
I answer a few texts, per the plan. Unfortunately, there are none from Ash. I’d been hoping she’d have heard from Sawyer and texted me, so I would have an opening to hear how Sawyer is.
War goes straight to bed and, from his snoring, is asleep in minutes. I lie down but it takes me longer to get my mind in order.
When I do drift off, I have nightmares Sawyer is caught in an eddy and drowning. I’m swimming hard to reach her, but can’t.
Jerking awake, I wipe cold sweat from my chest. The irony is not lost on me. Committing murder could not concern me less, except for the one aspect.
Fucking hell.Apparently, I’m far from done with Sawyer Allendale.
38
SAWYER
Four 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.”
