Honestly, I didn’t want to cross him off. I wanted to find out he was guilty. Then I could stop doubting my best friend. For Aunt DeeDee’s sake though, I would give Joe a chance.
Aunt DeeDee lifted a thumb and pointed over her shoulder. “He put his stuff in a locker in the back of the kitchen.”
“Thank you,” I told her, before planting a quick peck on her cheek.
THIRTEEN
Aunt DeeDee went to grab some extra plates and napkins from storage, and I headed toward the kitchen staff’s lockers, planning to quickly look through Joe’s possessions to see if he had anything that might make it seem like he’d wanted his oldest friend dead. Maybe he had a bottle of undetectable arsenic rolling around in the bottom of his bag?
The lockers were in an alcove in a narrow hallway off the kitchen, and as soon as I reached them, I began trying the metal handles. The first four were completely empty. The fifth contained car keys; the sixth, a wallet with a couple of dollars and a debit card inside.
I knew the seventh must’ve been where Joe had dropped his things earlier in the day because the first thing I saw was a stack of photos of Joe. As I flipped through them, I quickly realized they were professional, black-and-white 8x10 headshots. At the bottom of each photo, in which he appeared far more handsome and far less goofy than how I pictured him when he came to mind, was printed his full name, Joseph Andrew Larson, and on the back was his resumé with castings and dates ranging over the last two years.
The very first one listed wasSmall Town, Big Romancein the part of “Brett Brinkley’s friend,” which made me think again that the show must’ve been heavily scripted. The rest of the list consisted of appearing as an extra in five movies I’d never heard of, and one Netflix show.
Under “Representation,” his agent was listed as Presley Lombardi, which was strange, particularly since, as far as I knew, Presley wasn’t an agent. Maybe she was unofficially representing him? Could that be the reason that she and Joe had seemed so close earlier this evening, their heads practically touching as he’d leaned across the table and whispered to her?
I held the photos and tried to wrap my mind around what Joe was playing at. As far as I knew, he’d mostly performed odd jobs around Aubergine to make ends meet, and apparently, he’d tricked my aunt into thinking he was a good enough guy to deserve help starting, of all things, a catering business. But his first major gig had ended in the death of his best friend.
Joe was looking guiltier and guiltier to me, but for Aunt DeeDee’s sake I needed to give him the benefit of the doubt. Besides, I wasn’t sure how seriously Charlie would take my hunches. I needed proof of something, anything.
I put the photos on the bench and turned to the remaining contents of the locker, all the while keeping an eye on the door to ensure I wasn’t caught unawares. There was a backpack, and inside I found a yearbook from 2015, which would’ve been strange if the reunion wasn’t this weekend. Maybe Joe had planned to pull it out and reminisce. I opened the cover and spotted several signatures, including mine.
There was also a note from Lacy, dating back ten years:
To the biggest weirdo. Take care of Brett at V Tech next year.
—Lacy, 5/24/15
Brett and Joe had been admitted to the same school—or, to be more accurate, Joe had been recruited to play football for them. Although I’d never cared about team sports, I did remember that he’d led our fearless Aubergine Fighting Farmers to victory at the state championships our junior and senior years.
Joe had come home from college after only one semester, though. From town gossip at the Christmas tree lighting that year, I knew it had something to do with him being caught with an illicit substance. There were even whispers of Brett’s name too, but he’d stayed and graduated right on time.
Something had happened, possibly something involving Brett Brinkley, that had derailed Joe Larson’s college career.
I smelled motive, and the scent was revenge.
Next to Lacy’s entry, in different handwriting, was writtenvaledictorian, which seemed strange enough on its own. But while some people might’ve gone back and labeled people that they didn’t want to forget as they aged, Joe certainly didn’t seem the type.
I went back through the pages and spotted Savilla’s 2015 message to Joe:
Get rich and marry me. Or not. JK.
XOXO—Savilla
I scanned the rest, which seemed like inside jokes and ridiculous allusions to our twelve—thirteen, if you counted kindergarten—years together. It made me glad I’d grown up in Aubergine, a close-knit community.
Maybe too close-knit sometimes.
I came across a comment that, based on the initials and the creep factor, must have been from Brett Brinkley.
Your mom was fun last night. I’m coming for your sister (the hot one) next.
—BB
Ew.
Brett had been dating Lacy when he’d written that—they hadn’t broken up until right before both of them left for college. Even if he hadn’t been, though, it was still not okay. I shuddered at the kinds of things that were normal for boys to say only a decade or so ago.
