Cal’s face falls.
“Heller’s dead, Goldie. You want me to ruin his reputation?”
I know it’s my only shot so I have to keep my cool. “You think on it, Cal. And until then...” I snatch the ID out of his hand. “I’ll hang on to this.”
Cal looks up, bewildered. He’s not used to this version of me. The girl who sticks up for herself. The girl who decides to fuck allthe paperwork, all the backdoor deals, the cash she’d been handed in one lump sum. I’ve missed this part of me. But she’s back. Finally.
A firework explodes in the sky and I walk back to my girls, leaving Cal and his questions behind. I take one final look at the ID badge in my hand, and though I feel bold, I can’t shake the lingering fear gnawing at my chest.
If Heller was murdered, who wanted him dead?
CHAPTER 32
Then
I officially lost myself on the last Monday in January.
It was frigid and snowing, one of those days where you know you’ll barely see sunlight, where getting out of bed, putting on your snow boots, and stepping out the door is an accomplishment. It was also the day my dad woke up to find urine freezing into droplets on our garage door, a pickup truck full of hockey boys speeding away.
When I got to school, I headed to the library for Monday assembly. I should have known something would happen. Dylan had done an interview on the local news channel over the weekend, breaking down into tears about how he’d never play hockey again, about how his family was drowning in medical bills and they were launching a crowdfunding campaign to get him the best physical therapy in New England. His brother, Jordan, sat beside him, clenching his fists, stewing with rage.
I hoped I could blend into the background that week. That I could revert to who I was before Heller came into my life.
But I was so naive.
Because as soon as I stepped into the library, the room got quiet. All eighty-six of my classmates turned to look at me. Teachers wererunning about, frantically tapping at keyboards and shooting me nervous glances. My cheeks burned as I scanned the room.
It didn’t take long to see what was up.
On every single computer, my face stared back at me. Sunken eyes with liner drawn around my lids. A blank stare. Disbelief. My hair was matted and wet from snowflakes. I was still wearing my winter coat, stark against the white backdrop.
Someone had pulled up my mug shot from the accident and made it the background photo on all the desktops in school. It was the screensaver, too, I learned as some of the computers went idle.
I looked around the room for Heller, to see where he was, if he had been part of this. He was sitting at a big rectangular table in the back with Cal, an open book in front of him. His gaze met mine and his lips parted slightly. I wondered if he would stand up and say sorry right then and there. His eyes told me he wanted to, that there was a mixture of pity and shame swirling within him. But Heller did nothing. He said nothing.
It dawned on me in that moment that I hadn’t really known Heller. I thought I did, since I knew his middle name and how he liked his coffee, how his laugh was a giggle a few octaves higher than his announcement voice, and how he liked to smell my hair after he thought I went to sleep. I knew he was ambitious in a way that only comes from being the biggest fish in the smallest pond, and that all he wanted to do with his life was make Roxwoodbetter. I knew he was lactose intolerant but loved ice cream enough to withstand the stomachache, and that his skin was a bit rough, bumpy in some hidden spots.
But that wasn’t much, was it? Because in the end, all I reallyneeded to know was that when hecouldhave saved me from this—from humiliation and heartbreak and devastation beyond repair—he chose not to.
The library was silent. I guess everyone was waiting to see how I would react, if I would scream or laugh or burst into tears.
I didn’t do any of those things. It didn’t occur to me.
Instead, I turned on my heel and walked right out the door.
CHAPTER 33
Now
The rain starts softly at first, landing on the white wooden dock in quiet plunks. A group of thirteen-year-old boys are treading water in front of me as the lake begins to ripple, little pools spreading outward.
I turn my head to the sky and see the pale blue that was there at breakfast has become a cloudy gray, and over by town an obvious storm is beginning to swirl.
“Ooh, it’s gonna pour,” some boy yells.
“Shut it, Shapiro,” Levin says. But worry lines form on his forehead and I know he’s debating about whether or not to call off instructional morning swim.
Levin blows his whistle. “Breaststroke to the far dock and back, then tread for another sixty seconds. Ready, set, go.”
