“Do you like working with Ethan?”
I glance sideways at Trevor, trying to read him. We never talk about his brothers, at least not as they relate tome. But he’s lookingstraight down at his plate, spearing a piece of asparagus with his fork.
“Yeah,” I say. Trevor furrows his brow and nods once. “But it’ll be great when you’re back up there. Finally, someone to talk about books with.”
Trevor smiles weakly. “For sure,” he says.
“How’s the pool?”
“It’s okay,” he says. “Not that exciting. But maybe that’s a good thing.”
“Erica’s a lifeguard for the big-kid pool, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That must be nice.”
“Sure,” Trevor says. “She’s cool.”
“Maybe she can help you with the stretches?” I ask. Erica volunteered at the outpatient rehab place Trevor frequented after his surgery and was probably the only reason he came home from those sessions with a smile on his face since she would crack jokes and bring him snacks. At least, that’s how he described it.
“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”
I look down at his arm, and the only sign that it’s different from its counterpart is the fading scar slicing across his skin, the slight atrophying along his muscles.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Frankie speed-walking toward me, her arms pumping by her side as the setting sun creates a gold glowing effect behind her.
“Is there a last call on cherry pie or something?” Trevor asks.
“Who cares?” Frankie says. “You know I’m a blueberry girl.”
“Freak,” Trevor says, flicking a piece of corn at her.
Frankie rolls her eyes, then crouches down beside me. I can practically feel her high energy, that intensity she gets when she’s working on one of those puzzles. She looks around, bug-eyed, and I flick the space between her eyebrows. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” She grips the back of my chair and leans in, her eyes moving to Trevor. “You know,” she says, “theywererunning low, actually. On cherry pie.”
Trevor springs up. “Oh crap. Mill, you want some?”
“Sure,” I say, and Trevor jogs back toward the clubhouse.
Frankie grips my arm. “Did he say anything?”
“Anythingwhat?”
“I don’t know, about the DNA found on Billy’s boat?”
I’ve been trying to avoid anything related to the murder investigation. It’s almost like pretending it didn’t happen might make the whole thing go away.
“Maybe he knows something.” Frankie’s got the kind of nerves that make me think she’s about to rob a bank.
“You’re beingweird, Frankie. Go do a puzzle or something.”
Frankie checks over her shoulder like she’s trying to make sure no one’s watching us, and then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out her cell phone, shoving the screen under my nose. “Look at this.” I look down and see a photo of the beach, some waves, clearly taken at night, since it’s all blown out with the flash.
“Good thing you quit yearbook. This photo is bad.”
“I didn’t take it.” She zooms in on one corner of the photo. “Erica did.”
