He looks around, but the keys seem to have disappeared beneath his car.
Bram walks over, bending down to retrieve them. He offers them to the man, adding solemnly, “They’re working on her, behind the school.”
Dr. Russo’s head jerks back. His expression morphs to pure disgust as he tears the keys from Bram’s hand and, without a word, pushes past him in the direction of the school.
4
The next morning, a knock at the door wakes me.
“Come in,” I call out groggily, checking my phone on thenightstand: 10:37 a.m.
Last night, we learned that emergency personnel had pronounced Kennedy Russo dead at the scene. She was never even taken to the hospital. All after-school activities were canceled. School for today was canceled.
On the drive home yesterday, Bram kept saying he couldn’t be locked away again, the way he had been after Mariana’s death, when he and his brothers were forced to stay home from school to do independent study. For months they’d had to avoid going into town until the rumors subsided. They’d just come back to school, and now their world was collapsing all over again.
After the news last night, I’d tried calling Bram. But he didn’t answer my calls or reply to my texts. Next I tried Henry, to no avail. Then I attempted to sleep, unsuccessfully for the most part. The last time I checked my phone, it was well after three in the morning.
Now, Dad walks in, looking red-eyed, and I can tell he had a rough night too. “You okay, hon?”
“Yeah.” It wasn’t like I was close with Kennedy. We ran in different circles. But growing up in Silver Creek means that no one is truly a stranger. Kennedy and I used to be friends in elementary school, before our personalities were fully developed and before she became…well, too popular for me.
“I just kept thinking about Betty and Arnold all night.” He lowers onto the bed, and I let him hug me the way Kennedy’s parents will never hold their daughter again. When he releases me, I can tell by his hesitation that it’s going to be bad news. “The police are asking to interview you, Hayden.”
“Me?” I get a sudden hot streak of guilt at what little I spied through the trees, through the crowd. “Why?”
“All they would tell me over the phone was that they’re interviewing everyone who was there in the woods after school. Someone must’ve mentioned you. Sounds like it’s routine.”
“Routine when someone is murdered,” I say.
“Routine when the police have questions,” Dad corrects. “But I asked if I should be there, and the woman on the phone said it wasn’t necessary. You’ll be in and out in ten minutes.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, nodding. “Where? Central Springs?” Silver Creek doesn’t have its own police station. The town’s law enforcement is managed by the Vermont State Police, whose nearest location is a tiny office in Central Springs. We took a tour of it once, back in second grade, where this big officer with a kind smile inspired us all to want to be cops one day and to never do crime. I don’t remember his name, but right now, I secretly hope he’s the guy to interview me.
“No, the interviews are at the school. I took the morning off, so I can drive you.”
“Thanks.” Dad is a manager at the one bank in town. Before Mom got sick, he aspired to set out on his own and become an independent financial advisor. But after losing her and her modest yet steady preschool teacher salary, he decided the job security outweighed the dream. His hours and income are stable, for the most part. We aren’t Abbott-level rich, but we’re doing fine.
I sit for another moment, staring at the square on my quilted comforter that’s stained red from a nail polish spill years ago. Mom and I were snuggled up here, watching a movie on her laptop. She was painting my nails bright red, and when she reached out to pause the movie, the polish dripped off the brush onto the comforter. The tiny drop sat in a bubble for a moment before bleeding out into a splotch. Mom said she’d try to get it out, but we both knew it was a lost cause. It only spread at her efforts.
Now, I look at the stain and can’t help seeing Kennedy’s blood spilling onto the forest floor. “Well, I should probably hop in the shower.”
“Okay,” Dad says, looking distracted for a moment as he fiddles with the corner of a throw pillow. “Hon, I know you’re close with the Abbott boys. Uh”—he clears his throat, and I don’t like where this is going—“you know I’ve never paid any mind to the rumors about them. But you will be careful, won’t you?”
It feels like a gut punch. But before I can respond, he hugs me again, sniffling as he whispers into my hair, “You’re the only thing I’ve got left, you know that.”
My throat swells, and I force out a muffled “Yeah” past the retorts still lingering on my tongue. When he leaves the room, I get out of bed and search for something appropriate to wear to a police interview. I land on jeans and a white short-sleeve button-up shirt. Only instead of heading to the shower, I pick up my phone and call Henry. When he doesn’t answer, I’m antsy enough to do something I know I’ll regret; I open Instagram.
Sure enough, the first thing that pops up on my feed is a post from Kennedy’s best friend, Lydia Costas. It’s Kennedy’s cheer photo from last year, along with a simple caption:
I will never be me again without you. Miss you so much, Ken.
My eyes sting, thinking not only of Kennedy but of Lydia. The pair had run for student council together this year, winning president and vice president. They’d been best friends since the third grade. My mind goes to Henry. Just the thought of losing him—of never being able to talk to him again—steals the air from my lungs.
I scroll down to the comments, where, true to form, my schoolmates are already speculating that one of the Abbott brothers must be responsible. It’s full of baseless accusations, mostly from football players.
TELLISON:this has the looney bros written all over it
THEREALDEALNEIL:first that freak tries to break my arm, then when I show him up, he goes after poor kennedy
