Yumi’s voice, low and full of sadness. “I hate lying to her.”
“I do too, but what choice do we have?” Kenya asks. “You know Caren. She’d go straight to the police.”
The words ricochet inside my head, tiny spasms of pain. My hands go to my temples, as if pushing against them can manually squeeze out the pain. I don’t want to move, hoping that by staying still the pain recedes. But a rustle coming from the yard next door grabs my attention.
It’s a little boy, standing rigid in an inflatable pool, his round belly straining over the drawstring of his swim trunks, staring at me with a look of horror. I know that look—I’ve seen it on my own children’s faces when they were toddlers.
It’s only a matter of seconds until he starts screaming bloody murder.
I have no choice.
I straighten up and walk briskly into the Williamses’ backyard, outing myself, trying to stay composed as I take in the shocked looks on the faces of my two closest friends.
THIRTY-TWO
Back inside his room in the basement, Finn sits on the edge of his bed, feeling numb.
He picks up the framed photo he keeps of Autumn and him from a few years ago. It was taken in the early fall at the renaissance festival near Annapolis. One of their friends had found a job helping sell artisanal glassware at a booth. Autumn was grinning so wide, her eyes all but disappeared. She was dressed as a maiden in a lace-up bustier and full skirt, a flowered garland gracing her head. Finn had made a half-hearted effort by donning a tricorn hat, the kind Blackbeard might have worn.
He feels exhausted from hundreds of hours wondering what happened to Autumn, exhausted by his anger at the police department for not finding her killer, by the hurt he felt toward the neighborhood that seemed to treat Autumn’s death as an unpleasantness to be forgotten and not brought up in polite society.
He is limp and drained.
It came down to one person, as he knew it would, and yetnow that he knows the identity of that person, he feels oddly empty. Van Allard. A teenager, an entitled reckless teenager, spurned by a woman he should never have been sleeping with in the first place, acting out of impulsive testosterone-fueled rage. A dumb, violent action that changed so many people’s lives.
And for what? To assuage his delicate ego? To obliterate the person who refused to love him? Whatever Van accomplished, he shattered Autumn’s life, and Finn’s life, in the process.
Now it’s Van’s turn to have his life shattered.
Detective Aziz answers on the first ring.
“I was actually going to call you in the next day or so,” Aziz says by way of greeting. “We’ve made some progress on the DNA match. Found some connections to the family tree.”
“Whoa. Like what?” Finn puts Aziz on speaker and holds the phone a few inches from his face.
“You know I can’t share the details. I just wanted to let you know we were making headway.”
“Thanks, I guess. I’m kind of making headway too. I have a theory about who killed Autumn and why.”
Aziz doesn’t respond right away. Finn gets up from the bed and starts pacing, nervous and excited, holding the phone aloft. With his free hand, he tugs at the hem of his T-shirt, a leftover habit from before his top surgery, back when every movement felt like a threat to expose him. He wants Aziz to take him seriously. Through the window near the ceiling, Finn watches a black squirrel pause, an acorn in its paws. “Did you hear me?” Finn asks. “I said that I think I know who killed Autumn.”
“Why do you say that?” Aziz asks.
Finn recounts the morning’s events—visiting the officebuilding, tracking down Tori Price, confronting her. He tells Aziz what Tori said about her affair with Van Allard, about Van’s anger when she tried to end it.
“Finn, what did we say about keeping a low profile?” Aziz sounds like he is speaking through clenched teeth. “You can’t be running around Bethesda interrogating people.”
“Technically, it was Chevy Chase.”
“Don’t get smart with me. At this point you might be compromising this investigation. You have to back off. Don’t try me. I will pull you in and charge you with tampering with an investigation.”
“Fine, but first listen. I think Van Allard may have shot Autumn, by accident. I think he might have gone there that night looking for Tori Price and seen Autumn in Tori’s robe… and…” His voice trails off.
“Finn, listen to me—”
“I’m backing off. I swear,” he interrupts, the speed of his pacing increasing. This isn’t going well. “I thought you’d want to know is all.”
Aziz sighs. “I appreciate that, but for the hundredth time—you have to let us do our jobs. Now tell me I don’t have to worry about you.”
