“We can go to my house instead,” Trevor offers. “I think there’s half a cherry pie in the fridge.” I smile. Perfect.
“No,” Stephanie says with a pout. “Everyone knows what the inside of your house looks like. Come on, I don’t want to be on the wrong end of Lisa’s dare. She’ll make me do something really bad.”
Trevor tries to hold my gaze in the rearview mirror again, probably hoping I’ll give him the okay. I shrug. If he wants to pacify his little girlfriend, I guess I don’t want to ruin it for him.
The rest of the ride I look out the window to my right. It slowly turns white from the hot air inside the car. I run my finger along the smooth glass, drawing my standard doodle—a line that halfway up splits in two. Then I circle the pivot point. The point right before the path separates. I press my finger into the center. One little choice can make all the difference.
The phone in my pocket chimes. It’s Laila. Have you ditched the hairless cat yet?
No, I text back, we’re actually on our way to my house.
You’ve decided to make him your pet? Not exactly what I had in mind, but that works.
I smile.
“So this is it, huh?” Rowan asks, pulling my attention away from my phone and to my single-story, white house. The front porch light seems too inviting for this moment. We all get out of the car and walk the cement, shrub-lined path to my front door.
At first I widen my eyes, prepared for a scan, but then I remember the keys in my pocket. “Oh. Keys.” I bring them out. There are three. One is for my dad’s car, one is for the mailbox, and the other is for the front door. I know I’m staring at them too long, but I can’t remember which one is which. I need to label them.
“Sorry,” I say, trying to fit one into the lock and missing the slot a few times. It’s so small.
“Need some help?” Rowan asks with a laugh.
“No, I got it.” Finally the second key works. We need a Norm-training class at the Compound on opening historical locks. It’s harder than it looks.
When we walk in, my dad glances over from where he sits in the recliner, watching what looks to be one of his criminal-interview videos. He must’ve been focused, because he’s as surprised to see us as I am that he’s still awake. He pushes Pause and stands.
“Hey, Dad. We’re just playing a game. We won’t be here long.”
“What kind of game?” he asks.
“A game we’re going to lose because we have no good food in this house.”
I start to move toward the kitchen, but he stops me with: “Would you like to introduce your friends, Addie?”
“Oh, yes, sorry. This is Rowan, and this is Stephanie. You already met Trevor.”
My dad shakes Rowan’s hand. “You guys having a good night?”
Really? My dad is going to analyze Rowan’s answer to a question about enjoyment? I give him the are-you-serious? look and he gives the I-know-I’m-overprotective-but-you-are-my-only-daughter look back. How can I argue with that look?
“Yes. It’s been fun,” Rowan says.
“Dad, we’re kind of on a time limit here.”
“Okay, I’ll get out of your way.” He sits back down on the recliner and my eyes drift to the television as the others head around the counter to the fridge. The man on the screen is a wiry guy with tattoos up his arms and an eyebrow ring. I wonder if this is the same DVD I had seen the other day. Poison. I’m surprised when my father pushes Play. But then I realize it’s turned down very low. I join the others in the kitchen, where they’ve already pulled out chocolate syrup and some natural granola bars.
“Do you have a plate we can use?” Rowan asks. I hand him one, and he unwraps the granola bars and places them side by side on the plate. While he drizzles chocolate syrup over them, my eyes wander back to the TV. If I watch the lips of the criminal and concentrate on opening an energy channel between myself and the television, I can barely make out what he’s saying.
“You can’t pin her murder on me just because we were together. It was consensual. She was using me for the drugs anyway.” There’s a pause because obviously the interviewer is asking a question, which without the lip-reading addition to the sound energies, I can’t hear. But the answer given to the question is, “Of course I didn’t know she was in high school. I hardly knew her at all.” Another pause. “I didn’t kill her. Look, if you don’t have enough evidence to hold me, then I’m ready to go home.” He stands up, and my dad writes something in his notebook.
The voices in the kitchen are muffled because I’ve blocked off all other channels except the one to the TV. So when Trevor taps my arms, I jump.
“What do you think?” Trevor asks. Rowan holds up the plate for me to inspect.
“Oh. Yeah, cool. Better than I thought we’d be able to find.”
Stephanie snaps a picture that I wasn’t ready for. “Let’s go.”
“Thanks, Addison’s dad,” Rowan says on our way out the door.
My dad waves and says, “Don’t miss curfew, Addie.”
“I won’t.”
Rowan holds the plate in the air as we walk toward the car. “We may not win,” he says as though speaking to a crowd, “but we’ll lose with style.” We climb into the car, and he punches the back of Trevor’s headrest. “That should’ve been the theme of your last game, Trev.”