I am so screwed.
At lunch Trevor isn’t where we had been meeting. I call Laila. “Hey, are you in class?”
“No, it’s lunch. What’s up?”
I sink onto a cement bench and explain to her what happened with Trevor. “What should I do?”
“Tell him the truth. It’s not as bad as you think it is. It’s not like you helped injure those players. He’ll understand.”
I toe the edge of the grass with my shoe. I may not have helped injure him, but I did lie to him. “You think?”
“Yes, now go.”
In the background I hear a guy’s voice say, “Who is it?”
“Who is that?” I ask.
“Bobby.”
“Bobby? You’re still hanging out with Bobby?”
“Yeah, well, turns out we get along.”
I squint, making the trees on the edge of the grass go blurry. “Laila, run away. That guy’s a creep.”
“I’ve met your definition of a creep, and it wasn’t even close.”
“Rowan is not Bobby. Bobby really is a creep.”
“Addie, don’t pretend like you know what’s going on here when you no longer live here and haven’t talked to me in days.”
The impatience in her voice catches me off guard, and I don’t know what to say. “I’m not pretending I know what’s going on there. I’m just reminding you of what Bobby did to Trevor.”
“You can’t prove that.”
My mouth opens then closes. “Then how about what he did to me?”
“He didn’t do anything to you.”
“He was going to. Same thing.”
“No, it’s not the same thing. Not even close. It’s sort of like fiction, Addie—not real.”
I wait for her to laugh, to make some sort of joke. But everything is silent. “Are you being funny?”
“Sure, Addie. Is that what I am in your book? The comic relief?”
In the background I hear Bobby laugh.
“Go find Trevor.” The line goes dead. I stare at my phone in confusion and then stand and walk. But I don’t know where I’m going. Someone bumps into my shoulder and then mumbles an apology. I lift my phone, scroll through my phone list, then push Call.
“Hello?” my dad answers. His voice sounds tense.
“Dad, I don’t feel good. Can I go home?”
“Of course,” he says. Him agreeing with me so fast confirms the truthfulness of my condition. Someone in the background makes a comment, and he answers back. Then to me he says, “Do you need me to come get you?”
I want to say, Yes, please come get me, but it’s obvious he’s busy. “No. It’s lunch. I can find a ride.” That’s a lie. I can’t find a ride. Even though home is within walking distance, I hope he calls me out on it.
He doesn’t. “Okay. Feel better. Call me if you need me.” The phone goes dead.
After the long walk home, I crawl into bed and shove my head under my pillow. When the doorbell rings, I realize I had fallen asleep. My face is sticky with sweat, and I smooth my hair while I head for the door. It’s just the mailman, and he hands me another padded envelope, which I sign for.
After he leaves, I stare at it. Why is the Compound still sending my dad interviews? They need to leave him out of this mess. He seems busy enough as it is. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help myself. I grab a butter knife from the drawer and wedge it beneath the sticky tape. Slowly, I pry it open and pull out the DVD. I shove it in the player and sit on the couch. Maybe I can do something to help. Maybe I can do a Search for him and tell him what he needs to know to break this case so he can move on.
It’s Poison again.
After the initial introduction from the detective, where he recommends the same course of action—brain scan, rehabilitation—Poison is seated in the metal chair. The table screen lights up. “Do you know this girl?”
“A new girl, huh? You really need to get to know more people, detective. You can’t call me in here every time you need a name.”
“Mr. Paxton, answer the question.”
“She looks familiar.” He leans closer to the picture. “You know, I think we did business a while back.”
“What kind of business?”
“Watercolors.”
“Watercolors?”
“I’m tired of you asking questions you already know the answers to. What do you want from me?”
“We want the truth.”
“It doesn’t matter what I say. You have someone telling you what to believe, so listen to him.”
Poison must be talking about my dad.
“Her body was recently found by some campers. She was reported missing three months ago. Did you murder her, Mr. Paxton?”
“You tell me.”
“We believe you did.”
“Then arrest me.” He stands and leans his fists on the table, knuckles cracking as he does. “Oh wait, you can’t, because the evidence shows she killed herself, right? Don’t bring me in again unless you plan to offer room and board.”
I swear my heart has stopped beating. Poison walks out of the shot, and all that’s left is an empty metal chair. I put the DVD back into its package as best I can. In my dad’s room, I search through his dresser and desk for his notebook and find it in the side drawer. Under the title Poison my dad has written three findings: “Drug dealer—yes. Intimate relationship with victim—yes. Murdered victim—inconclusive.”