Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
I expect Fletcher to jerk back and get up, to do something with some sense of urgency involved when he and Boone have admitted to me they’re the people behind last year’s murders. But he doesn’t. He watches me, eyes falling to my lips before finally he gets up with a sigh, rolling his shoulders with a wince.
“Don’t do something stupid, Conor,” he murmurs without looking at me. “I’d hate to become known as the Christmas Killers or something.” The implication of his words sends a shiver down my spine, and he doesn’t give me a chance to reply before he’s moving, heading toward the overlook like that was his intention all along.
Seconds later I push to my feet as well, but I don’t follow him. Instead, I make my way around the side of the lean-to, glancing down the trail. Boone had been right. Two people, maybe a man and a woman, are hiking our way, their jackets slick and official looking. It’s no wonder Boone clocked them as law enforcement; they definitely give off the vibe.
But I don’t stop and stare. Instead, I keep walking until I’m on the side of the lean-to that faces the woods, where I’d heard Boone from. Sure enough he’s there, kneeling in the snow and roughhousing with Sitka.
“You get her wound up, you get to deal with her later,” I remark flatly, watching as she darts at his hands with her mouth open in what I like to call ‘the piranha.’ “And she bites hard when she plays.”
“I don’t mind.” Boone grins up at me, giving her one last playful shove before pushing to his feet. “I never thought you’d get a dog I actually like. Cute as hell, too, snow bunny.”
I kick snow at him half-heartedly, gloved hands jammed into my pockets. “Do you know what that term means according to the internet?” I demand at last. “Because it’s got a couple meanings, and I don’t fit either of them.”
Boone walks closer to me, and my body tenses in anticipation. But he only chuckles and leans forward to press his forehead against mine. “I know what it means, Conor. But I also know what it means to me , and that’s what matters here.” It’s almost cute when he nuzzles his nose against mine, and it catches me off guard.
It’s so… affectionate.
But if I’m honest with myself, Boone was always the more affectionate one. With Fletcher and, on occasion, with me. It just hadn’t happened very often, especially in the year leading up to my grand escape. “That bruise looks great,” I tell him flatly, eyes on his. “Remind me how you got it again?”
He rolls his eyes and scoffs before standing up straight. “Don’t get me going, Con,” he warns. “We have to act like we aren’t a bunch of degenerates while the cops are here. And actually…” He leans around me, surveying them as their footsteps finally become audible in the snow. “Oh, hello. These two are well above local law enforcement. Wonder what they’re doing out here almost a year later.” I go to move, to at least look at them now that they’re close, but Boone suddenly grabs my chin, yanking my face around so I’m forced to meet his eyes. “I know he warned you, but I’m just asking. Not telling or threatening.”
Boone gives me that smile. The one that makes him look like a sweet puppy who’s just aiming to please. It’s rare, and my heart twists despite myself. It’s so hard to only remember the bad shit when they’re reminding me of the few good things about them. “Don’t turn this into something it doesn’t need to be. They don’t know anything about what happened here. Let’s keep it that way.” He lets go of me after a few seconds of us just staring at each other.
I’m not willing to give him any promises.
Even though I think all three of us know what I’m going to do. My feet sink into the snow, legs working overtime as I wander around the overlook with Sitka beside me. She sees the cops and gives a yip of welcome, yet again proving how poor she is at being a judge of character.
Murderers, cops, what’s next? The ghost of Dahmer?
Before I can call her back, worried about the cops’ reaction, the man leans down, reaching his hands out for her to sniff. She does so gratefully, her tail wagging hard enough to propel even the Titanic through the ocean at mach speed. I pause, shifting my feet in the snow to watch, until the cops approach me, trying to ignore the way my heart flips around in my chest.
“She yours?” the man asks, eyes obscured behind a pair of aviators.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Her name is Sitka. She’s a uh, menace to society,” I admit with a small, wry grin.
“She’s gorgeous. We surprisingly don’t see too many huskies up here, even though I’m sure enough of them would love it.” He holds out his hand and I take it, his glove warm in mine. “Detective Ramirez. This is my partner, Detective Harding.” The woman nods, her look severe and all business. She’s also wearing sunglasses to avoid the glare from the snow, and her mouth is set in a flat line.
Well, I guess she’s the bad cop in their routine, going by first impressions.
“Did something happen?” I ask, seeing Boone approach from the corner of my eye, and I’m surprised that Fletcher isn’t hovering, instead leaning on the rail that separates the overlook from empty air. “It’s been a few years since I’ve been in town, but we’re allowed up here, right?” I ask, pretending I’m worried about breaking any laws myself, no matter how small.
I wonder if they’d try to charge me for being an accomplice, if they knew.
I wonder if they’d believe me if I told them how unlikely it would be for me to help them do anything. They may be my stepbrothers. We may have shared a house, a family, a school, and a dinner table for years, but I barely consider them as part of my life. Especially when I’m not stuck with them on a mountain whose roads are all closed and my frustration at my dad keeping me nice and toasty through the holidays.
“Why wouldn’t you be?” Detective Harding asks, her face pointed toward me, though I can’t see her eyes. She looks so disapproving. Displeased, sort of, and I swear she wrinkles her nose like she smells something distasteful.
Like I’m what’s distasteful.
“I don’t know,” I reply, shrugging. “I mean, I guess I never saw many law enforcement up here, especially when it seems like it’s not their day off.” I stop myself before I can ramble, not wanting to give up anything that’s unnecessary. With my luck, I’ll slip up and give them a reason to suspect me.
“What’s your name?” Detective Ramirez asks, drawing my attention back to him. “You aren’t in trouble, promise. There’s no reason for you not to be up here, except that it’s cold as hell in this weather.” He shudders dramatically in his jacket, smiling like he’s trying to share the joke with me to put me at ease.
I see it for what it is. This is their routine to make me more comfortable with one of them than the other. I give them both a hapless grin. “I’m used to it. Spent all my winters and a lot of my summers up here as a kid. I really like the snow. And I’m Conor Maxwell. I’m just here until the roads open up.”
“You act like you have some reason for wanting to get out of here fast,” Harding says quickly, catching onto my words. “Running from something, Conor?”
Shaking my head, I trade a casual, surprised look with Boone. “I don’t have anything to run from,” I reply blithely, trying not to lay it on too thick.
“You’re actually the reason we’re up here.” Ramirez’s words surprise me and I glance at him, not having to feign the surprise in my expression.
“Me?” I repeat. “I don’t live around here anymore.” Trying not to sound defensive, I shift in the snow, glancing over to make sure Sitka isn’t trying to befriend a bear clan or anything. To my relief she’s hanging out with Fletcher, his hand on her head as they watch the lake together.
“That’s actually why we’d like to talk to you.” He tries so hard to sound friendly, but I can hear the seriousness in Ramirez’s words. “You live in Illinois, right? Near Springfield?”
I’m already nodding, looking at him in confusion. “Yeah, basically. Did something happen back home?”
“And this is your stepbrother Boone Pryce, right?” Ramirez glances at Boone, then over at the overlook. “And I take it that’s Fletcher Pryce?”
Boone and I trade another look and he nods. “Yeah, detective. I’m Boone, that’s Fletch. Is something wrong? Our parents are okay, right?” I’m not sure if he’s really concerned, but he’s certainly doing a good job of convincing me of that.
“Your parents are fine, Mr. Pryce.” Harding’s words are sharp, cracking like a whip in the cold air. “We’re not here to talk to you or your brother. Could you give us a few minutes alone with Miss Maxwell?”
Uh oh. That feels bad on all counts. Like I’ve done something wrong and I’m going to be dragged away to jail. We trade another look and I fight not to try and sign an SOS to Fletcher. For all that I really don’t like him anymore—and I certainly don’t trust him—it’s undeniable that he’s the best of us in complicated situations.
But he only leans on the rail, elbows braced on it, and stares up at the sky without a care in the world. I’m jealous as hell, quite frankly.
Boone’s footsteps are his answer, crunching down snow as he meanders his way toward his adopted brother. I watch him go, trying not to seem antsy or on edge, before turning to look back at the detectives. “I will totally admit to being nervous,” I tell them with an apologetic smile. “I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong, but you both have me questioning my life choices.”
Harding looks ready to speak, but Ramirez gets there first. “You really haven’t done anything wrong,” he promises gently. “We just want a chance to talk to you away from…”—his head turns just enough that I can tell he’s looking at the boys—“outside influences. We want to hear your real answers, not the ones you might give around those who know you.”
I can’t help but think that’s an interesting way to say I might lie in front of my stepbrothers, and my heart twists nervously in my chest while I try to work through what they might want to ask. Surely they can’t think I know anything about the murders, right? I have a solid alibi of being in therapy that day. Which I only know because I was in therapy almost every day last December.
“Okay,” I murmur finally, dipping my head in acknowledgment. “That makes sense. Umm. What can I do for you both?” It sounds so cheesy, like it’s out of a movie, but they don’t groan or crack a joke. Harding doesn’t even attempt to smile like her partner does.
“You attended Southern Illinois University, correct?” The question catches me off guard, and I look at Ramirez with confusion plain on my face.
“I…Yeah, umm. I graduated a year and a half ago.” There’s nothing there I could’ve done wrong, I don’t think. And if I had, surely it would’ve caught up to me before now. But I still can’t help shuffling through my memories to figure out what this might be regarding.
“We saw that in your school records, they noted you had to leave for a few weeks during the spring of your senior semester. That you might have sought inpatient medical care.” Harding’s words are sharp and pointed, pricking me like thorns as I turn to look at her with my shoulders hunched protectively.
“Right,” I agree quietly. “That uh, that happened.”
“Could you tell us about the incident?” Ramirez tries to sound soft, concerned and comforting. Instead he just sounds manipulative.
“Why?” I’m starting to dislike the two of them, especially Ramirez and his act of amicability. I almost prefer Harding, with her refusal to pretend to be a nice cop. “Look, I…I dealt with it, okay? And since you’ve read up on me, you’ll know I was in an inpatient psychiatric center for two weeks that spring, and I’ve been in therapy ever since.” My words are just as sharp as Harding’s, and I clench my hands in my pockets as I watch them.
Surprisingly, Ramirez lifts his hands in friendly surrender, smiling in a way that makes my stomach turn. “You’re right. We have no right to dig around in your past. Especially a past that clearly still affects you.” I hate him. “We’re only asking because the victims from last year’s murder here attended SIU as well, around the same time as you. Do you know anything about that?”
Again I shake my head. “No.” My tone is flat, and certain. “Look, after I had to take a break that spring, I just wanted to get out of there. I dropped most of my friendships, you can ask my therapist. I worked hard on just focusing on my grades to graduate on time. It was difficult after being gone for a few weeks.” It hadn’t really been difficult, but I figure I’ll throw it out there in hopes of garnering some sympathy. “So, no. I had no idea the victims attended SIU at some point.”
But now I’m curious as hell, and I can’t help the prickle of something that travels up my spine. Why would Fletcher and Boone kill people who went to the same college as me?
Then again, why did they break the leg of the boy I had a crush on in high school? There’s probably not a real answer to the question, except to get back at me or hurt me in some way. “What were their names?”
The two of them don’t answer. I’d thought they would, I thought they’d want to see my reaction in case it’s someone I’d met once or twice.
“What are you doing up here today, Miss Maxwell?” It’s Harding that speaks, and when I turn to face her she doesn’t look away or say anything else.
“This is the trail my dad used to take me on the most.” I drop my gaze to stare at my boots. It’s the truth, though not the truth for my reason to be here today. “This was supposed to be the year we reconnected. Before you ask, I left when I graduated high school. Things weren’t so great between us and I felt…alone. He and my step-mom, their mother, planned Christmas up here at the house this year, but their flight got canceled.” I don’t mind telling them this part, because it’s true and innocent.
And it gives me a reason for my actions they surely can’t refute. “I miss Dad. And I was just feeling lonely this morning. This is where I have a lot of good memories.” And some bad ones, like Dad talking to me about my mom who I barely remember. We’d sat in that lean-to and had so many chats while overlooking the lake that I’m sure some of the worn bench is that way because of my butt’s continued visits throughout the years.
“I just feel sort of closer to him here, even when he’s not around.” I give them both a quick, nervous smile. “And they came up here to find me and make sure I was okay. They know shit’s been sort of hard recently.”
“I see.” Ramirez turns to study Fletcher and Boone, and I fight not to look over as well. It would look weird if I can’t trust them just to make eye contact. So instead, I stand there with the cold starting to seep into my skin and discomfort radiating through me. I’m so tired , I realize. Though that’s unsurprising with how my night went.
“I’m hoping we can find time to have a real conversation soon. Maybe after Christmas?” The words make my attention snap back to the two detectives, to find Ramirez is doing that fake-friendly smile of his again. “Maybe somewhere that we can chat without influence. I’m sure it’s hard when you want your family to think the best of you.”
What does that mean ?
I’m already nodding as I shift my feet in the snow, trying to avoid an avalanche around the fuzzy tops of them that close in around my calves. I hate having wet socks, and cold socks. My toes will freeze and that’s just a crap reminder of how easy it is to go from cold to frostbite. “Whatever you want, detectives.” I’m not faking my confusion as I speak. “I guess…Well, you know where I’m staying. Just let me know what I can do to help?”
They barely respond after that. Just enough for Ramirez to nod and tell me to have a good Christmas. Without a word to the two boys they walk away, trudging back down the trail in their slick, shiny jackets that have big white letters spelling out DETECTIVE printed on the back.
There’s definitely no mistaking them for anything other than law enforcement. Even without the blazing reminder to anyone who looks at them.
Steps crunch in the soft snow behind me, and I don’t need to turn to know my stepbrothers have closed the distance between us. “What did they want?” Boone is quick to ask, stopping with his shoulder brushing mine.
“I have no idea.” I shrug, all of the information from our conversation running through my head.
“Did they say anything weird?” Fletcher’s voice is soft and curious, and I turn to study his face, meeting his blue eyes easily.
“Not really,” I lie without hesitation. “They didn’t really say anything of value at all.”
It’s a lie, and as I hold Fletcher’s gaze, I wonder if he knows it, too. But I can’t admit it. Not yet. Not when I don’t know what to do with the knowledge of where the victims came from.
Not when the answer sits right in front of me, behind blue and brown eyes, with words I don’t know if I can handle.