Chapter Six #2
“Almost like you know the old bastard never let anyone stay on the estate,” Laurie says. “He barely even let me stay here when school’s out. So you have to know he’d never want my relatives to come—”
“Your family is grieving deeply,” Dawes says. “Of course they want to pay their respects at the funeral.”
“Or they want a shot at the billion dollars,” Laurie mutters. “You know they’re all going to lose it when they realize they didn’t get a penny, either, right?”
Dawes raises a hand as if he’s helpless in all of this. “I’m bound to the law, as is this will, and my job is now to work in Evander’s best interests.”
Evander’s fingers tighten into fists, the thin cuts on his hands stretching to show slivers of wet, meaty red. A noxious taste fills his mouth and he isn’t sure if he will be able to pull words from the silt trapped in his throat.
“But—” He’s shivering, his fingernails digging crescent moons into his palms. “But what—what about the murderer?”
Dawes pauses, midway to the exit, and his smile seems plastic. “Pardon?”
“Don’t we need detectives and—and forensics and an autopsy to figure out who…” Evander trails off, his stomach cramping from the effort of placing down so many words before a stranger.
He doesn’t understand why it’s this hard when words spill from him with ease when he’s snapping at Laurie.
“Byron Lennox-Hall,” Dawes says with measured slowness, “died of an aneurysm.” He flicks a glance at Laurie. “I think Evander’s medications are kept in the pantry. Carrington mentioned something about a sedative syrup for when he’s agitated.”
A fluttering panic fills Evander’s mouth, but he says nothing, just slumps lower on the breakfast nook bench and tries to slow his breathing. Don’t look upset. Don’t act unreasonable. He must control himself.
Although, he didn’t think he sounded frenzied.
He thought it a fair question to ask.
Laurie folds his arms, his expression closed. “I’ll find it. Goodnight, Ben.”
Dawes hurries out of the kitchen, his footsteps echoing in the long, empty hallways as he heads for the front door.
Silence falls, broken only by the sluggish tick of an ancient clock in the corner.
They’re alone. They’re not meant to be alone. They can’t be alone.
But Evander also doesn’t want to be left listless and drowsy from medicine, not now when he needs to think—and to protect himself.
He focuses on the floor. “I won’t be trouble.” He says it low; no one can accuse him of being hysterical.
Laurie snorts. “I’m not drugging you for asking questions people don’t want to answer.”
Evander casts him a suspicious look, unsure whether Laurie is being nice or not. Their eyes meet, just for a second, and it hurts to see that brilliant sharpness, that cleverness that drew him in as a child, and how it can no longer be trusted.
“It wasn’t an aneurysm.” Evander’s mouth barely moves.
A drawer opens and crashes shut so hard he flinches. Laurie looks bored as he yanks open the next drawer. “Where does Carrington keep the corkscrews? I think you should fire your attorney, by the way, Mr. Billionaire.” He says attorney as if the word is a joke. “He’s pissing me off.”
The amount of money is so obscene that Evander hasn’t quite compacted it down into something he can digest, not to mention he doesn’t think he’ll have access to it until he turns eighteen anyway. Right now it’s not important, not when they’re all ignoring what really happened.
“Did you see your grandfather?” Evander swallows. “After they took him…”
“Nope.” Laurie frowns into a junk drawer and then slams it.
Evander swallows hard. “So you wouldn’t have seen signs of poisoning. His veins ran black in the conservatory, remember? And his skin was purpling and there was something in his throat—”
“He’s dead,” Laurie says without inflection. “He’s not coming back.”
“But it’s not about that!” Evander pushes to his feet, ignoring the stab of pain and the fresh blood oozing onto the flagstones.
“There should be an autopsy! He was literally murdered in front of our eyes and you don’t care, which means you know who did it—or or or you did it.
” A blurred voice buried in the back of his head is warning him to think about the consequences of shouting out accusations, but he can’t seem to stop this avalanche.
“The tea—I’m sure it was poisoned. And if someone else did it, then we have no idea who is watching us.
Does your grandfather have a lot of enemies? ”
“He’s rich. What do you think?” Laurie gives up on the corkscrew and peels plastic off the frozen pizzas, then flings them into the oven like they’re flying discs.
He’s not going to hurt Evander right now; it wouldn’t benefit him. Hold on to that.
“Finished accusing me of stuff yet?” Laurie says.
“That is exactly what you do in a murder investigation.” Evander’s teeth clench. “You accuse people.”
Laurie leans his back against the sink, his arms folded and expression casual. “Then let’s accuse you. You were the last one with him.”
A panicky, suffocating feeling climbs up Evander’s throat, black speckling the edges of his vision in ways that whisper one word:
episode
No, no, he’s fine. He’s fine. He sways slightly, one arm still clasped around his middle to keep the field guide hidden, his mouth full of something brackish, like old water in a sunken grave.
“I didn’t.” His voice is coming from too far away. “He was my … He cared about me. He was the only one who did.”
“Sure. Whatever you say.”
There is no point talking to him. Evander has to remember that this boy is the devil with gilt horns under his golden curls and being alone with him is like putting coals on his tongue and wondering why they burn.
His ribs feel pulled too taut from exhaustion, and he has never been this untethered. There is no safety in this house, not near someone who can slip into lies like a second skin.
It all hits Evander so hard he can’t breathe. He is alone. No one is coming to save him.
He hurries from the room while Laurie is peering into the oven at the melting pizzas. He calls out, “I thought you were hungry,” but it’s tinged with sarcasm.
“You can bring me some when it’s ready,” Evander says over his shoulder, taking the stairs two at a time.
Laurie’s voice fades behind him, annoyance unmasked. “The lord of the manor hath spoken, I guess.”
The field guide slips from under his sweater and Evander snatches it before it hits the stairs. Then he’s plunging toward the north wing with a thousand wasps stinging the inside of his skull.
Murder is not so hard a puzzle to solve. If you have the pieces. If you have suspects. If you are desperate not to die next.