12. In Which Juniper Adds to the Murder Board #2
Probably related to the pageant life was the eating disorder she was working through when she was in middle school; Aiden says there are no additional details on that one.
He does know that she went to the nurse’s office every afternoon between lunch and fourth period to get her depression medication.
Her grades were good, and she was planning on applying to four or five Ivy Leagues. Among her extracurriculars were student council, cross country, and twice-monthly volunteer shifts at the food bank.
“And you’re sure Rodriguez said her car was small and white with bumper stickers?” I asked Aiden when we first started getting all these details figured out.
“Yes,” Aiden said, sounding annoyed—and, admittedly, it wasn’t the first time I was asking that question.
I asked again anyway. “And that definitely matches the description of the car you saw in front of our house, and the one that was following you?”
“For the millionth time, yes. I checked her intake paperwork, too. The handwriting matches. She’s the one who wrote the note to you.”
So that’s what we know about her: that she had good grades, iffy mental health, a beauty pageant past, and Ivy League ambitions.
And that she died right before she was supposed to be telling me what she knew about my parentage.
To be fair, we have been trying to figure more out—it just hasn’t been working.
Garrity said his hands were tied if there was no body and no evidence from their search of the woods.
And I guess I get that, but also…does he think we just imagined it?
Both of us? A dead body? That’s not something that usually happens to me.
I don’t normally see dead bodies where there aren’t any.
Regardless of my rock-solid logic, though, Aiden says this argument will not work on Garrity. So for now we have to wait a few more days until school starts up again, and we’re stuck with our Murder Board in the meantime.
In order to make room for the Murder Board, I did have to find a new home for the photo of Aiden wearing an earring. It’s now taped to the microwave. So far he hasn’t moved it, which I consider a real win, because it makes me laugh.
It also kind of makes me wish he still wore that earring.
“All right,” I say now, turning away from that photo and looking at Aiden. “We have a new name for our list.”
“Who?” he says, his fork pausing halfway between his bowl and his mouth. One long noodle dangles off of it, his bite of fettuccini unraveling slowly, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Augustus Flanders,” I say. I go to the refrigerator and use the dry erase marker to add Gus’s name to the bottom of the list. “He knew Sandy. She used to be a regular—” And I break off as it hits me, the little nagging feeling that I couldn’t identify earlier.
“Past tense,” I murmur to myself. “He spoke in past tense.”
“What?” Aiden says with a frown. He finally seems to notice that he’s about to lose a big bite of pasta, because he gives a little start and then jams the fork in his mouth as fast as possible, slurping up the escaping noodles.
This behavior, combined with the messy hair that looks like he’s been running his fingers through it, gives him more of a Nutty Professor vibe rather than his usual sexy, dark academia thing.
He’s got on another tweed blazer today, with honest-to-goodness elbow patches—it should look almost comical because of how cliché it is, but it doesn’t. He just looks hot, messy hair and all.
I mean, I could do without the fettuccini slurping, probably. But other than that.
“When I was at Namaste, there was a picture hanging on the wall of one of the classes Gus teaches. Sandra was in it,” I say.
And Aiden is paying attention now—his chewing slows as his eyes lock more firmly on me.
I go on, “So I asked Gus, and he said Sandra was a regular. Was, as in she used to be. He spoke in the past tense. That’s weird, right? ”
“Kind of, yeah,” Aiden says once he’s swallowed his food. “Did he say why she wasn’t a regular anymore, though?”
“Kind of,” I say. I slump over to the kitchen table and sit down, stirring my own bowl of pasta as I think. “He said there was an incident.”
“An incident?” Aiden says, frowning. “What kind of incident?”
I shrug with frustration. “I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. He just told me it wasn’t relevant to my job or something and then shut me down when I tried to ask more.”
“Huh,” he says. His brow is still furrowed, and that troubled frown deepens. “That’s…”
“Weird,” I supply. “Yes. But also…Gus is kind of a weird guy. Don’t you think?”
“He is,” Aiden says with a nod. “I’ve known him for years, and he’s very socially awkward.”
“Plus all the smiling.”
He nods again. “Yep. The smiling.”
I don’t ask how Aiden knows Gus; Autumn Grove is one of those towns where you know people simply because they live here and you do too. You see each other at the store, you run into each other walking down the street—it’s a small space we’re all occupying .
I eat my food in silence after that; my mind is too full and too empty at the same time to deal with actual conversation.
So I just sit there, twirling my pasta and shoving massive bites into my mouth like a true lady.
I see Aiden eyeing me with a vaguely grossed-out expression, but hello—who’s the one that slurped all his fettuccini off his fork like a barbarian?
“Don’t look at me like that,” I finally snap at him through a mouth full of food.
His nose wrinkles. “At least chew properly before you take another bite. You’re going to choke, and it’s gross to watch.”
“My purpose in this house is not to give you something pretty to look at,” I say. Then, because I can’t quite stop myself, I grin. “Although you do have to admit”—I bat my eyelashes at him—“I’m prettier now than I was when I was seventeen, right?”
“I don’t really go for women with pink hair,” he says, twirling another bite of his pasta.
Rude.
“But,” he goes on, sounding completely unaffected, “you turned out all right, I suppose.”
Hmm…that’s a little better.
“Be honest,” I say, pushing my bowl to the side. This conversation is suddenly much more interesting than my food, mainly because Aiden is so fun to tease. “If you saw me and didn’t talk to me or know who I was, you’d be smitten. You’d fall head over heels.”
Aiden nudges his own bowl out of the way and leans forward, a wicked spark entering his eyes. “I’m glad you’re aware it’s your personality that’s the problem,” he says.
My grin turns into a full-blown smile. “With beauty like this,” I say, pointing at my completely average face, “it would be rude of me to have an incredible personality. No one should be good at everything.”
“That’s true,” he says. “Just look at me.”
I nod. “Gorgeous, but absolutely insufferable.”
That spark of amusement in his eyes flashes brighter as a little smirk tugs at his lips. “Insufferable?” He leans over the table further and then says, in a whisper so low I almost miss it, “That’s not what you thought thirteen years ago when you tried to kiss me.”
My cheeks heat. “Yeah, well, you’ve gotten more obnoxious.”
Another cocky quirk of those lips. “And more gorgeous.”
“No.”
“Admit it.”
“Never,” I fire back, but I lean in, too, pulled to him by something magnetic.
“Come on,” he says, his voice coaxing, his lips still pulled into that smirk.
I shake my head. “I will not.”
“Why?” he says, looking more smug than ever. “Embarrassed?”
“Fine.” The word pops out unbidden, escaping into the space between us.
“Yes. You’re more gorgeous now. The blazers and the longer hair and the—the—” But I stumble into silence as awareness pricks at me, as I realize that somehow both of us have leaned forward so far that our faces are now separated by no more than six inches.
Our food sits forgotten, pushed out of the way, and our breathing is too fast, too harsh, too loud in this kitchen.
His lashes are too dark, too long; his eyes are too full of fire as they drop to my lips; that smirk looks too much like something I could lick right off of his face.
Something sharp pulses in my gut then, an electric current that radiates from my bones to my skin to the very air around us, supercharging the space between us, bringing it to life—magnetic, dangerous, full of possibilities.
So many possibilities, all of them tantalizing, all of them dangling in front of me. And he feels it too; his knuckles are white where his hands grip the tabletop, his lips are parted, his gaze hungry as it lingers on me.
“We shouldn’t, right?” I breathe, so quietly that Aiden might not even hear me.
“Definitely not,” he murmurs, sounding as dazed as I do. His voice is hoarse as he goes on, “I don’t even like you.”
And it honestly feels like I’m in a trance right now, or maybe hypnotized—like there’s a little gold pocket watch or some sort of pendulum swinging back and forth in front of me, back and forth, back and forth, only that pocket watch has Aiden’s stupidly sexy face plastered to it.
“I don’t even like you,” he repeats faintly. And then, like he’s coming out of a trance himself, he blinks a few times, squeezing his eyes shut. When they open and focus on me once more, that tension is gone; all that’s left is him staring at me in horror, his jaw dropped, his eyes wide.
He jumps back, stumbling over his chair as he scrambles away. Then, sounding shocked, he says, “You—you?—”
“No,” I say severely. I point at him, straightening up and taking a few steps back from the table. “Don’t you dare blame that on me. That was mutual. I’m not your biggest fan either, you know.” It’s partly true; I dislike him sometimes.
Except for when I don’t.
But whatever. He doesn’t need to know specifics. Current incident aside, that ship is just as unlikely to sail now as it was that Christmas Eve all those years ago. So I force myself to stay calm, to keep hidden the rapid gallop of my pulse in my veins and the breath I’m still trying to find.
“Let’s chalk that up to a fluke and pretend it never happened,” I say, keeping my voice light. Then I grab my bowl of half-eaten food and take it over to the sink. “Deal?”
“Definitely,” he says from behind me. I’m tempted to look at him, to see if he looks as normal as he sounds, but there’s no good reason to do that. So I keep my eyes firmly on my bowl, hyperfocusing as I scrub it clean.
“Also,” I say, “I think we should go talk to Rocco sometime soon.”
“Rocco?” Aiden says. When I finally glance at him, he’s leaning back against the countertop, dirty bowl next to him, arms folded over his chest as he waits for me to finish. “Why?”
“Because it’s the only thing I can think of,” I admit.
I give my bowl one last rinse and stick it in the dishwasher.
Then I move out of the way, and Aiden and I trade places—me leaning against the counter, him in front of the sink.
“I can’t think of any other step we could take.
The sheriff isn’t helpful because he can’t find a body, and Sandra’s mom thinks she’s on a road trip.
But I know she’s dead, and I think she died because she was going to tell me something about my parents.
Maybe I’m wrong,” I say. “Maybe she tripped and fell, or maybe something else happened. But Rocco might be able to tell me about his brother, and I’m going to go crazy if I don’t do something. ”
For one long moment, Aiden is silent. I watch from behind as he washes his dish, his broad shoulders hunched slightly, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Then he shuts the water off, and I hear a sigh.
“All right,” he says, turning to look at me. “If you think it will be worthwhile, I’ll go with you to talk to him.”
“Thank you,” I say. I release the words without frills or further explanation, but…gratitude is all I have right now.
He just nods, drying his hands with the dish towel that’s hanging on the oven handle. “I’m going to bed,” he says. “Night.” He doesn’t wait for my response; he just strolls casually out of the kitchen, disappearing into his bedroom and shutting the door behind him .
But I stay where I am for quite a while longer. I stare at the Murder Board on the refrigerator. The list of names is still small:
Hailey/Betty One
Bethany/Betty Two
Nessa/Betty Three
Gus Flanders
According to Aiden, the Betties are the women we saw out near Solomon the Spud on the night we saw Sandra’s body. They apparently didn’t like Sandy, and they were being sketchy that night; that was enough for us to add them to the list.
Now, though, I find myself thinking further about the situation. I hesitate for a second, biting my lip. Then I grab the dry erase marker and add three names to the list:
Lionel Astor
Thomas Freese
Cam Verido
I’m grasping at straws; I know that. But it’s not impossible that Sandra was killed because she was going to tell me about my parents, and that means that anyone who might be my father should be up here.
My eyes linger on the name Lionel Astor especially; I’ve got to imagine someone running for governor wouldn’t be happy about an illegitimate daughter coming out of the woodwork.
I shake my head, laughing weakly. I’m being stupid. Of course I am. Like I said, this isn’t a detective show. Huge, dark conspiracies don’t happen in sleepy little towns like Autumn Grove. Besides, how would any of these men have known Sandra anyway?
But when I fall into bed later that night, it takes hours for me to fall asleep. I pull out my phone and find the picture I took of the photo from the yearbook, my mother and her friends. They’re all smiling—some at the camera, some at her.
Where are these boys now, with their black-and-white smiles and laughing eyes?
Could one of them really be my father?
And why would that information be worth killing over?