Nine
That night, I make a list of questions for Dark Static:
In order to ask Dark Static these questions, I have to complete the task he already gave me: crack Aaron Ryans, the enigmatic, speedy McSpeedster with two first names.
I find Aaron on Sunday in the first place I look: the pool.
Go figure.
Younger kids shriek as they splash and chase each other in the shallow end.
A half-inch of water coats the entire deck.
I typically avoid weekends at the pool, because they gross me out.
Bacteria, extra spit, and wet bodies seem fine when they’re my friends’, strangers’ are harder for me to tolerate. Dark Static had better be impressed.
Two lap lanes spread the length of the pool.
Aaron has them to himself, and I slide into the lane beside his.
My legs scream in protest as the water envelopes me, No, Madeline, don’t make us swim again!
I hadn’t realized how little rest I’ve had this week.
My plan needs to maximize bonding with Aaron but minimize swimming.
I remember when I was in elementary school, Arielle was in high school and pulled her hamstring. Not wanting to miss out the season, she swam through it anyway.
Big mistake. Huge.
Sure, she made the championship team that year, but she didn’t win, and afterwards, her leg was in such terrible shape that her doctor doubted she’d ever be able to seriously compete again.
She proved him wrong, obviously. Regardless, I don’t want that to be me; to be as cold and cranky as Arielle is for the rest of my life? No, thanks.
Aaron finishes his freestyle set and rests by me at the wall. The water curls around him, as if it will do anything he wants it to.
“Your strokes are phenomenal,” I say. I’m not lying.
“Thanks.” Aaron casually sips his water, making even the simple act seem graceful. I hadn’t even realized that there was a graceful way to drink water until just now.
“Where did you say you were from again?” I ask, “Your last team must have had an Olympian for a coach.” Okay, that might have been laying it on too thick.
“I didn’t say.”
“Oh. I was wondering why you came to Capital City,” I add. “We don’t have a lot of swimmers transfer here.” If Fox is right, it might have to do with Zane Milligan.
He shrugs. “My family got an opportunity we couldn’t turn down. It’s just me and my mom, so moving wasn’t too difficult.”
I might as well have been talking to the pool wall.
Earlier this morning, I scoured the internet for any mention of our Aaron Ryans.
I learned his name means “strong,” according to the baby name sites, and there are approximately 143,452 people with the last name Ryans in our part of the world.
I looked through swimming blogs, social media sites, and newspaper articles—there’s not a single mention of the Adonis standing before me.
Unless… he’s the Aaron Ryans who placed fourth in a pickled salmon eating contest, but I doubt it.
It’s weird that he wasn’t flagged in any swimming news. There are 216 internet articles that mention my swimming races. Fox only has 208. Arielle has 385, but who’s counting?
I’m not wasting a clean bathing suit for this. I need a new angle .
“Could you give me some tips?” I ask. Anything to keep him talking to me.
Aaron returns his bottle to the pool deck. When his back is to me, it’s obvious that he’s twice as toned now than when he’d arrived a month ago—his shoulders bulge, arms like a machine. Looks like all his extra practices have paid off.
“You don’t need any help with swimming.” He inflects his answer into a question. Why are you really here, Madeline?
“Arielle would say otherwise,” I push. I try a self-deprecating chuckle. “You know, Arielle almost didn’t let me on the swim team. As soon as she heard that I signed up, she begged our dad to ban me. As if I wanted to swim only to take her thing.” As if we didn’t both need it.
“Yet, here you are,” says Aaron, not unkindly.
“Our dad reminded her that I could win a swimming scholarship to afford college. So Coach Bridges pretends I begged her to join, and that she intends for me to win as much as she did.”
Aaron treads his arms, stirring quiet ripples around him. The calm waves reflect in his stormy, gray eyes, which he sets on me.
“I have an older sister too. She used to be like Arielle. Competitive and in control of everything. Everyone would compare me to her at school, and at swimming.”
“What happened?” I ask.
His chest tenses. “Things changed. I messed up, and my mom and I had to move away from our old town. That, and my mom got her opportunity in Capital City. My sister stayed behind, and we never hear from her. It’s hard.”
At least you still see Arielle, his subtext screams.
“It took me a while to realize that people comparing us wasn’t my sister’s fault,” he adds.
I nod, unsure how to respond. My opening up helped him to open up, and he turned it back onto me. I was not ready for that kind of introspection on a Sunday afternoon.
Aaron pushes his electric blue goggles onto his face, putting on his mask. “Your breath could be faster on your butterfly. Here. I’ll show you.”
~
“So, what did you talk about?” D.S. leans coolly against my bedroom window. “What happened next?”
“Nothing.” I shiver, still cold and drained from my swim session. “He basically dumped on my butterfly for two hours.” Even though I’d specifically tried to avoid a lot of swimming.
D.S. smirks. “You’re that bad?”
I roll my eyes, gesturing toward the trophies stacked on every shelf and the medals that hang from every wall. D.S.’s opinion of my swimming skill weirdly matters.
“Yes, you’re very into swimming,” he teases, “Why is that?”
“Why do you care?”
He flicks a crumb off my dresser. “Maybe Aaron swims for the same reason.”
I suppress a scoff. “I doubt that. Aaron swims like he has everything to lose.”
“And you don’t?”
“I don’t need a trophy to swim.” My legs tremble under my blankets. I wish D.S. would close the window before the cold air makes me sick.
D.S. digests this, surveying my carpet while he thinks. “Sounds like Aaron has something serious going on. Any ideas what that could be?”
Things changed. It was my fault, That could mean anything.
“I don’t think he’s a Super,” I say. “If he had powers, he wouldn’t need to spend as much time swimming.”
“Unless he doesn’t know he has them.” D.S. studies me, like he’s deciding whether I’m telling him everything.
“Athletes get tested for powers,” I say. For the thousandth time.
“They do. Only Arielle didn’t administer his test, did she? He’s the only person on your team that she can’t vouch for.”
“How did you learn that?” I sit up. That’s new information. Why is D.S. going through this with me if he already knows everything?
It still bothers me that Aaron and Dark Static arrived in Capital City at the same time. Both arrivals were so unlikely that I can’t dismiss them as unrelated. A few possibilities stick out:
1. Aaron and D.S. are on opposite sides of a conspiracy.
2. Aaron and D.S. are involved in overlapping conspiracies.
3. Aaron and Dark Static are totally unrelated, and this is a huge waste of time.
4. Aaron is Dark Static and would rather play games with me until I figure it out than tell me the truth.
As much as I wish Dark Static were Damian… I take in his Super costume. Its shade of black is even darker than Aaron’s hair. Its shadows blur his edges, as if he could fade away in a second. His shoulders are broad from the armor.
“What?” he asks as I size him up.
“Nothing,” I lie. “Don’t worry about it.” I can’t tell D.S. I was wondering about his secret identity. That would be like telling a dangerous vigilante you want to blackmail him.
“If I were Aaron,” D.S. says, figuring me out anyway, “there’s no chance in hell I’d tell you.”
“If you were Aaron,” I reply in the same mocking tone he gave me, “I’d wonder why you’re hard to talk to at school, but easy to talk to now.”
Dark Static smirks again. “You think I’m easy to talk to?”
Darn it . I look away and focus on smoothing out my blanket. I can’t believe I told him that.
The windowsill groans as he relaxes against it.
He’s claimed it as his own. D.S. holds up his index finger.
“Roberts, I wouldn’t be sure that you know my real identity.
I can’t say if you’ve ever met him. Second, don’t assume that the way I am with you as Dark Static is how my real identity acts.
People change when they put on a mask. Sometimes it’s the only way they can be themselves. ”
Right. With the mask, he can be anyone he wants. With his mask, he can be anyone I want him to be.
After a long minute, Dark Static uncrosses his legs. “Think you can find anything else on Aaron?”
“Short of following him around? Probably not.” Before Dark Static can request that, I add, “unlike some people, I draw the line at physical stalking. And it was hopeless to try anything at the pool today. This mission has been doomed from the start.”
Maybe I research Golden Ace too often and maybe I know more than I should about Damian, but real experience tailing someone is a line I don’t want on my resume.
“Alright then, Roberts. If you’re sure that’s it, I did you a favor, and you did me one. We’re square. Thank you for your service.”
“Really?” I hadn’t definitively proven whether Aaron has powers, only that it’s more likely that he doesn’t.
“You think I’m letting you off too easy? I knew it.” He grins at me. “You’re going to miss this.”
“Yeah, I’m so going to miss having a Supervillain stalker.”
A loud buzzing comes from my nightstand, and his air of amusement dissipates. I lift my phone and see an alert from the Capital Chronicle : Golden Ace Exposes Murder of Capital City Journalist.
Crap . That is not what I’d asked Molly to do.
My dad taps on the door. “Madeline? We need to talk.”
When I look up, curtains blow across the open window. The only sign Dark Static had ever been here.
~
My dad rests on the absolute edge of my bed, like he’s afraid of popping a bubble between us. He’s average height, strong from repairing cars. His white skin looks pasty in my bedroom’s lightning, with red blotches underneath. I’ve seen my dad lose it before, and this isn’t that. But it’s close.
“I’ve only seen the headline,” I start. “How bad is it?”
“You should read the rest.”
I click on the article from my news alert.
I’d asked Molly if she could release what Golden Ace had found about the accident: the evidence that had been deemed “unimportant,” and the sketchiness of there being a missing autopsy.
I thought that information going public would pressure someone, anyone, to dig into it.
As I skim the article, it’s clear that someone has.
Golden Ace Exposes Murder of Capital City Journalist
By Chronicle Staff
There’s been a cover-up in Capital City. Police officers have reopened what they thought to be a car accident but is now being investigated as murder in the first degree.
For over three years, officials maintained that the Capital Chronicle’s former Co-Editors-In-Chief Meredith Roberts, Elaine Levine, and Jonathan Levine, died from smoke inhalation after their car crashed into a guardrail on Capital Cliffs.
Newly surfaced evidence tells a different story.
The crash’s autopsy report, conducted by the city’s coroner, confirms that the Levines died from smoke inhalation, consistent with the fire that consumed the vehicle after it crashed. Roberts, however, had no smoke in her lungs, indicating her death took place before the car caught fire.
More disturbingly, the report documents blunt force trauma to the back of Roberts’ head, including a fracture and subdural hemorrhaging.
Upon review for this article, experts concluded that Roberts’ injuries were inconsistent with the crash itself, noting that the pattern and location suggest she was struck prior to the accident and likely dead before the crash.
“This was not caused by an airbag or headrest,” said forensic analyst Dr. Sandra O’Hare. “This was an intentional blow.”
The report was originally submitted to Police Chief Taylor Kitteridge, who denies ever receiving it. An internal investigation is underway. In light of the autopsy findings, police have officially classified Roberts’ case as first-degree homicide.
The rest of the article describes our families and how Phil and Arielle had declined to comment. Dad hands me a tissue and I realize my face is wet, fat tears stinging my cheeks.
My mom was already dead, so I didn’t think the “accident” could get much worse. I didn’t know an answer could feel so treacherous.
“Mom was killed?” I finally say. “Who did this?”
But I know: It has to be Mr. and Mrs. Levine.
It has to be.
She died before the crash; Fox’s parents hadn’t.
“This won’t bring her back, Madeline. Nothing’s different.”
“Everything is different. Someone killed her?” Did he not get that? I wipe my face, and the balled tissue feels too warm in my hand. “We need to talk to Arielle.”
He shifts from his spot on the bed. “We can’t.”
What?
“Arielle needs to come to us,” he explains. “Arielle and Mom had a horrible fight that night. They never got to make up, and Arielle needed time to sit with that, and now she’ll need time to sit with this.”
What? He’s only telling me this now? After years of asking him what Arielle’s problem is? “What kind of fight?”
He pauses. “I shouldn’t be the one to tell you.”
My lungs burn, like I’ve inhaled sparks. “Bad enough to be a motive? Was it about Phil?”
Be careful of people who don’t seem to have enemies, Mom had told us, implying that she didn’t trust Phil. The mayor could have easily covered up an autopsy, but why would he?
“Of course not, sweetheart. Of course not.”
“Why would someone cover this up?” I demand.
My dad sits so still. “It will be okay,” he says.
People wonder what happens after you die.
There are funeral arrangements, paperwork that can last years, and loneliness that lasts even longer. If you’re lucky.
If you’re unlucky, the person you married will sit with your youngest child and say the saddest it will be okay you’ve ever heard.
My dad stands, his forehead creased, and treads gingerly across my carpet. It’s as if he wants to comfort me, but thinks space and silence are the answer.
“I have a long day tomorrow. If you don’t want to go to school, I’ll call out for you.” He taps the door on the way out.
I’m sure Kristen has texted. Maybe Molly. Maybe even Fox.
Dark Static has the excellent sense to not come back that night.