5
“You know the brothers well,” Detective Wilson prods, resting an elbow on the desk. “We’re hoping you can tell us which one this is.”
“I—” I blink, as if it will erase whatever I just saw on the footage.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. The brothers’ features are so distinct, and when they were little, they had different body types.
But sometime after puberty, they all ended up with a similar lean, muscled build.
That’s why they all make decent football players, despite the fact that only Adam has a deep love for the game.
Bram is the tallest by a couple of inches, Adam slightly more broad-shouldered.
But while these differences may be clear when the boys stand next to one another, I have no idea here.
“The teachers took attendance at the drill,” I say, like the most helpful little witness to have ever sat in this chair.
“Yes, we’ve spoken with their teachers.” Wilson offers a condescending smile. Obviously, the detectives already thought of that.
“Did they tell you if one of the brothers was missing?” I press anyway.
“I’m afraid that’s confidential at this point,” Wilson says.
I can’t read her expression. Either she knows which brother is in the footage—the one who was unaccounted for—and she’s trying to use me for corroboration, or something else is going on.
Maybe this footage was recorded after roll was taken.
Or maybe more than one brother went missing during attendance.
“But,” Wilson adds, “we did hear from a couple of students that the person in the security camera footage might be Bram. Apparently, he was the first student on the scene where Kennedy was found.”
“The first on the scene?” Bram’s words ricochet back to me: I was slow getting back after the drill.
I try to swallow despite my arid throat. Then it hits me. “Bram wasn’t wearing his sweatshirt in the afternoon,” I practically bark. “I saw him, when he brought back the nurse.”
The figure in the surveillance footage couldn’t have been Bram. My body heaves with relief. Whoever told the cops they saw Bram with Kennedy was lying.
I’m not sure what I was expecting. Maybe I thought the detectives would nod and cross Bram’s name off their notepad with a dramatic flick of the wrist. Instead, they exchange another look, this one even more smug and victorious than the last.
My stomach sinks. I’m an idiot. Just because Bram didn’t have his hoodie on after Kennedy’s body was found doesn’t mean he wasn’t the boy in the footage.
I haven’t vindicated him; I’ve merely given the cops a concrete piece of evidence to search for.
They could track down that sweatshirt, test it for Kennedy’s blood, and have themselves a smoking gun.
Or worse, maybe they already found a blood-covered sweatshirt out in those woods. They could be trying to establish which brother is missing a hoodie.
After a few more questions, which I answer in a fuzzy haze of shame, the detectives let me go, with instructions to call them if I think of anything helpful.
“Like I said before”—Wilson leans in close, even though Chase is the only other person in the room—“everything is confidential, so you can’t tell anyone this.
But all three Abbott brothers were missing from class when this footage was recorded.
And the brothers aren’t talking about where they were.
They lawyered up immediately.” She twists her lips.
“I find that a little suspicious, don’t you? ”
I force a headshake. “It’s only because people in this town say things about—”
“Oh,” she cuts in, “and, again, just between us, there’s already more evidence stacked against them.” She tips her head like she’s offering sympathy, only I know she’s gloating.
I leave the office, my mind plagued with questions. Which Abbott brother would be talking to Kennedy Russo? And if it was Bram, like someone told the cops, should I warn him about his sweatshirt? Or should I let things play out?
And then the most crucial question of all: Could Bram have actually done this?
There’s only one answer blaring through my head as I exit the school. No. Absolutely not.
But if he didn’t do it, does it mean Adam or Henry did?
Dad offered to come back and pick me up after my interview, but I decide not to call him. I could use the lengthy walk home to clear my head.
Once I’m off the main street, where the school, the library, and the post office reside, I turn onto the road that snakes through the crop fields and country homes.
It’s lined with maple trees, their leaves the bright oranges and reds of fall.
A white picket fence runs on either side, wild sunflowers woven through the slats.
Little finches perch atop it until I come along, causing them to flutter off.
I pass the white steepled church off to my left and continue on to where the trees grow thicker.
I shake off the detectives’ implications about Bram, attempting to consider his brothers instead. Only I can’t entertain the thought of Henry having anything to do with yesterday’s events either. Even allowing it to cross my mind feels like a betrayal.
But Adam? He’s changed so much since his accident. He’s not the carefree boy or the up-for-anything friend I used to know. The real trouble I’m having is connecting the dots. Adam didn’t talk to Kennedy Russo, and yesterday, he really didn’t seem up for talking to anyone.
And then he wasn’t in class. The thought sends a slight shiver through me. I assumed he’d gone to the nurse’s office. This should still be the logical conclusion, considering he didn’t head home. I saw him with Henry by the Mustang after school.
According to the detectives, though, Adam didn’t give the nurse’s office as his alibi—an alibi which would’ve easily been corroborated. Instead, Adam refused to talk about where he’d been during that time.
At the sound of an engine, I press closer to the fence, burying my feet in the weeds. A cloud of dust rises, and as it settles, a truck slows beside me. Henry leans over to call my name through the window.
I’m slightly taken aback seeing him in the driver’s seat of his vintage Ford truck instead of the passenger side of the Mustang. His brothers drive him everywhere, so it’s easy to forget he has his own mode of transportation.
“What are you doing?” he asks. His brown hair is combed for once, and he’s wearing a light blue polo.
I point up the road. “Going home.”
“Want to get lunch in town instead?”
“Town?” I bite my lower lip, my stomach starting to ache. He obviously doesn’t know what everyone at school is saying—what the cops are saying about him and his brothers. “Maybe we should stick to your place.”
His expression darkens as he glances down at the center console. “You were at the school. It’s not true, what everyone’s saying.”
“I know that, Henry.” I step closer to the truck, kicking up dirt. “I just think it might be best to lie low for a while until—”
“I’m not doing that again,” he snaps, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.
He takes a deep breath, but his knuckles turn white over the steering wheel.
“Look, Adam may be fine with hiding away, but I want to finish out the school year like everyone else. No more homeschooling. No more acting like everyone is right about us.”
“Okay,” I say softly, walking around to the passenger door and reaching for the handle. I heft myself inside the cab and strap on my seat belt. “Where were you just now?” I ask as he hits the gas.
Pulling into a dirt driveway, Henry turns the truck around. “I was with my dad and my brothers in Central Springs. Seeing the family lawyer, Mr. Swanson.”
“Oh.” I guess the detectives weren’t lying about that.
“Bram had his interview with the cops this morning, and he could tell right away it was a witch hunt. He refused to say another word without a lawyer.”
“That’s wise,” I say. “They went after you guys pretty hard during my interview.”
“Really?” Henry asks, looking like a scared boy with his sea-green eyes wide. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” he mutters, focusing on the road again. “Not with everyone at this school convinced we had something to do with Mariana’s death last year. And now this.”
“And”—I lick my lips, almost too nervous to get the words out—“with the security camera footage of Kennedy and…you know.”
He’s silent for a long stretch before he finally shakes his head. “That’s not what it looks like.”
“What is it then, Henry? If you can explain it away, why don’t you?”
“I can’t,” he mutters. “It’s not up to me.”
So my gut was right. It’s not Henry on the footage. But he is covering for one of his brothers. “Look, I know you want to stay loyal to Bram and Adam, but this is your life.”
“It’s not like that,” he says, a quiver running through his voice.
“Do you think they’ll arrest you?”
Another headshake. “Our lawyer says they won’t arrest anyone until they figure out who’s on the video. And even then, he’s ready to fight tooth and nail. The footage isn’t clear, and without our faces, it’s impossible to prove it’s even one of us.”
“Oh,” I say, settling back in my seat. “That’s good. I just don’t understand why you can’t tell me what you were really doing.”
“Because I can’t,” Henry says, eyes still on the road. “Please, Hayden. Can you just trust me?”
Can I trust him? I always have in the past. But I really don’t like this secrecy.
It’s not the first time the brothers have kept something from me over the years.
Not the only time they’ve made me feel like an outsider.
They’re triplets, close even before birth; naturally, they have secrets.
When we were in second grade, they came up with a language all their own, and they refused to teach me how to speak it.
I once got so frustrated, I stormed out of the mansion and down the road.
Bram eventually chased me down and taught me how to say one word.
It wasn’t much, but he swore I could use it to get under Adam’s skin the next time he did something annoying.
And of course, it worked, and I felt like a part of the group.
Is this the same? Am I simply jealous they won’t include me?
“Hayden,” Henry says, his voice rough as he lifts a hand off the steering wheel to adjust his glasses, “I think the only way to prove that none of us were involved in Kennedy’s murder is to prove that someone else was.
And with Adam’s current state of mind, and Bram essentially locked up, I need you.
” He turns to meet my gaze, his eyes pleading. “Will you help me figure this out?”
I don’t answer at first, even though the words tug at my heart. “Why is Bram locked up?” I finally ask, avoiding his question.
“Not literally,” Henry says. “But our parents won’t let him out of the house because of what everyone’s saying about him. That he was in the woods with Kennedy when she died.”
“Poor Bram.” Yesterday, he seemed as desperate as Henry not to be shut away again.
“You and I know he didn’t do this,” Henry says. “But the cops won’t look anywhere else, not when they have Bram, the guy whose girlfriend died in a freak car explosion last year. Not when he happened to be the one to find Kennedy’s body.”
Henry’s right about that. The obvious answer is right in front of the detectives. They won’t go above and beyond to try and disprove it. “What does your dad—or your lawyer, for that matter—think about you going out in public?”
We’ve reached the downtown strip, and Henry pulls into a parking spot in front of the town diner, The Silver Spoon. “I don’t care what they think,” he grumbles as the door to the diner flings open.
Dan Wheeler, Sage’s father, ducks out, a plastic takeout bag in hand. He squints at us through the windshield, then scowls. Lifting his chin, he strides off down the street to his car.
Indignation burns like a hot coal in my chest. I want to leap out of the car and shout at that man that Henry Abbott didn’t do anything to his niece, Mariana. And he had nothing to do with what happened to Kennedy.
Instead, I turn to Henry. “Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll help you figure out who really killed Kennedy.”
And for the look he offers in return, eyes glimmering with appreciation, and the way he throws his arm around me, burying his face in my hair—I would agree one thousand times over.