Chapter 11
At least a dozen kids in Claire’s class and their parents show up at our house for homecoming pictures. My friends hang out
outside while I make small talk with the adults asking me about school and what I’ll do when I graduate. It’s an overwhelming
amount of conversation for someone who is on the verge of a breakdown. I catch a few whispers here and there from some of
the parents who saw the news about the fire.
“Did you see that new restaurant in North Winwick caught on fire last night?” one woman says.
“Yes! And I heard the owner was inside when it happened!” another woman says with her hand over her heart.
“I could see the smoke from my house!” one man says.
I can’t hear another word about it, and I meet my friends outside. We sit in near silence watching a movie on the back patio
but I’m staring at my car, afraid that if I look away the gas container might drive itself to the police station.
Eventually we call it a night; the boys go back to the basement while Dani and Annica share Claire’s bed because she’s sleeping at a friend’s house after the dance.
I lie there in the dark for at least an hour before getting up and quietly sneaking outside.
The only rational thing I can think of is to get rid of this gas container; whether it was the one to start the fire or just some sick joke, I want it gone.
I take it to the edge of the woods behind my house, my feet crunching on the leaves in the yard with each step. I’m going
to have to walk into the woods at least a few feet to toss this far enough but—
“What are you doing with that?” Asher’s voice scares the shit out of me.
“Jesus Christ, Asher,” I hiss. “What are you doing out here?”
“I was still out on the patio, couldn’t sleep. Why are you walking into the woods with a container of gasoline? You don’t
seem like the kind of girl who starts forest fires for attention, Sawyer.” Even in the dark I can sense the smug smirk on
his face.
“It’s empty. I’m just tossing it out. Trying to make room in my trunk.” It’s the best I can come up with when someone catches
me trying to get rid of evidence in the middle of the night.
“So throw it away in the garbage can?” In the low light of the garage lamp I see him motion to the large trash bin that’s
outside the garage door. But I’ve gotten three hours of sleep since yesterday and I’m irritable.
“Will you just go inside and leave me alone?”
He’s quiet for a minute, and I hear the crunch of the leaves under his feet as he walks toward me. “I do find it odd that
here you are, trying to toss an empty gas container in the woods, the day after a fire burned down your ex-boyfriend’s restaurant.”
I open my mouth, then close it. The container shakes violently in my hands. I need to explain myself, but what do I even say? Where do I start? “I’m going to tell you something, Asher, and you better promise me on your life that you will not repeat it.”
Out of pure desperation I fill him in on my current predicament, down to every last detail. The journal entries, the conversation
with Grange, how it very much feels like I’m being set up for a murder and I can’t hide the panic and fear in my voice when
I finally say it all aloud. It feels good to get it off my chest, but I can’t help but wonder if he’s the wrong person to
tell.
“And how do you know I won’t turn around and call this Detective Grange to tell him that you tossed an empty gas can into
the woods and took the note from the crime scene?”
Wrong person, definitely the wrong person to tell. I throw the gas container at his chest so quick that he has no choice but
to catch it.
“Because now your fingerprints are on the evidence, asshole.”
I hear him huff a laugh. “Well played, Sawyer.” He holds it up. “Let’s toss out some evidence, then, shall we?” I can only
blink at his willingness to go along with this plan. We walk into the woods together to dispose of the thing when he starts
to talk again. “Now that I have another secret of yours to keep, I’m going to have to think of what I want in return.”
With each day that passes I have a stronger and stronger urge to call up Detective Grange and tell him everything.
I wonder if it would help me to get ahead of it, but then I probably shouldn’t have gotten rid of the gas container and the copy of the eulogy, both of which are buried in a shallow grave in the woods behind my house.
Asher hasn’t said a word since Sunday, when we all came back to Pembroke and went our separate ways, but I’ve been sending him long-worded ramblings multiple times a day.
I even tried calling him in the middle of the night last night when I couldn’t sleep, but he didn’t pick up.
I start to feel paranoid that he did turn me in, but when I get back to campus late Wednesday night, Asher is in my room sprawled across my bed reading a book.
“How’d you get in here?” I demand.
He sits up casually. “Adrienne let me in. Where have you been? I’ve been waiting here for two hours. Adrienne said you only
have one class on Wednesdays in the afternoon.”
“Where was I? Where were you? I’ve been freaking out, texting and calling you for three days! I tell you that I think I’m
being set up for murder and then you ghost me?”
He stands from my bed, putting the book on my nightstand and adjusting his hoodie. “You need to calm down. I’ve been doing
research.”
“Research? Research on what?” I feel like some crazy girlfriend needing to know exactly why he hasn’t been replying to me.
I almost want to ask if I can go through his phone.
“I’ve watched more Criminal Minds and serial killer documentaries in the past three days than I think some people do in a lifetime. I’ve also learned that
the only crime you’ve really committed so far is destroying evidence, which will earn you a hefty fine, but no jail time.
And that’s assuming the container was even used for the fire. All three of these deaths could truly have been accidents and
someone’s playing a cruel prank on you.”
“You’re suggesting that Ryan and Marco both died accidentally, and someone just happened to be around with my printed journal
pages to drop them off as a joke?”
Asher only crosses his arms. “You didn’t answer my question: Where were you today?”
“I didn’t answer because it’s not your business.”
“If you want my help, you’ll have to make it my business.”
“Fine. I was in North Winwick, looking around the restaurant to see if any more copies of the journal page were out there.”
His hands fall to his sides. “You went to the scene of the crime? You never go back to the scene of the crime. You know who
does? The criminal.”
“Except I’m not a criminal!” I realize I’m yelling and Adrienne is in her room so I tone it down. “Which you know, because
I told you everything.”
“I actually don’t know that. I’m just choosing to believe it.” He walks over to the wall, making an effort to struggle stepping
over all my clothes, books, and shoes, to my closet, where there used to be a shelf with books on it. In its place is a giant
corkboard with printed names and red string.
I look from the board to him. “Asher, what the fuck.”
“This is how they figure it out in the movies.” He points around the board. “We have Jonah’s, Ryan’s, and Marco’s names all
up here. I didn’t think you’d want to have to look at them every day so I didn’t print their pictures. And the thing that
ties them all together.” His hand traces over the red string attached to each name and where it leads. “You.” He printed my
mug shot and pinned it below the names. “And as we get more suspects, we add them to the board.”
“I can’t have a fucking murder suspect board in my bedroom.” I walk over to it and try to take it from the wall but it won’t
budge.
“It’s screwed into the wall,” he says.
I clench my jaw, unpinning my mug shot and crumpling it up in my hand. Underneath it is a polaroid of me that was clipped onto my string lights above my bed.
“Yeah, I thought you might do that.” He smirks. “So, how many names are in this journal exactly and whose name is next?”
“No, we aren’t playing detective. I need to just call Grange and tell him everything. I’ll point the finger at Miles and,
I don’t know, they’ll go after him instead of me.”
“What solid proof do you have that Miles is behind it all? Because from where I’m standing, the only suspect in Ryan’s and
Marco’s murders is you. Jonah was hit by a semitruck that flipped over the median, so we know that one was an accident.” I
don’t bother asking how he knows the details of Jonah’s death, as I’m sure it was part of his research. I think about my last
conversation with Grange, when he brought up last year’s events. He already doesn’t trust me. If I go to him now and tell
him about Miles, he’ll wonder why I didn’t mention him sooner.
“Well . . . I don’t have proof, but I can try to get some.” All I know is that Miles knows that my journal exists, and he
has a reason to want revenge. But neither of those things would count as evidence.
“Back to my questions,” he says. “Answer them.”
I sit on the edge of my bed. “There are seven eulogies in the journal.”
“So what’s the next name?” he asks again.
I sigh and give in to this ridiculous detective charade.
“Bryce Peterson,” I say.
“Peterson?” Asher scoffs and pauses before turning back to me. “I think the world may be better off if we just let the professor get him. Who’s after him?”
“Asher! This is fucking serious. What is wrong with you? People are dying. Wesley’s name is in that journal—is that what you want? For Wes to die?” It hits me hard when I say it. Wesley’s name is
in the journal. I put my head in my hands. “Why is this happening to me?” I groan.
Asher continues, “Okay, then I guess we’re about to be seeing a lot more of Bryce Peterson. I’m friends with some of his friends
so we’ll use that connection to keep an eye on him and hopefully catch the professor. Which is kind of a sick serial killer
name if you think about it. The Professor.”
I only stare at him. “This literally can’t be my life. It just can’t be.”
“And in the meantime, we are going back to my original terms of the deal. You are going to get me that resort by any means
necessary.”
My mouth gapes open. “How can you even think about yourself in a time like this?”
“I’m thinking about my future, which is what you should be doing. Dani and Annica said you haven’t gone to class all week.
Don’t fall apart on me now, Sawyer. I need Wes to want you. He needs to want you enough to stay here with you and leave Colorado
to me.”
I shake my head. “Fine, whatever.” Because what is the alternative? I say no and he rats me out? His help has to be better
than no help at all . . . right?
“I knew you’d see things my way,” Asher says with a smile that makes me grit my teeth. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a
date.”
“Who in their right mind would be dumb enough to date you?” I grumble.
“No one as dumb as the people who dated you.”
He has me there.
Asher leaves me alone in my bedroom, where I let out a long sigh, looking at the suspect board. Was that really Miles’s Jeep
in North Winwick last weekend? A twisted part of me hopes it was, because if not, then who else could have done this?
My photo on the board stares back at me.
In both instances I’ve managed to be drunk enough to black out and not remember the night. Is it possible that I would do
something like that? No, no, I can’t even think like that. I can’t go down that road. I push that thought deep, deep down
as I grab a marker and paper and write “Miles Holland” in big letters, adding it to the board. Then I look over at my goals
taped on my mirror. You’re not going to get into trouble.
I cross out that line with the marker.