“God, I’ve ruined your whole life. I’m sorry, Theo. I’ll just go. You can burn my clothes. I’ll wash these and mail them back to you.”
“You haven’t ruined my life. Cart’s problems are Cart’s. I guess I knew—I guess I knew I was pushing him farther than he was comfortable. I knew the party was a bad idea, but I thought I could show him that we could take small steps. Anyway, it is what it is. If he still wants me, well, I’ll help him through it. And if he doesn’t, well, I’ll figure that out too.”
“He’s an idiot if he doesn’t want you.”
“It’s nice to know somebody thinks so. Right now, I’m guessing Cart wishes he’d never met me. Anyway, that’s enough of that. Let’s go get something to eat. You’ll feel better.”
Auggie shook his head. “I’ll go home. I think I need to go home. I’ll crawl into my room and never see a human being again. And—oh my God.” He groaned. “My car.”
“Did you crash it into City Hall?”
“No, but I flipped it, and it’s in a field somewhere.”
“I know, Auggie. I was the one getting your cow-shit-covered clothes off of you. I was making a joke.”
“Oh.”
“A bad one. There’s nothing you need to do about it right now. Let’s see if you still remember how to mix Krusteaz.”
So they went to the kitchen, and Auggie got down the blue bag of pancake mix, and Theo was surprised to learn that he had a carton of eggs in the fridge. The kitchen wasn’t really big enough for both of them to work at the same time, but they did it anyway, with a few excuse me’s, but mostly working without talking: Theo putting his hand between Auggie’s shoulder blades to keep him from stepping back at the wrong moment, Auggie accidentally elbowing him in the ribs when Theo stretched to toss eggshells in the trash.
They ate. It turned out that Auggie did still remember how to mix Krusteaz, and Theo still couldn’t figure out why the pancakes tasted so much better when Auggie made them. Then they went back to the couch. Theo worked on his thesis; Auggie did a lot of tapping and swiping, which Theo assumed meant he was busy handling his online platforms. Then Auggie made a sad noise.
When Theo glanced over, Auggie said, “There’s another demonstration for Deja tonight. Their likes and comments are way down; I think they’re losing momentum, which is a horrible thing to say because momentum shouldn’t matter in something important like this.”
“People have short memories,” Theo said. “And the world has new tragedies every day.”
Auggie sat up, studying his phone. A video was playing on loop, and by the third time, Theo gave it his full attention: footage recorded by a bystander of the shooting that had taken Deja Corey’s life. Deja was already on the ground. The officer who had murdered her was shouting something unintelligible.
“What is that?” Auggie murmured to himself.
“Why are you watching that?”
“Because I don’t understand it. He shot this girl for no reason.”
“Not quite. For a bad reason. He thought she was carrying a weapon.”
“But what was it? Something that looked like a gun? This is the best angle, but I can’t figure out what it is.”
“It was a piece of paper,” Theo said absently, already turning back to his computer.
“What?”
“Paper. She was carrying a letter or something. The officer claimed he thought it was a knife.”
“How can you tell? It’s just a shape.”
“It was in some of the in-depth reporting that came out the first day or two after the shooting. You probably weren’t even back in Wahredua by then.”
And then Theo froze, his hands locked on the keyboard. Fragmented images came together: Genesis on the massage table in a dark room, Nia and Deja arguing, the dark BMW parked at Wayne and Cal’s apartment, Wayne at a basketball expo, the cash hidden under Orlando’s bed. Friar John’s undelivered message.
“Holy shit,” Theo said. “I know who killed Cal.”
23
First, they went to Genesis Evans’s home. It was the middle of the day, and the house looked empty. They searched the yard and the tree line at the edge of the property. Then they searched around the outside of the house. Auggie found the rifle; it was covered by a tarp, buried under pale, round stones that lined one side of the house. A corner of the tarp was sticking out.
“Sloppy,” Auggie said.
“It’s a Savage 110,” Theo said. “That’s got to be the gun.” Looking up at the house, he asked, “Whose bedroom window do you think that is?”
“Genesis or Wise.”
“Wise,” Theo said. “No question.”
They took pictures and covered the gun up again.
Auggie made a burner email account, sent a message, and then had to wait almost a week. He heard nothing from Dylan. Once, looking out from his bedroom window on the third floor of the Sigma Sigma house, he thought he saw him on the sidewalk: a guy with his nose taped, one arm in a sling. Auggie pulled up Theo’s contact information and sat there, finger hovering over the call icon, watching the guy who might be Dylan talk to a couple of other bros. Then maybe-Dylan left, and when Auggie stopped shaking, he had to take a shower to get rid of the smell of flop sweat.
When Orlando slipped up, though, Auggie was ready.
From where he sat on his bed, studying for finals, Auggie had a perfect view out into the hallway. The noise wasn’t ideal—Chad and Tanner, down the hall, had resurrected an original Xbox from somewhere and were playing (ironically, Auggie thought) Guitar Hero at full volume. But when Orlando emerged from his room in a black t-shirt, black cargo pants, and black sneakers, with a black backpack over his shoulders, Auggie spotted him right away. Everybody spotted him, Auggie was pretty sure. The only thing Orlando was missing was the Pink Panther music and a knit cap.
he’s doing it, Auggie texted Theo.
They’d agreed to park the Malibu at the Sigma Sigma house. The Civic had been totaled in the wreck, and once Fer had finished screaming, he had told Auggie that he had lost car privileges. It didn’t mean much, since Auggie didn’t have a car anymore, but it still stung.
It was late, and although the days were getting longer, the sun had slid below the horizon by the time Auggie picked up Theo. They raced back across town, and Auggie released his breath slowly when he saw Orlando’s BMW still parked in the lot of Wayne’s apartment building; Wayne’s car was gone. Sodium lights buzzed overhead. Moths swooped and spun, battering themselves against the glass.
“Texting him now,” Auggie said.
He sent a message to Wayne: at your apartment.
Auggie’s phone buzzed again almost immediately, but Auggie pocketed it. The response, whatever it was, was meaningless at this point. He nodded, and he and Theo got out of the car.
A faint hint of exhaust lingered in the air. Auggie’s second step flattened a Whopper wrapper next to the curb. In the apartment building, a window was open—the day had been perfect—and the theme song for a TV show played. Auggie hummed along until he saw Theo staring at him.