“You mean you weren’t seething with jealousy over her and Ethan?” He makes a crude motion, tongue pushing against his cheek, to drive home the insinuation.
“Bullshit,” I snap. “They didn’t hook up. And even if they did, I’m not psycho.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Cataldo sure has questioned you a lot. You meddled in the investigation. Withheld evidence. You found the body, too. And the phone.”
“You planted it in my room. And her sweater. The earring in Tipton’s office. Why?”
“Needed to throw off the timeline, make it look like she went back to your room. You finding the phone was absolutely perfect. Emma’s friend, her beloved roommate, would totally hide her phone with evidence that Emma wasn’t such a good girl. And it proved the whole thing with Tipton. Either one of you makes a good patsy. Works for me.”
“Shut up!” I sound childish and shrill, but I don’t care. Tyler refreshes his grip on the gun. Judders his finger over the trigger. But at least it gives me some time to think. I’ll only have a small window when Avery comes back, to convince her he’s lying. Because for all of Tyler’s bravado, I’m not stupid. His plan works best if I’m dead.
At last, the crunching leaves beneath boots signals Avery’s return.
“I called the police. They’ll be here soon. And I found this.” She holds up a line of bungee cord with her phone. Avery drops them both to the ground, partway between Tyler and me. Something in her gait seems off, her right arm shunted awkwardly behind her back.
Avery squares off in front of me, her warrior paint rendering her doubly menacing in the shadows. Then her expression turns feral. She bares her teeth, and with a belabored grunt, she swings the cast-iron skillet in her right hand directly at my face.
She misses, swinging full round in a practiced arc, until the iron pan connects with a sickening squelch with Tyler’s hand. The gun goes flying into the dark.
“You hit me with a fucking frying pan! What the fuck!”
“Get the gun, Olivia,” Avery directs, now wielding the heavy cooking tool with both hands. She wags it in Tyler’s direction. He’s clutching his hand to his chest, wailing like a big baby. I scramble to the ground, trying to guess where the gun might have gone. My hands shake as I run them over brush and leaves, searching.
“I could have hit you in the head,” Avery addresses her stepbrother. “You’re welcome. And it’s a cast-iron skillet.”
“Who picks a cast-iron skillet as a weapon?!”
Avery shrugs. “I didn’t want to bring a knife to a gunfight. My mom’s going to be pissed, by the way. You know her guns are off-limits. But, then again, you’re a goddamn murderer!” Her scream cracks in the night air. I feel something cold, metal, brush my fingers. Yes! I pick up the gun, stumbling to my feet as I try to aim it with both hands at Tyler. Avery continues to grandstand. I think she’s buying time, too, until the police arrive.
“I can’t believe you tried to pin this on Olivia, like I don’t even know you. I’ve got your number, Tyler St. Clair, and I want you out of my house.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Tyler sniffs. He flexes his hand carefully, testing it. “Maybe you did it together. Ivies conspiring.”
“Now you just sound stupid,” Avery drawls. I think she may be having too much fun with this. I’m still razor focused on the danger. If Tyler’s hand is okay, he can overpower us. Without it, even. He’s got several inches on me, and he’s strong. He literally strangled the life out of Emma.
Wait.
“You motherfucker,” I say. “You wrote how you killed her on your suspects list.” Then I scoff. “No, it was your frame-up list. Looking for the best fall guy. You’re sick.”
“I’ve been trying to tell you that,” Avery whines. “You are very bad at taking hints.”
I round on her, but I’m careful to train the gun on Tyler, keeping him on the edge of my eyeline. “Did you know it was him? This whole time?”
Avery shifts awkwardly, won’t quite look at me. “I didn’t know. Suspected. But then they arrested Tipton, and I just wanted it to be over. You did, too, Liv.”
“Hey, Aves?” Tyler calls over, casual as can be. “You might want to rethink your friend here. She told the cops about Emma’s SAT scam and fucked you over good. Emma may have switched the test to me, but your name is on the accounting document. They’ll void your scores, and you won’t get in anywhere. It’d be easier if we killed her. Say she doctored that evidence to make you look guilty.”
Avery’s whole body goes stiff. Fuck. She narrows her eyes at me, takes a step back. Away.
“Liv, please tell me you didn’t.”
So this is my reckoning. Doing the right thing was wrong. I should have stayed a liar.
I don’t even have to answer. She sees it on my face, and I see her eyes flash with panic. Then she turns to Tyler.
“How—how would that work?”
The wind seems to drop, and my entire body washes cold. I am going to die.
“I’ll say it was Olivia all along, not Emma. Emma found out and decided to turn Olivia in. Olivia killed her and added you and Margot to the test list to fuck you over. Emma told me all about it, officers! They’ll believe me. Then we say we shot her in self-defense, go our separate ways. You’ll only have to see me at holidays, at least until the divorce. Which is inevitable. Your mom’s a real bitch.”
I expect Avery to snap back. Contradict him. Call him a psycho. But she doesn’t. She chews on her bottom lip thoughtfully.
“Avery, what the fuck!”
“Why did you tell them about the SATs? I’ll be totally screwed.” Her tone walks the line between plaintive and pissed.
“I didn’t mean to,” I say feebly. “But killing me for it? Come on.” I tighten my shaking hands on the gun. “Think it through. They won’t believe it. My SAT scores were shitty. Who would pay me to take the test for them?”
That seems to get to Avery. “How low are we talking?”
“Lower than Tyler’s, and Emma replaced him because he couldn’t cut it.” I hesitate to share, even though I’ve already proven I can get into Harvard with my score. “Fourteen twenty,” I whisper, shame warming my core briefly. “Super score. Three tries.”
Avery’s eyes go wide. She knows I’m in the lowest quartile for Harvard. Yes! Now they can’t pin the SAT scheme on me, can’t use that excuse to murder me, do a frame-up.