“Yeah, but …” I trail off as the waitress returns, placing cocktail napkins and tall glasses of Coke with ice in front of us. My phone exploded during lunch once word got out that Declan was in Echo Ridge. And he knows that. He knows exactly the kind of reaction this would get.
Declan leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. They’re almost twice the size of mine. He works construction jobs when he’s not taking classes, and it keeps him in better shape than football did in high school. He lowers his voice, even though the only other people in Bukowski’s are two old guys wearing baseball caps at the end of the bar. “I’m sick of being treated like a criminal, Mal. I didn’t do anything. Remember?” He rubs a hand over his face. “Or do you not believe that anymore? Did you ever?”
“Of course I did. Do.” I stab at the ice in my drink with my straw. “But why now? First Daisy’s back and now you. What’s going on?”
The ghost of a frown flits across Declan’s face when I mention Daisy, so quick I almost miss it. “I’m not back, Mal. I still live in New Hampshire. I’m here to see someone, that’s all.”
“Who? Daisy?”
Declan heaves an exasperated sigh. “Why are you so hung up on Daisy? Do you still have a thing for her?”
“No. I’m just trying to figure this out. I saw you last week, and you never said you were coming.” Declan shrugs and takes a sip of Coke, avoiding my eyes. “And it’s kind of shitty timing, you know. With all the crap going on around town.”
“What does that have to do with me?” He breaks into a scowl when I don’t respond right away. “Wait. Are you kidding me? People think I had something to do with that? What’s next? Am I responsible for global warming now, too? Fucking hell, Mal.” One of the old guys at the bar looks over his shoulder, and Declan slumps back against the chair, glowering. “For the record. Just so we’re clear. I didn’t come here to write creepy-ass slogans on signs and walls or whatever.”
“Graves,” I correct.
“Whatever,” Declan grits out, low and dangerous.
I believe him. There’s no possible universe in which my hotheaded, testosterone-fueled brother dresses a trio of dolls up like homecoming queens and ties them to a mausoleum. It’s easier to imagine him placing his hands around Lacey’s throat and squeezing the life out of her.
Jesus. My hand shakes as I pick up my glass, rattling the ice in it. I can’t believe I just thought that. I take a sip and swallow hard. “Then why did you come? And how long are you staying?”
Declan drains his Coke and signals for the waitress. “Jack and Coke this time,” he says when she arrives.
Her lips thin as she glances between us. “ID first.”
Declan reaches for his wallet, then hesitates. “You know what? Forget it. Just another Coke.” She shrugs and walks away. Declan shakes his head like he’s disgusted with himself. “See what I did there? Decided not to get a drink, even though I wanted one, because I don’t feel like showing my name to some woman I don’t even know. That’s my fucking life.”
“Even in New Hampshire?” I ask. One of the old guys at the bar keeps glancing our way. I can’t tell whether it’s because I’m so obviously underage or … because.
“Everywhere,” Declan says. He goes silent again as the waitress brings a Coke, then raises the glass to me in a toast. “You know, you and Mom have a good thing going here, Mal. Peter likes to pretend I don’t exist, but he’s solid with you guys. You might even get college out of the deal.”
He’s right. I might. Which makes me feel guilty, so I say, “Peter says he’s talking to Mr. Coates about a job for you.” Since Ben Coates was the mayor of Echo Ridge when Lacey died, he got interviewed a few times about what he thought might have happened. A tragic, random act of violence, he always said. Some depraved individual passing through.
Declan laughs darkly. “I guarantee you that’s bullshit.”
“No, they got together Labor Day weekend, and—”
“I’m sure they did. And they might even have mentioned me. Probably along the lines of how it’d be career suicide to hire me. It is what it is, Mal, and I won’t be a pain in Peter’s ass about it. I’m not trying to drive a wedge between him and Mom. Or you. I’ll stay out of your way.”
“I don’t want you to stay out of my way. I just want to know why you’re here.”
Declan doesn’t answer right away. When he does, he sounds less angry and more tired. “You know what happened with me and Lacey, before she died? We outgrew each other. But we didn’t know that, because we were a couple of dumb kids who’d been together forever and thought we were supposed to stay that way. If we were regular people, we would’ve eventually figured out how to break up and that would have been that. We’d have moved on. Wound up with someone else.” His voice dips lower. “That’s how things should’ve ended.”
The guy at the bar who’s been staring at us gets up and starts moving our way. When he’s crossed half the room I realize he’s not as old as I thought he was: early fifties, maybe, with thick arms and a barrel chest. Declan doesn’t turn around, but gets up abruptly and pulls out his wallet. “I gotta go,” he says, dropping a ten on the table. “Don’t worry, all right? Everything’s fine.”
He brushes past the guy, who half turns to call after him, “Hey. You Declan Kelly?” Declan continues toward the door, and the guy raises his voice. “Hey. I’m talking to you.”
Declan grasps the doorknob and leans against the door, shouldering it open. “I’m nobody,” he says, and disappears outside.
I’m not sure what the guy’s going to do—keep coming toward me, maybe, or follow Declan outside—but he just shrugs and heads for to the bar, settling himself back onto his stool. His friend leans toward him, muttering something, and they both laugh.
It hits me, as I finish my Coke in silence, that Declan’s life is a lot shittier up close than it seems from a state away.
Half an hour later I’m dragging my ass home, because it didn’t occur to my brother before making his dramatic exit to ask if I might need a ride. I’m rounding the bend toward Lacey’s old house when I spot someone a few feet ahead of me on the road, wheeling an oversized suitcase behind her.
“Hey,” I call when I get close enough to tell who it is. “Leaving town already?”
Ellery Corcoran turns just as her suitcase wheels hit a rock on the ground, almost jerking the luggage out of her hand. She pauses and balances it carefully next to her. While she’s waiting for me to catch up, she pulls her hair back and knots it into some kind of twist, so quickly I barely see her hands move. It’s kind of mesmerizing. “The airline lost my luggage more than a week ago, and they just delivered it.” She rolls her eyes. “To our neighbors.”