“What’s good?” Holden asks.
“Not shit. Go back to your party.”
“We got rid of them,” Christian supplies, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
I nod, then lace my fingers together behind my head and blow out a breath. “It’s almost been a year.”
Holden shakes his head, staring off blankly, while Christian’s eyes are fixed on his shoes.
“A whole fucking year, and we still don’t have answers.”
“Maybe there aren’t any,” Holden says, still not looking at me. “Maybe he really just fucking fell.”
“You said he was acting cagey the day before,” I remind him. “So was Dad.” I wouldn’t know. I was too wrapped up in a pretty blonde distraction with the face of an angel to notice anything else.
Holden scratches the back of his neck. “I don’t know, man. When isn’t Dad being weird as fuck?”
I look over at my cousin. “What about you? You think I’m trippin’, too?”
“I didn’t say that,” Christian answers.
“Our family has connections. Your dad is a fucking judge, for fuck’s sake, and we were denied a police report because the investigation is ongoing, but no one’s investigating. Why is that?”
“They didn’t find shit, T,” Christian says. “That’s why.”
“Or they’re covering something up.” The question is why.
“I agree that it’s fishy as fuck,” Holden chimes in.
“And if we find out someone did it?” I ask, just to be sure we’re on the same page.
Holden looks up at me without a trace of humor in his expression. “Then we get our payback.”
“Even if it’s Grey?”
He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter who it is. But for what it’s worth, I don’t think Shayne knows anything.”
Holden’s always had a soft spot for Shayne, but I’m starting to suspect the same thing. She seemed clueless when we questioned her, and it could be an act, but my gut tells me that it isn’t.
It doesn’t change the fact that there’s a good chance her brother killed mine.
Shayne
“Hate Me” by Ellie Goulding plays from my car speakers on my drive home from Valen’s. It’s been three weeks since the barn incident. My days have consisted of nothing but school and volleyball. Besides the occasional dirty look and snide comment from Taylor, everything has been…normal. Holden still tries to talk to me every day. He even sat with Valen and me at lunch the other day after I once again declined to sit at his table, which, in turn, ended up causing even more of a scene.
Thayer, on the other hand, hasn’t made an appearance once. It’s a good thing. It’s what I wanted. There’s no way I could face him after that night in the barn, anyway. He ripped the key from my neck, then left me lying there, feeling like an idiot for letting him touch me. So why do I feel rejected, and worse than that…disappointed?
Something darts in front of my car, jerking me from my thoughts, and I slam on my brakes to avoid hitting it, squeezing my eyes shut. I peel one eye open, heart pounding, to see a man in a black hoodie, both hands braced on the hood of my car.
“Holden?” I ask, incredulous. I narrow my eyes, taking in his disheveled state and the blood coming from his hand. He’s looking behind him, as if waiting for someone to come charging after him. I push the button to roll my window down. “Holden!” I snap, finally getting his attention. When he realizes it’s me, I can see the relief set in.
“Thank fuck.” He rounds the car, coming for the passenger side door and yanks the handle. “Come on, Shayne. Let me in.”
I squint, assessing his glassy eyes and the way he sways on his feet. He’s either really drunk or really hurt. Either way, he’s fucked up.
Headlights appear in my rearview mirror, coming up way too fast. I snap into action, hitting the unlock button. Holden stumbles into my passenger seat, filling my car with the scent of alcohol, and quickly closes the door. “Go!” he shouts.
I slam on the gas, my tires screeching against the pavement. Once the car’s no longer visible in my rearview mirror, I reach behind my seat, fishing my extra shirt out of my volleyball bag. “Here.” I toss it at Holden, and he wraps it around his hand.
“Drunk or hurt?”
“Both. The former more than the latter.” He chuckles.
I shake my head. “I don’t even want to know.”
“Probably for the best,” he agrees, reclining the seat to lie back. “Wake me up when we get home.”
Home.
His house. As in Whittemore. Where Thayer lives. I haven’t stepped foot inside in nearly a year. My stomach turns at the prospect of seeing Thayer, my hands tightening around the wheel. Then again, I haven’t seen him in weeks. He’s probably at some college party, anyway. The odds of him being home on a Friday night are slim to none.
“You better not bleed on my seat,” I mutter. Technically, it’s my mom’s old car, but she drives my grandmother’s car now, so I use this one when I need to. It’s not flashy. A little white Nissan that gets me from point A to point B. But that’s all I need.
I don’t expect him to actually pass out in the short five-minute drive to his property, but when I pull up to his open gate and reach over to shake his shoulder, he mumbles something intelligible before promptly falling back asleep.
“Great.”
I follow the long, winding driveway that leads to the house, dread creeping in when I notice all the cars lining both sides. Dozens of them. Daddy Dearest must be out of town. That’s the only time the boys decide to throw a party. Not that it’s exactly a rare occasion—he’s gone more often than not, staying at his apartment in the city most nights—and he doesn’t give a shit, so long as they clean up their mess. I follow the road up to the circular driveway and around the old brick water fountain surrounded by wildflowers that sits in the center, then throw my car into park.
“We’re here,” I say, shaking his shoulder. He doesn’t budge. “Holden!” I snap. “Wake. Up.”
He finally rouses, looking over at me as if he has no idea how he got here.
“You’re home,” I say, gesturing toward the front door. He scans his surroundings, taking in the clusters of people drinking on the steps and scattered across the lawn.
“Thanks, little sister,” he slurs, reaching for the handle. He falls out of the car, landing on the pavement, and a groan follows.
Dammit. I throw my door open and hurry over to help him up. All two hundred pounds of drunk, sweaty, dead weight. I wrap one arm around his waist while his goes around my shoulders. I hold his arm in place, walking him toward the front door.
Some girl bites down on her lip when she sees us approach, giving a little wave. “Hey, Holden.”
Is she kidding? Does she not realize he’s barely conscious?
“Make yourself useful and open the door. You can try again tomorrow when he’s not comatose.”
She blinks twice before quickly opening the front door and holding it for us. “Is he okay?” she calls out after us. I don’t bother responding.