“She left us money, all the grandchildren. But the wording is weird. It specifies that the oldest grandchild gets more than the rest.”
I let that sink in. “Your birthday’s a month before Kendall’s.”
He nods. “Yup.”
“But—did you even know about that before?”
He lets out a breath. “Yeah. I did. It’s one of the things my dad and uncle have been fighting about. Along with their own inheritances. I didn’t care, I mean, Thatcher was always her favorite, and it’s not like I even need—”
He cuts himself off, looks at me sideways. I know he’s thinking of all our childhood arguments over the Bier treasure, how mad I used to get at the idea that Seth or his cousins would get any if they found it, because they would never need it as much as Fiona and I did.
“So that gives you a reason,” I say.
“Otherwise known as a motive.”
“But—our stories must have matched. Which means we were telling the truth.”
“Or it means we did a good job of making sure our stories would match.” He looks at me.
I blink. “They think I helped you? Why?” But it comes to me before he has to say it. “Do they think I was getting revenge or something?”
“Just three days ago you were certain Thatcher did it,” Seth says. “And you told the cops that. More than once.”
“But then—do they think Thatcher killed her, and then you and I killed him? For different reasons?”
Seth runs a hand over his face. “I don’t know. All I know is they’re looking at me, so it makes sense they’re looking at you, too. We were the only people they know were in the woods that night. Our alibis for both murders are each other. We have an existing relationship we told them about.” He rubs one eye. “I’m not sure they’re about to immediately throw us in jail without any actual evidence. But being the suspect of a murder investigation doesn’t look great, as my dad keeps reminding me. Colleges can kick you out for stuff like that.”
I blink. That hadn’t even occurred to me. “Even if you never get arrested?”
“Yeah, they have these morality clauses where they can make you leave if you do something they consider wrong. My dad said with the money we’re paying, there’s no way that’ll happen, but…” His voice trails off.
I feel ill. “But a scholarship kid might not be so lucky.” I put my hands in my hair. Another way life is easier for him than me. Just because he was born into a family with money and I wasn’t. “So if I ever want to make it to Rutgers, and then Stanford, I can’t have anyone suspecting me,” I say dully. “Like, not even a little bit.”
“That might not be the case. But someone else getting arrested for this and having the question answered once and for all would help, yeah. Not to mention, the cops are going to be wasting time looking into you and me. And in the meantime, the real killer’s still out there.”
A chill goes down my spine. I spin to look behind me, but there’s nothing there except the trees and the dark.
Teaming up with the person whose family I thought was responsible for this all year might not seem like the best move. But I know it wasn’t Seth. And I don’t think his family is behind this anymore, since Thatcher was one of them. Which means it’s someone else out there, someone I haven’t even considered.
Someone the police won’t be considering, either.
“So you have about as much faith in Carter and Ramsay as I do,” I say.
“If by that you mean none, then yeah.” Seth scowls at the darkness. “They’ve had a whole year to find out who killed your sister. They came up with She must have tripped.” He shakes his head. “No way. I think someone killed her. And now someone’s killed Thatcher, too.”
I close my eyes. Feel that familiar rage rise up in me.
But this time, it’s not directed at Thatcher.
It’s directed at me.
A touch on my shoulder. “You okay?”
“I’m so stupid,” I whisper. “I spent the whole year fixated on him, and it was someone else this entire time—”
“You’re not stupid,” Seth says quietly. “It did make sense, as far as theories go.”
“Oh, now you think it made sense?”
“If someone didn’t know Thatcher, didn’t know he’d never do something like that, it would make sense,” he corrects. “I was so pissed at you because I thought you did.”
“I thought I did, too,” I say. “But if I’ve learned anything, it’s how much people can change.” I’m thinking of Fiona, of Gen, of Jeremy. “Nothing stays the same around here.”
“Nothing stays the same anywhere.” He shifts next to me. “But what I was about to say right before we heard Thatcher yell—what if he didn’t do it, but he knew who did?”
I stare at him. “What makes you think that?”
“The way he wasn’t talking to me—I chalked it up to his grief, or the stress of being questioned by the cops. But then when we all came back here and I saw him, he was acting like—like he was afraid of his own shadow. Like he was keeping a secret. A big one. And now…” He turns to look at me. “What if whoever it was killed him to keep him quiet?”
“But then, why wouldn’t he tell anyone?”
“I think he was afraid of them, whoever they are.” Seth picks up his phone. “We need to get organized. Make lists. What we know. What we don’t know. Suspects. Motives. Things to look into. The way I see it, we have three main questions: Who killed Fiona? Who killed Thatcher? How are they connected?” He pauses. “And are any of us next?”
“That’s four questions.” I feel prickly, unsettled. Everything is in a giant tangle, and I have no idea how to unravel it. This is why I like math. It’s never this complicated. I frown at him. “Are you, like, actually into this true crime stuff?”
Seth looks offended. “Hey. I don’t make fun of your hobbies.”
“What hobbies? I don’t have any hobbies.”