“There you go again.”
“What?”
“Blaming yourself. The person who killed him—who killed both of them—is to blame. Not you, Addie.” I open my mouth to argue, but Seth asks, “Do you want these dry clothes or do you want to sit around in those wet ones?”
I realize how cold I am and hold my arms out. He throws me the clothes, and I reluctantly pull his hoodie away from my body. Seth’s eyes move down to my T-shirt, which I suddenly realize is now transparent. Heat floods my face, and I see Seth’s cheeks flush before he leaves the room.
I quickly change into the plain white T-shirt and navy sweatpants he gave me. Both are way too big, but they’re clean and dry and that’s all that matters.
I’m shaking out my hair when Seth knocks on the door. “Come in.”
He enters, in a fresh hoodie. His hair is still wet, black curls shining in the light from the lamp he switched on. He gives me a look I can’t read when he sees me in his clothes. “Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Outside, thunder rumbles, and a moment later, another crack of lightning lights up the sky. I perch on the foot of his bed, pull my legs up, and wrap my arms around them. I suddenly feel acutely awkward.
Seth sits across from me, in his desk chair. I look at him.
“I’m not going to apologize for following Jeremy,” he says abruptly.
I shift. “I didn’t ask you to.” Then I can’t help but add, “But you being there definitely didn’t help. We were having an actual conversation, which we haven’t done in a year. I was about to ask him if he knew what Gen was doing the night Fiona died, and then you showed up and—” I make a gesture with my hands coming apart.
“Yeah, well. I’m not sorry.”
My eyes go to the scar above his eyebrow. I reach up, let my hand hover in the air, then drop it. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
The anger falls from his face. “Pride or some shit. I don’t know.” He looks away, and a muscle in his jaw tenses. “Now you know.”
“I’m sorry.”
Seth’s voice is gruff. “Not your fault.”
Then whose? I want to ask but don’t.
“Tell me what happened at the studio,” he says then.
I tell him everything—including what Mrs. Rodriguez said to me.
He stares. “What the fuck.”
I look over to where the rain is dripping down the windowpane. “Basically.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I try to sound like I mean it. “I always knew she didn’t like me.”
He scratches his scar. “What was she doing there?”
I didn’t even think of that. “She—”
Out of the corner of my eye, Mrs. Rodriguez, standing in front of a closet. Holding—
A mop.
“She works there,” I realize. “She was taking out a mop. I wonder how long—” Then I remember what Madame LeGrand said about them having the same cleaning person for a year. I tell Seth that.
“What if—” Seth sits up suddenly. “What if Fiona stole the money from her and that’s why she’s working at the ballet studio?”
“No,” I say. “Why would she and Gen still be living in a trailer if they had forty-two thousand dollars just sitting around for someone to steal?”
“Because she was saving it for Gen’s college fund?”
I shake my head. “Fiona wouldn’t do that. It’s one thing asking Thatcher for money. But stealing Gen’s college fund? She would never do that.”
Seth’s look says he isn’t sure he believes me. He pulls out his phone. “I’m just gonna write it down. As a theory.” He taps something out, then looks back up at me. “And why do you think…” He trails off, but I know he’s thinking of what she said.
Little whore. Just like your mother and sister.
Mom. The rumors surrounding her disappearance. The guys she’d been sleeping with.
And something clicks.
Gen’s dad left just a few months after my mom was gone.
I never connected the two before. But now…
Seth comes to sit next to me on the bed. “You never asked your dad about…the rumors.”