I make myself walk forward. The grass grazes my ankles, my knees. This far back on the property, they don’t bother mowing the lawn. No one ever sees this place except us and the deer.
Seth’s looking at me: my athletic shorts, black running shoes, the ripped black tank top I cut the bottom off of, uneven and thready, matching my hair, which I also cut myself, dyed black myself. Last summer it was blond. I’m pale except for my nose and the tops of my shoulders, and I’m not as round as I was before; all the running I did this year turned my curves more angular. I like it better this way, even though I didn’t really do it on purpose. I like being a human Keep Out sign.
I touch Fiona’s necklace, then walk up to the rock. With Seth Montgomery, you can’t show any fear. Not that I’m afraid of him. And he’s not afraid of me. It’s kind of a relief, having eyes on me that aren’t speculating about whether I killed my own sister.
“I like the hair,” he says.
I’m not sure about this. In town, he looked a little wild, a little desperate. Now he’s almost…triumphant. Like in just getting me to come here, he’s won some kind of game.
“I don’t have time for that,” I say. “What do you want?”
Seth’s teasing look fades. “I want to know exactly what you told the cops about Thatcher.”
I bite my lip. “He told you about that?”
A flicker of Seth’s smile, but there’s no humor in it this time. “No. But you just did.”
Dammit.
He rises from the rock, comes to stand in front of me. “Thatcher barely talked to me at all this year. Hasn’t been talking to anyone. My uncle and my dad tried to keep it under wraps, too. But I’m not stupid. There had to be a reason the cops called Thatcher in so many times, why he needed a lawyer. So one night, I eavesdropped outside my dad’s study. Heard Thatcher had an ‘accuser.’ ” His eyes don’t leave mine. “You’ve known Thatcher as long as you’ve known me. Practically your whole life. And you really accused him of murder?”
Thatcher and Seth are nothing alike, in looks or manner. Where Seth is tangled dark curls and a surly expression, Thatcher looks like the rest of them: thoroughbred-brown hair, thin, serious-looking. He’s unfailingly polite, has very white teeth, a politician’s smile. He’s majoring in finance, like he’s supposed to, while Seth messes around at Columbia with art history and archaeology, pissing his father off. They have nothing in common. But they’re close anyway.
Like Fiona and me were.
Seth would never believe Thatcher had anything to do with my sister’s death. I didn’t want to have to fight about it. But here we are.
His fists are balled at his sides, his eyes narrowed. He’s angry, I realize.
But so am I.
“I had—”
But Seth interrupts. “Thatcher had to fly back from Oxford to talk to the cops; my uncle was calling every top defense attorney in New York State. Meanwhile, no one would tell me what was actually going on. No one told me that it was you, making up stories—”
“Making up stories?” The rage courses through me and I have to physically stop myself from grinding my teeth. “So what do you think killed her, Seth? My sister, the dancer so good she got into the American Ballet Academy at eighteen, when normally they only take little kids, just happened to be walking along the edge of the ravine in the woods at midnight and then just happened to trip and fall?”
Seth’s eyes dart around the clearing, then come back to rest on me. “I don’t know. I was occupied all night. And so were you.” My face flushes hotly, but I don’t back up. “So whatever it is you think about Thatcher—”
“You have no idea—”
“So tell me!” He spreads out his arms. “You blocked me everywhere, wanted nothing to do with me after that night, but you went to the police and you accused my cousin of murder. The least you could do is tell me why.”
This isn’t smart. The smart thing would be to walk away. To tell him nothing. He’s not on my side. He’s on his family’s side.
But I’m practically vibrating, I’m so angry. Because he’s standing here accusing me of things without knowing anything. And some small, vicious part of me wants to see the look on his face when I tell him.
“Fine.” The night gets hotter, the crickets louder. “A week before Fiona died, Thatcher showed up at my house, looking more pissed than I’ve ever seen him in my life. He banged on the door, yelling her name.” Seth listens, not interrupting, even though he looks like he wants to. “I asked what was wrong, but he just shoved past me. He was about to go up to her room when she came down, looking freaked out. They got into Thatcher’s car and hadn’t even pulled out of the driveway when he started screaming at her.”
Seth doesn’t look surprised. Which makes me surprised.
“What were they fighting about?” he asks.
“I didn’t say they were fighting, I said he was yelling at her. And I can’t hear things when the windows are closed and the car’s driving away from me.”
Seth’s expression doesn’t change. “Fiona didn’t tell you what it was about?”
I shake my head. “It took them a while to get back. I waited. She went straight to her room. Refused to talk to me about it.”
I can still hear the bitterness in my voice. Fiona and I used to tell each other everything. All that changed last summer. If I’d only pushed her—insisted she tell me what was going on.
“None of that proves he killed her,” Seth says.
I glare. “Yeah, I know that, thanks.”
I went back to the police station a few times after the night she died. They had more questions for me. And I had more questions for them.
Why haven’t you arrested Thatcher yet?
Detective Carter, dark brown hands folded in front of him, kind voice, serious expression that gave nothing away: We cannot disclose details of this investigation to anyone, Miss Blackwood, even family of the victim—
Detective Ramsay, squinty blue eyes that followed me across the room, lips that were too big for his face, a buzz cut he really should have let grow out a decade ago: The only evidence we have that this fight even happened is your word.
Because of course Thatcher denied it. And of course they took the word of the pedigreed Oxford rich boy over mine.
Seth runs a hand through his hair. “So that’s it? That’s the ‘big fight’ Fiona and Thatcher had that was all over Citizen Sleuths?”
It’s my turn to be surprised. “You go on Citizen Sleuths?”
