We lie together for another hour, until the first hints of sunlight appear in the library’s upper windows. The building takes on an otherworldly quality, at this hour— a mix of shadow and light, more like a forest than a manmade room. I’d lie here with Sebastian for a few more hours, frankly, if it weren’t for our promise to get out the door.

I expect it, but it’s disappointing all the same when it locks behind us.

“That was an excellent date,” I say, leaning against him, stifling a yawn.

“I’m glad you liked it,” he answers, kissing the side of my forehead. We’re back to the car, now; Sebastian opens the door on my side for me, then dashes around to slide into the driver’s seat. I’m going to be sore again, I know. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to his size?

“I liked it too, actually,” he says as he buckles his seatbelt. I lift my eyebrows at his tone— did he think I was under the impression he didn’t enjoy himself? He laughs and shakes his head, turning the car on, reversing from the parking spot. “I liked the library, I mean. It’s nice, a big beautiful place like that that’s all about right and wrong and justice. Making sure the innocent stay out of jail and the guilty are punished. It’s a nice reminder that my family isn’t alone in this whole mess.”

I cringe, and am glad Sebastian doesn’t see it.

“You’re so confident that your father is innocent,” I say cautiously, warily. I know we agreed to pretend that the murder didn’t happen, but Sebastian was the one to bring it up…

“Well, he’s my dad.”

“Is that enough of a reason?” I ask.

Sebastian frowns, and for a moment, I think he’s angry. When he looks over at me, though, I see that it’s not anger— it’s confidence. “Of course. If someone accused your parents of doing something terrible, would you assume they did it?”

“No, but…I mean, if there was evidence,” I try, stepping carefully. “Is there?” I ask this to throw him off my trail, should he be on it at all— the truth is, I know every shred of evidence linking Dennis Slate to my aunt’s murder. I know it backward, forward, in the dark, upside down.

Sebastian takes a breath, and I realize that he knows all the evidence just as well as me— only, instead of wanting to highlight it, he wants to pretend it doesn’t exist. He says, “There is. Some.”

“But not enough for you to be convinced,” I say, shaking my head in disappointment. I can’t change who Sebastian is, or who I am. If Sebastian were to realize that his father is guilty perhaps I wouldn’t feel so guilty about wanting to be with him.

Sebastian pauses as he turns onto the interstate, then exhales. When he begins to speak, his words are careful and deliberate. “So, he was having an affair with the lady— with Tessa Miller. That part I know is true— and he sucks for cheating on my mom like that.”

I try not to let myself audibly wince at my aunt’s name. The truth is, I hardly ever think of her name— it’s a self-preservation method. If I think of her name, I think of singing it at her birthday parties, and seeing it signed on holiday cards, and hearing my mom say it into the telephone. I try to think of her simply as “my aunt”— in the same way that I know Sebastian usually thinks of her as “that lady”. A name is a person. “Aunt” and “lady” are just words.

“Okay,” I say, nodding, trying to keep my words as simple and direct as possible so I don’t break. “What else?”

“Is that your lawyer voice?” Sebastian asks, giving me an affectionate look that, given how many lies by omission I’m telling him, I’m not sure I deserve. He goes on. “She was found three days after she was killed— that’s what the coroner says. So it she had to be murdered on February 18^th. On the 18^th, one of my brothers— Tyson, the youngest— and I had spring training games. My dad came to both of them, which means he spent basically the entire day driving to and from those games. There are photos of him at them.”

“What about after the games?” I ask.

“That’s where it gets tricky,” Sebastian says, frowning. “He doesn’t have an alibi after five o’clock. Except for my brother, Carson. Carson met him for dinner that night. But there isn’t any evidence other than Carson’s word for it. There’s a traffic video of Carson’s car when he’s driving to meet my dad, but dad isn’t with him. And since they’re family, people seem to think Carson is covering something up.”

“And you know he isn’t,” I say. “You’re sure he isn’t.”

Sebastian nods. “Carson wouldn’t make that up. But Carson also isn’t always the most responsible person. He doesn’t really remember where they went to eat, and he doesn’t know what time they left. It just looks like a story with holes in it, when really it’s just a story that Carson’s telling. And plus, there was no reason for him to remember it, after all. It was just dinner. Just another night.”

“Right,” I say, nodding. There’s plenty more I’d like to bring up, but it’ll make it obvious that I know far more about the case than I’ve let on. Like, for example, the fact that the traffic video doesn’t definitely show Carson behind the wheel of the car— it’s his car, but it’s not so clear that it’s him. Or the fact that Carson named three restaurants they went to that evening, but employees at all three said they hadn’t seen him come in, and noted that someone as large and eye-catching as Carson would be hard to forget. Or the fact that it’s totally possible— sick, but possible— that Dennis Slate killed my aunt before going to dinner with his son, managed to keep it cool while they were there, then went back to move her body afterward.

But I can’t say any of that, so instead I settle on this: “Sebastian…what if he did do it?”

“What?” Sebastian asks, eyes widening. He can’t believe I’ve said this, and the air in the car seems to grow instantly thicker, darker.

I take a breath to steady myself. “What if he did it? What does that mean for you? Have you even considered it?” I ask, voice a near-whisper but words clear and desperate all the same. “What if he confessed. Would you still forgive him?”

“He’s my dad,” Sebastian says after a long moment. “I guess I’d have to.”

“How? If he’s a killer, how can you forgive that? How can you just sweep that under the rug—“ I have to stop myself, because I feel the threat of tears, I hear the way my voice is growing high and hurt. There’s one more thing, though, one more question I have to ask. “Would you lie for him?”

I have to know because this, to me, is the real danger. Sebastian isn’t his father— I know that. But if Sebastian would lie for his father, would let a guilty man go free, would let my aunt’s murder go unpunished…then he’s not his father, but perhaps he’s just as guilty. My breath catches as I wait for Sebastian to answer; each second that goes by makes the pit in my stomach expand.

Finally, Sebastian shakes his head without looking at me. “Ashlynn, I don’t need to lie for him. My dad is the man who got me into football. Who coached every team I ever played on. Who made me everything I am. If he’s a murderer, then what am I? I’m all his doing,” Sebastian says.

“If he’s a murderer, then you’re just his son,” I argue. “You aren’t a bad person because your dad might have done a bad thing. I just— Tessa Miller died, Sebastian. A woman died. And that woman’s murderer needs to be put in jail forever.”

“Then it won’t do anyone any good if my father is put in jail— because he didn’t do it,” Sebastian says firmly.

He believes his father— he believes in Dennis Slate’s innocence at his very core. There won’t be any changing Sebastian’s mind, winning him over to my side. We may be together when it comes to our hearts and bodies and time and kisses, but when it comes to this— when it comes to justice— we’re polar opposites.