Aftermath by Kelley Armstrong (24)

Apparently, I’ve unleashed Jesse’s inner private eye.

The first text comes before I’m even home.

It takes a few moments to decipher that. I answer no, Mr. Vaughn didn’t say where the email had been sent from. That’s just the first text in a conversation that lasts into the night. Jesse peppers me with so many questions that I wonder if he’s trying to poke holes in my story. Maybe he got home and wondered if I could be losing my mind.

Then, just past ten, I get: cn i hv yr e-addy? I’m starting to understand what Mae must feel like, untangling my texts.

I send him my email address. A few minutes later I get a spreadsheet. An honest-to-goodness spreadsheet detailing everything I’ve told him, arranged into helpful columns. Well, helpful to him, I’m sure. I don’t process data this way, and I stare at it, thinking that I’m way too tired to figure this out.

And I’m thinking something else, too.

Why?

Why is he going through all this work to help me? Is he bored? Or does he think I still suspect him, and he’s bending over backward to clear his name?

I don’t know, but I’m not complaining. I need an ally, and he’s the only one applying for the position.

A text follows ten seconds after I open the spreadsheet.

I scan the spreadsheet and send back a thumbs-up emoji.

A thumbs-up, and my phone goes silent.

 

I haven’t seen or heard from Jesse this morning. I’m trying not to read too much into that, but it still feels like the early days of our friendship, when we’d spend an hour messaging after school, and then I’d be on pins and needles the next day, waiting for that first moment of eye contact, that first smile, that first word.

If he is regretting his offer to help? I won’t lie and say that’s fine. But I can’t force friendship, old or new.

It’s lunchtime. I’m at my locker. I open it to see a folded sheet and smile. My mind is on Jesse so that’s who I immediately think it’s from. Then I see it’s a piece of all-purpose printer paper, just like the last note that got shoved into my locker.

This one reads: There’s more to the story. You know there is. Your brother isn’t a killer.

I’m staring at it when a voice says, “Hey,” and I shove the note into my pocket. It’s Jesse. He has his hood up, and his gaze shifts off to the side before it can meet mine. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, and he pauses a couple of feet away, as if he just happened to be passing and slowed for a drive-by greeting.

I smile. I can’t help it. I’m just relieved to see him. When I smile, he shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, shoulders hunching forward, rocking on the balls of his feet.

“Hey,” he says. Then the faintest smile. “Again.”

“Hey back. What’re you up to?”

“Lunch. How about you?”

“Coincidentally, the exact same thing. Must be that time of day.”

His lips twitch. “Yeah. Apparently.” He knocks back his hood. “So… lunch.”

“Yep.”

“You eating?”

“That’s the usual procedure.”

“So I’ve heard. You bring something?”

“Jesse.” Chris walks up. “You joining us for lunch?”

“We’re going to grab food off-campus,” I say. “I think Chris is inviting you. Which I would have, but that’s awkward when it’s his car.”

“Nah,” Jesse says, then adds a belated, “Thanks. I’ve got plans. Just stopped by to see if after school’s good with you. For that thing.”

“It is. Text me?”

He nods to me, with another nod for Chris as he leaves. I’m reaching into my locker to shove my binder in when the note slips from my pocket. It falls open, and Chris frowns as he picks it up.

“Yeah,” I say as he hands it back. “I keep trying to convince myself they’re secretly love notes, but somehow, I just don’t think so.”

“This isn’t the first?” he says as we start walking.

I motion that I’ll answer once we’re out of the school, and I wait until we’re in the car. I don’t rush to reply even then, but he prompts with, “So, notes?”

“I’ve had a few,” I say. “Variations on a theme. The shooting is a lie. I’m a liar. I had something to do with the shooting. Blah-blah.”

His brows shoot up. “You?”

“Apparently.”

“Are you sure that’s what they mean? That one didn’t look like the sender was blaming you personally.”

“I’ve had a couple that were pretty unequivocal on that point.”

It takes a moment before he starts the car. “That’s weird. How are they saying you’re invol —?” He shakes his head. “No, never mind. That’s too ridiculous to even waste breath on. Any idea who it is?”

“No, I…” I slow as the note triggers something. “Actually, I might. On Saturday, I had a run-in with three seniors who tried to tell me Jamil Mandal was involved in the shooting.”

“What?”

I ratchet back the passenger seat. “They said Luka, Isaac and Harley acted to stop Jamil from doing something. Honestly, I was afraid to ask what they meant. I don’t know if it was just random crap or if there was some racism happening. Does Jesse get hassled much for that?”

“Not as far as I know, but I’m sure there’s some, depending on what’s in the news, you know?”

“I do. I think those guys were just spoiling for a fight and lashing out at whatever was convenient. But they’re definitely the type who like causing trouble, so they may have decided I make a good target, too, and started dropping off those notes.”

“Could be. Have you considered, though, that maybe there’s truth there? Not about Jamil, of course. Or about you being involved. But about there being more to the story. I have no doubt Isaac and Harley did it. But Luka was different. He wasn’t the type —”

“No.”

“So you don’t ever wonder —?”

“I mean no, let’s not go there. Please.”

Silence. He drives a block, and then says in a low voice, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I know there are questions, but I don’t want to ask them. I’m afraid the answers won’t be what I want, and I’m afraid I don’t have the right to ask.”

“You absolutely have the right —” He stops short. “And that’s not what you’re saying. You’re telling me to drop it, as nicely as possible. So, how do you feel about diners?”

I glance over at him.

“I’m changing the subject very awkwardly,” he says. “We went to McDonald’s last week. We can go there again, or there’s a diner across the road. Your choice.”

“Is it one of those places with the greasy burgers that I’ll slop all over my shirt?”

“’Fraid so.”

“Perfect.”

 

We’re still at lunch when I get a text from Jesse canceling our after-school meet. He forgot he had track practice. I pop back a quick no problem and we can reschedule. He doesn’t respond, but I won’t read anything into that.

Jesse isn’t in math class. I won’t read anything into that, either. This morning, I started fretting, and he showed up at my locker, proof I’d overreacted.

I’ll text him tonight, after dinner, and only to pass on the math homework. Not pushing to reschedule. Not checking that he hasn’t changed his mind. Nope, that’d be paranoid and silly. I won’t even ask why he missed class. I’ll just text to helpfully pass along the homework. And then I’ll stare at my phone until he replies.

For the sake of retaining a shred of dignity, I’ll pretend I don’t leave class mentally composing that text, making sure nothing could be misread into it.

When my phone typewriter-dings with an incoming text, I yank it out, hoping it’s Jesse responding to my —

It’s from a blocked number. I take a deep breath as I tap the thread. The videos came from a fake number, not a blocked one, so I’m hoping this is just spam or —

I try sending back a response. Of course it doesn’t go through. I consider. I check my watch. Then I take off.