CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Just Like Scooby

There’s a knock on our front door later that night, close to nine o’clock. Mom left for her shift hours ago, and I heard Emmet leave shortly after—probably off drinking at a stupid pasture party with his friends. I’m still pissed over the fight earlier but my urge to kick the furniture has faded.

I open the door to find Gabe fidgeting on the doorstep.

“Hey,” he says. He looks ready to dive for cover. Can he see the signs of the fight with Mom reflected in my face?

“Hey.” I back up a step and Gabe smiles tentatively, coming inside.

“Wasn’t sure you’d let me in.” He hunches his shoulders and I stare at him for a moment before remembering I left him sitting in the middle of the road at a stoplight. It feels like a week ago instead of a few short hours. After everything with Mom and Emmet, Gabe’s comments in the car seem trivial.

“Of course I’d let you in.” I should apologize for running off but the words are stuck in my throat. I shuffle into the living room and flop down on the couch instead. Gabe follows and when he sits there’s an entire couch cushion and a world of unsaid words between us. The awkward silence grows until all the air is being sucked out of the room.

“I’m sorry,” we both begin and then break off with nervous laughs.

“I didn’t mean to flip out earlier,” I say. “I just can’t understand why no one else is questioning this stuff. I mean, I know why you’re going along with it. You’re a preacher’s kid so of course you have to believe in miracles. I shouldn’t get mad at you for something you can’t help.”

“Gee, thanks.” Sarcasm coats his words like a fine dusting of powder.

“I’m trying to make up,” I mutter.

“Your technique seriously sucks. I don’t believe in the miracles because my dad’s a preacher. I believe in them because I believe in God. Because I know there are things in life that can’t be explained. Admitting the miracles might be real isn’t a crime.”

“So you think God’s endorsing McDonald’s?” I try to keep my voice neutral but it borders on sarcastic.

“I don’t think God’s giving fast food his stamp of approval. But that window has everyone’s attention. If I was going to leave a religious message, I’d want maximum impact.”

“Why not make it appear at the church? I mean that’s where all the believers are.”

“Yeah, so that’s the last place you’d put it. This way even people who don’t go to church see, and maybe it gets them thinking.”

“Or buying more French fries.”

Gabe sighs. “Every time I suggest anything you either shoot it down or launch into a snark attack. I’m not going to just nod my head and agree with everything you say, Del. We’re allowed to have different opinions.”

I open my mouth to respond, but shut it just as quickly. My default answer these days is almost always sarcasm. “I’m sorry. I wish I could believe as easily as you do. But nothing makes sense anymore, least of all this.”

Gabe nods. “I know you’ve had it rough since Claire. But just talk with me, okay? Truce?”

His voice is so tired and I can feel the same weight pressing down on me. “Truce. But I can’t get on the miracle bandwagon. I just can’t.”

“No one’s asking you to. But it’s a big leap from not believing in the miracles to announcing they’re fake on TV. They could both be natural phenomena. There doesn’t have to be some mastermind behind it.”

“If it was just Cheesus or the drive-through window, maybe. But the two of them so close together? That can’t be coincidence.”

“Which brings us back to the miracle theory.”

“And the jerk with a warped sense of humor theory.”

Gabe nods reluctantly. “I guess it’s a possibility as well. But they’re just theories. There’s no proof either way.”

“We could find some. We could prove, definitively, that the miracles are fake. Or that they’re real,” I add quickly, catching Gabe’s annoyed expression.

“And how are we supposed to do that?” There’s a subtle emphasis to his words that twists my stomach into a knot.

“I’ve started a suspect list,” I admit, watching Gabe closely.

His eyes widen the tiniest bit and he blows out a breath. “Who’s on it?”

Before I can change my mind, I get up, grab the notebook from my backpack, and flop back onto the couch beside Gabe. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

“Might as well, you’re going to keep looking into it whether I’m helping or not. And you know what they say: two nerds are better than one.”

The old joke, the one we use to yell at my brother when he teased us for trying to build bottle rockets in the backyard, makes the muscles in my shoulders relax the tiniest bit. Gabe’s here and he’s listening. I take a deep breath and rattle off my list.

“What are their motives?” Gabe quirks an eyebrow.

“Motives?” I repeat, like it’s one of Mr. Sutherland’s fiendish math problems.

“Don’t you watch Sherlock? Detectiving 101: there’s always a motive,” Gabe adds.

“Bobby’s winning the church wars for the first time in forever and having a fun time doing it. Wendy’s a daddy’s girl so anything that benefits her dad makes Wendy happy too. Ken would sell his left kidney to bring in more customers and put the Exxon out of business. Andy … well, I’m not sure. Extreme boredom?”

“Mrs. Deardly?”

I flush, knowing she’s the least likely of all my suspects, but I felt like the list needed a bit of padding. “She’s a creepy old lady. And suspicious. You know she buys the same thing every time she comes to the Gas & Gut? A bottle of cough syrup and a pack of peppermint gum. She wears dentures, so she can’t even chew gum!”

“McJesus wasn’t painted with cough syrup or sculpted from chewing gum, so I’m not getting the connection. Acting weird doesn’t mean you’re a criminal. If it did, half this town would be locked up.”

“There’s a difference between quirky and weird. Quirky is okay. Quirky is Jim Wilco’s belt buckle collection. Weird is a little old lady who’s never had so much as a sniffle buying cases of cough syrup.” I pause, struck by a horrible thought. “Maybe she’s running a meth lab, like Breaking Bad. But with old people.”

Gabe snorts. “That’s your craziest theory yet. And how does that give her a motive for faking the miracles?”

“New customer base from all the out-of-towners? Distract the local police?”

“You need to watch less TV. Or at least better TV.”

“Shut up. You wanted motives, it’s not my fault you don’t like them.”

Gabe reaches over and grabs the notebook, yanking it free. He begins flipping through the pages. “I’m playing devil’s advocate. If you go accusing anyone of faking the miracles, you better have a ton of proof.”

“So you admit it’s a possibility?” This is more important than it should be. If I can convince Gabe, then maybe I can convince other people as well.

He sighs. “Maybe. But what happens if you start poking into things and you find out the miracles are real? What are you going to do then?”

I shrug. “I’ll deal with it.” Easy words. But I’m not going to have to deal with anything because there is no way those miracles are real.

“Fine. I’ll help you investigate. What do you want to do first?”

My chest burns and I suck in a deep, shuddering breath. “Really?”

“Really. But if we find out they’re real, we share that info as well.” His face is stern. He looks so much like his dad in that moment, every bit the preacher’s kid.

I lean over and hug him, squeezing as tight as I can. My notebook is smushed between us and the spiral coil digs into my skin even through the material of my shirt.

“Okay.” I pull back a little and we’re so close our breath tangles together. The tension from earlier morphs into a different kind of tension and I get up from the couch before I do something stupid, like kissing Gabe. My notebook falls, forgotten, into Gabe’s lap and I can’t quite meet his eyes.

“It’ll be okay,” Gabe says. “We’ll figure things out and everything will get back to normal soon.”

I’m not sure if he means the town, our friendship, or something else. I shrug off the awkward feelings and paste on a smile. “Let’s talk motive.”