I run outside, clumsy with panic. The grass is wet. The rain’s hard as hailstones.
He’s on the side of the house, snow-angeled on the lawn. I slide to a stop.
His head turns. “Jo?” He’s smiling, angelic.
I fall to my knees. It’s a miracle.
I kneel and lay a hand on his shoulder, as I had with Alma Reyes.
“Chad?” He looks good. Joy pings through me. Typical Chad! The boy was born lucky. I grasp his hand. It’s cold. “Are you okay?” I manage.
“Jo?” His face shadows.
My fear returns with a vengeance. Something’s wrong. Logic dictates it. No one could fall that distance unscathed. Not even him. I croak: “Where does it hurt?”
“You know what I said about Dad and Owen? About why I did it?” He looks dreamy. “That was true but . . .” He frowns. “There was more.”
I should break away, call for help. I can’t. I sit frozen. His gaze holds me, pleading for understanding. I can’t let go of his hand, can’t break eye contact. What if he’s dying? He wants to say something. His grip tightens.
“When Dad pushed me, I tried to hit him.” He grits his teeth. “He laughed and said one son’s a fag and the other’s too pathetic to satisfy his slutty girlfriend.” Chad blinks. “He laughed!” He has started to shake. His eyes bore right through me. “He laughed about how he . . . you know . . . with Gemma.”
I’m too shocked to respond. Oh my God. I remember now: Angie confiscated Gemma’s phone as punishment for cheating on my English exam. Gemma sent those texts, from her mom’s phone. I feel sick. That means Stan wasn’t fucking Angie but her teenage daughter. Gemma’s sixteen! His own son’s girlfriend. As for Gemma, I shouldn’t be surprised, earning props at school with her football-star boyfriend and snagging luxe gifts from her doting sugar daddy. She wouldn’t see herself as another victim.
“How could he?” says Chad. “And Gemma?” The betrayal in his eyes is crushing.
Chad stares up into the rain. He releases my hand. It hurts where he’s gripped it.
Behind me I hear running footsteps. It’s Dana, ghost-faced, her pajamas vacuum-wrapped to her skin.
Chad grabs back my hand and yanks it, eyes bright with alarm. “Please Jo,” he says quickly. “Don’t tell her! Don’t tell anyone! Promise!”
Dana’s almost upon us. Seeing Chad, she starts keening, a horrible wail. I can’t look at her. My best friend, whose whole life seemed charmed. All her luck has rubbed off, like cheap gold plating.
“Promise!” mutters Chad.
I nod at him. “I promise.”
With a sharp exhale of relief, his eyes shut.