Chapter Twenty-Five

Now

FEBRUARY 12

THE RAIN HAD CLEARED OVERNIGHT, and so had Tessa’s mind. It had been Patrick she’d seen on the street, and now she had to find out why he was back. She skipped her shift at the Deviled Egg. She’d probably lose her job there for not at least calling. But she couldn’t bear it—couldn’t bear to act like life was normal. And she was tired of this constant feeling of waiting for the truth, like she was some trapped princess, locked in an icy casket. It had been a full week now. If Boyd was about to plead guilty for this thing, she needed to act, and it needed to be fast.

Patrick was outside when she arrived—his legs, in a dirty pair of jeans, sticking out from underneath an old car in the driveway. Mrs. Donovan’s car. Tessa could hear clanking and watched as he reached for a wrench lying beside him on the pavement. She stood there a moment, trying to figure out what to say, when she heard him mutter to himself and then scooch out from under the car, wiping his hands on a white rag.

A dark stain was streaked across his T-shirt and forehead . . . and an ugly bruise bloomed low on his jaw.

“Oh, shit,” he said when he noticed her standing there. “It’s . . . you.” He squinted at her, like the sun was too bright for him to be sure who he was really looking at.

He sat up, shielding his eyes with one hand. When he dropped his hand, she could see he looked . . . afraid, almost. Tired, too. Shadows laced his eyes; his dark hair looked shaggy and unkempt behind the ears.

“You came back,” she said.

“For better or for worse,” he said slowly, getting to his feet. He took a step back, and she noticed he was looking at her warily. As if he was afraid. Her pulse kicked up. Why would he be afraid . . . unless he had something to hide?

“Please,” she said quietly. “I just need to know the truth. Did you see Kit that night? That night she . . .”

She held her breath as he opened his mouth to speak. “I did, but it wasn’t just her.”

“But—”

“It wasn’t even Kit who made me come out that night in the first place.”

Tessa stared. “Then . . . then why run away? I’m confused—you were out in the woods that night, but you saw nothing, and still you ran?”

Patrick shook his head. “She started accusing me of ruining Lilly’s life. She didn’t want us dating. I didn’t really blame her for that, but she was a bitch about it. No offense. Said a lot of nasty stuff about how it was my fault and—”

“And what?” Tessa shook her head. Kit had never been nasty to anyone. Could he be lying to her face? “So you did see Kit, then?”

“You’re not listening. She knew stuff about me. Just some stuff I was trying to keep on the down low.”

“Like . . .”

Patrick looked at his hands, covered in grease. “Just some tests I’d taken for other kids. And . . . some things I took. A ring. She was mad about the ring.”

“What ring?” Tessa’s heart nearly stopped. “Was it . . . this?” She held her hand out to him, where the sapphire ring sat on her fourth finger, glimmering in the sun.

Patrick gaped. “Where did you get that?”

“I found it,” she said. “In the woods. Was it . . . yours?”

Patrick shook his head. “I stole it . . .” His voice dropped low. “From them.” He nodded over his shoulder toward the house. “I felt bad about it, but I needed the money. I pawned it, though. Back in December. I thought it was long gone.”

Either he was a slick liar, or he was telling the truth. And if this was the truth, then who’d bought the ring, and why was it in the woods, and why had Kit known about it?

“So what happened? She was shouting about the ring, you said. Then what?”

“Then I told her some things are just broken and should stay broken. Something like that, anyway. Then I just . . . I left.” Patrick hung his head. “It was the last straw. I had my own shit to deal with. I had to get out. I’d been planning to. I’d been saving up the money. All I needed to do was offload a few pills—one last burst of cash. It was all I needed. There had only been one thing holding me here, and now that was over too. So it was time. I couldn’t stand to see one more person who hated me.”

“Kit hated you?” she whispered.

“You’re not listening,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t just Kit I saw that night.”

He yanked the rag out of his pocket and wiped his forehead with it. Tessa wondered if he was about to cry. If she was about to cry. She didn’t know what to make of his story.

“Who else then?”

His hand fumbled, and he dropped the rag on the ground.

Tessa bent down to pick it up, but he leaned at the same time to grab it first. And that was when something caught her eye. On the rag—which filtered through her fingers, surprisingly silky, like a torn piece of clothing.

And there was a strawberry cutout in the corner.

She knew that piece of clothing.

It was Kit’s shirt. She’d loved that white blouse. It was missing from her closet. Tessa had been looking for it just yesterday.

Maybe, maybe, it was the shirt Kit had been wearing that night.

Tessa stared up at Patrick, her hands suddenly trembling. She swallowed, backing up. “Liar,” she breathed, hardly able to get the words out past the fear clogging her chest. “All of it. Lies.”

“No,” he said, stepping toward her.

“Don’t touch me.” She backed up farther.

“Please, don’t do this,” Patrick said. He reached for her again and she turned, running.

She didn’t stop, veering straight off the road and into the trees.

At first she thought she’d lost him, but then she heard footsteps. Twigs breaking in quick succession. Someone had followed her. A panicked noise wrestled from her throat and she slammed her hand in front of her mouth. But whoever it was—it must be him—had heard, because the footsteps came closer. She ran harder, branches lashing her face. Why hadn’t she just run the other way, toward the road, and hailed someone down for help?

He had Kit’s torn shirt. He’d admitted to seeing her that night. He’d lied. And Tessa had just stood there, eating up his story. She wasn’t thinking straight.

He had the shirt. He must have ripped it off her.

What did he do to her? Was he going to do the same thing to Tessa now?

Tears pricked at her eyes as she pushed her way through the trees, disoriented, trying to find her way toward the bike path, hoping there would be joggers and other people about on a Sunday afternoon—the sun still hadn’t set, and it sent streaks of light through the branches—but it was winter, and so cold. Still—her heart raced—surely there must be someone—

But she didn’t make it that far before a strong hand grabbed her roughly, and she fell to the ground with a scream.