KALYN

I COULD’VE CRIED when Gus appeared on my doorstep this morning.

Spending the morning tearing apart an old shed is less than awesome, but it beats school. At least I don’t have to play nice after throwing pizza at my only fake friends yesterday. At least I don’t have to see Sarah’s disappointment or tell her the truth. Instead I get to see Gus’s lovely face.

Now I’m confronted with busted old furniture being dragged into sunlight, the vision of Phil batting at cobwebs and Gus coughing on dust bunnies as we pull things from darkness. I can see the area Mom started clearing out, and we start there, because that’s gotta be where the jacket was found.

I don’t know what we’re actually looking for. We’re not going to find answers here, except Mom did, so at least this feels productive. It’s at least a distraction.

Helping Gus move a tote of snow pants out of the musty darkness, I say, “You know, it’s gonna be harder for us to meet up at school.”

“Why?” Gus gasps as we plop the box down. He’s wiping dirt from his glasses. God, his eyes are huge without those lenses, these deep orbs of gray that might woo the shit out of me if I were otherwise inclined. “Nobody knows who you are.”

“They’re bound to find out.”

I have no idea why he’s frowning at me.

“You sound like me,” he says, “but before I met you.”

I don’t know how the hell to respond—I mean, wasn’t Gus better off before he met me?—so maybe it’s real lucky that Phil emerges from the shed, holding a pair of crutches and a filthy old comforter. “Kalyn, I haven’t asked the obvious—could your grandmother have murdered Gus’s dad?”

“Wonder what it’s like to have a normal conversation,” Gus says, wincing.

“Gus. I am not going to discount her merely because she’s elderly and disabled, am I? That would be shortsighted and discriminatory.”

Gus groans, but his cheeks flush as if he’s pleased. He and Phil have a funny thing going, but it’s some kind of actual understanding thing.

“Best not to discount Grandma in most things,” I say, “because she’ll kick your ass for it. But Grandma had an alibi. She was actually at the football game, working concessions with like a half-dozen church ladies.”

Phil looks real disappointed, and I’m not sure whether to be offended. I have very confused thoughts about what constitutes a badass. Sure, murder ain’t cool, but Grandma can hold her own in a tussle. I’m glad others can smell that on her.

After a few hours of sunshine that eats up a little of the puddles, the lawn surrounding the shed is a museum of someone else’s memories. There’s some genuinely nice, heavy furniture in the shed that we don’t touch, and a dead snowmobile that should probably be parked elsewhere. Other than that, we’ve cleared things out pretty good. Most of the boxes are full of dusty old clothes, things belonging to bygone Spences. There are forgotten skis and junky Budweiser mirrors, dirty plates and ugly puppy statuettes, and the usual pile of car parts and crusty rags.

“Whole lotta crap,” I say.

“No, it’s not,” Gus says awkwardly.

“Dear Rich Boy, I’m allowed to call my own crap ‘crap.’ Sincerely, Me.”

That shuts him up pretty quick.

“What became of the murder weapon?” Phil asks, oblivious to the moment. “Locked in an evidence locker, I presume?”

“I guess so. It was Grandma’s gun, technically.”

Phil scratches his chin. “As your grandmother is not a murderess and her gun is elsewhere, presumably, I think I will journey into her midst and use the restroom.”

“Check that she’s breathing.” I try to make it sound like a joke, but I have no idea when Mom came in last night, and she’d left again before I crawled out of bed.

Gus slumps atop a box, stretching his bad leg out in front of him. Sweat has left lines in the dirt around his face. He looks four times as tired as I feel.

“I thought we might find more photos of them.” I get why he’s disappointed—if Grandma blocked out all the faces of his father, maybe we’ll never see real proof of the two of them spending time together. But that reminds me—­

“Gus, there’s a picture that was in the papers years back. Our dads were in the same shop class, and the class posed in front of a gazebo downtown. It’s not exactly proof of friendship, but have you ever seen that?”

“No. I don’t think so. Mom might have a copy of it, back home in the office.”

“We should check out your place next.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Gus looks beyond uneasy. “I mean, for photos.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t invite myself over.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he says. “But lately Mom’s . . . ​not okay.”

“Your mom ever talk about my dad?” I ask, trying not to sound angry.

He blinks. “No. She didn’t know him.”

“She must have known him, right? If he and Gary were friends in high school. Funny if she never mentioned that, considering she was dating James and all.”

I don’t say it, not directly. I don’t need to. A crease forms between his eyebrows.

“I bet no one knew they were friends,” he reasons. “I bet they kept it a secret.”

“What, like we do?”

Gus shakes his head. “Not like us. We’re different.”

But now my heart is pounding, and I can’t believe we’re sitting out here in the cold sun together, as if this can actually work. I don’t want to hear Gus say we could be different from our parents. I want him to say that his parents could be the same as mine, in fact, that guilt doesn’t belong only to the poor and trashy. I want Gus to consider, for one second, what I’ve always had to accept: “Who says your mom’s not a murderer, Gus? Might have to ask her some questions. I don’t think my dad’s the only liar.”

He’s glaring at me, but how is that fair? “What? Don’t like the shoe on the other foot? Easy to say anyone in my family is a murderer, but better not imply the same thing about yours, huh?”

“Because it’s r-ridiculous!”

“Why? Because your family is so wholesome? Because your family wouldn’t even want to be seen with mine, and everyone knows that?”

“It’s not like—not that!” Gus sputters, fists clenched, climbing to his feet.

“Oh, really? You walked into my house today and felt bad for me. So what’s it really like, Gus? How come you don’t want me to come over?”

“Because—it’s just—”

“How come we don’t hang out at school, huh? Really, Gus?”

“Because you—you’re too cool for me!” he blurts.

I’m left gobsmacked. “What?”

Gus’s eyes are shining. “Because you are too cool to be seen with me. You say that Rose wouldn’t mind, but I’m not exactly good for your image either, am I?”

“G-Gus,” I stammer, “do—do you really think that?”

His expression makes my chest hurt. Gus has lived his whole life thinking people tolerate him. But I can’t believe he still thinks that about me. And despite it all, I’m up and wrapping my arms around his stiff shoulders.

“Gus,” I say, “I deserve more fucking credit than that. Maybe my family doesn’t, fine. But I’m your fucking friend, you got that? You’ve gotta get out of your head.”

I pull back. His expression crumbles. “Yeah. I know that . . . ​ and maybe you’re right. I can’t think of my family like I think of yours. As the . . . bad guys.”

“Yeah, well.” I smirk. “It gets easier with practice.”

“Ahem?” Something about the way Phil crops up like some wayward gopher lessens the tension. “Both of you are neglecting the idea that it could have been a complete outsider who committed this crime. Another classmate, a drifter, a stranger, unlikely though it seems.”

“Coulda been a setup, even,” I say, almost wanting to believe it.

Phil nods. “Many people had reason to dislike the Spence crowd. What if this was all part of an elaborate vendetta?”

But if that’s the case, we’ll never solve this, Scooby gang or not. And there’s something in my bones that says otherwise. Dad wouldn’t take the fall for a drifter. He wouldn’t hide a body for a drifter, wouldn’t go to prison for a drifter. No matter what the truth is, it’s a lot closer to home. But which home? Mine, or Gus’s?

The black clouds are returning. Gus eyes them uncomfortably.

“Kalyn, can you help us get the van out of the mud? I need to go home.”

“What, right this minute?”

He looks at me. “After we clean up, I mean. I have some questions for my mom. I don’t want to wait anymore.”

By the time we’re done it’s late in the afternoon. Getting the van unstuck takes some doing, but after a little kitty litter and a lot of pushing, we free it from the mud and they wave goodbye.

I’m already waiting for the phone to ring.