“But you’re just sitting on evidence. You know that, right? I mean, right now the police think Iris was hit by a drunk driver—that her death was an accident. Those pictures could help their investigation so much.”
“Yeah.” River shrugs. “Or they could get buried and never see the light of day, while the killer suddenly knows they’ve got witnesses they need to deal with. If we can get more information, we can think about going to the cops, but even then it’s a risk. Right now, it’d just be fucking dangerous.”
Maybe I’ve just been hanging out with the kings too much, but what he’s saying is starting to make sense to me. I’ve never exactly lived my life in black and white, and what these guys are doing is just one more shade of gray. I find myself sort of impressed that instead of just trying to put this behind them and pretend it never happened, they want to do something about it themselves.
Of course, I can’t help but wonder how much of that is self-preservation.
We don’t think the man in the black ski mask saw us. I don’t remember his gaze lingering on our car, and we were a good way down the street, hidden in shadows.
But we don’t know that.
It’s possible he did see the car, maybe even realized after he sped away from the scene that he might’ve been watched—and now, it’s possible he’s doing the exact same thing we are.
Trying to figure out who was there that night.
19
On Wednesday of the following week, there’s a funeral for Iris.
I’m not invited, which makes complete sense, since she and I were never close friends—and no one knows I have any connection to her beyond our encounters at school. Her parents don’t know I witnessed her final moments, and if they did know, I don’t think that would make them more inclined to invite me to the service.
They’d probably hate me.
All four of the guys are invited, and all four of them go. I spend the evening in Mom’s apartment watching old movies with her, trying to keep my mind from wandering to the church downtown where Iris’s family and friends are mourning.
I hug Mom goodnight at a little after ten and head around the corner to my room. As I’m opening my door, I notice Audrey slipping out of the bedroom down the hall from mine. I pretend not to see her, turning my head away and stepping quickly inside my little sanctuary. I have no idea what she was doing in there—it’s the same room I heard Mr. Black having sex in once—but I decide I really don’t want to know. My brain is overloaded with secrets, and even my usually curious nature can’t handle another one.
Besides, once you learn something, you can’t unlearn it.
I brush my teeth and slip into my pajamas, and I’m about to crawl into bed when there’s a light knock on the door. I’m so on edge these days that even that soft sound makes me jump, and I really wish there was a damn peephole in this thing. I want to know what’s waiting for me on the other side of the door before I commit to facing it.
There isn’t though, so I take a deep breath and open the door a crack, peering out into the hall.
It’s Lincoln.
And he’s drunk.
At least, I’m assuming so. I’ve never seen him look this disheveled. His dark hair is always a little messy, but now it sticks out at odd angles. His beautiful amber eyes are a little glassy, and his entire face looks worn and drawn. He must’ve been wearing a full suit at the funeral, but the jacket is missing now. His tie is loosened haphazardly, and the sleeves are rolled up his forearms. And he smells like a damn distillery.
“Linc?” I ask, unconsciously shortening the word to the nickname his friends use. “Are you okay?”
He doesn’t answer, just steps past me into my room. I hesitate for a second before shutting the door softly and turning to face him. Something is obviously wrong, and it makes my internal alarm bells go off, but I’ve started to truly believe that Lincoln wouldn’t do me harm. He has a somewhat misguided sense of right and wrong maybe, but he’s not a bad person.
“What happened? How was the funeral?”
He still doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even look at me. He just sinks down onto the end of my bed, resting his forearms on his thighs and bowing his head. He looks sad and… broken. I don’t understand quite what’s happening, or why he’s so upset now—more so than he was the night we saw Iris get murdered. What’s changed since then?
Or has it all finally caught up to him?
I don’t bother asking him another question, since I’m certain I won’t get an answer. Instead, I pad over to the bed and sit next to him. I’m not quite sure what to do, but I can feel the distress radiating from him like a field of toxic energy, and I can’t take it. I want to ease it somehow.
Tentatively, I reach my hand out and run it through the hair at the nape of his neck. The dark strands are soft, and I feel his body shudder at my touch. I rake my nails gently over his scalp, something my mom used to do to me when I was feeling shitty, and he lets out a breath. Then he turns toward me suddenly, wrapping his arms around my middle and pressing his head against my low belly.
It’s a strange sort of hug, and there’s something almost desperate about the way he clings to me. I bite my lip to keep my own rising emotions in check as I keep stroking my fingers through his hair. His breathing is harsh and uneven, and I don’t know if tears are falling from his eyes or not, but I have a feeling this is the closest
