“Chuck Carson, I do not need to run every parenting decision I make past you. Please follow Mr. Murphy back to the lodge, and don’t argue with me. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”
“In trouble for what?” I ask, managing to keep my voice even and low. “In trouble for having sex? Because we both know I’m having it now. I’m seventeen, and in four months, I’ll be eighteen.”
Archie turns and walks away, but I’m not done.
I follow after him, grabbing onto his arm. He pauses to look down at me, and there’s a fury and maybe even a deep-seated fear burning in his eyes that I don’t understand. If he’d only tell me, I’d get it. If he’d only make his point known in words instead of orders.
“Dad, please, talk to me.”
He hesitates for the briefest of moments before tearing his arm from my grip and taking off in the direction of the lodge. A frown settles over my lips as I turn back to Spencer and Mr. Murphy. This could be a mistake, but … I’m going to do it anyway.
“We know it’s you,” I say, and Mr. Murphy blinks big, innocent blue eyes at me. He’s always so fucking nice all the time. Figures there’d be something wrong with him. Maybe he’s a psychopath who can fake his emotions, just like Church said. “You’re Adam.”
“Ex-excuse me?” Mr. Murphy chokes out as Spencer’s brows go up. I didn’t exactly have the opportunity to fill the guys in after Dad caught me naked-ass-to-dick with Church in the hot springs pool.
“You’ve been writing the notes, in purple ink. You’re Adam,” I state confidently, lifting my chin up. “I saw you pin a note to my door, just before the attack happened. The question is: are you one of the murderers, or are you playing a different game?”
“Jesus, Chuck,” Spencer says, casting a wary look around the shadowed woods surrounding us. We’re standing just past the ominous red arch of the torii gate. It’s creepy as hell out here, I won’t lie. There are little cement statues covered in moss, gazing at us from the underbrush, and a whispering breeze that brings chills up on the back of my neck.
“I’m sorry, I don’t—” Mr. Murphy starts, but then I take a menacing step toward him and he pauses, his gaze locked with mine.
“Are you one of the killers, Lionel? Or what? Because I’m seriously tired of being in the dark. This shit has gone too far. We know you’re involved, just not in what capacity.”
“Mr. Carson,” Mr. Murphy begins, his face tightening with anger. “I’m still a staff member, so please consider how you speak to me, or I’ll be forced to have a word with your father.”
“Go ahead. And by the way, when we’re in private like this, you can call me Charlotte. We all know you know my secret.” Mr. Murphy’s face pales as I turn away and head back to the lodge. I’m not about to wait around for ‘Adam’ to be my escort. If he has a problem with me heading back to my room with Church, he can go find Archie and explain the notes he’s been leaving me, too.
“You shouldn’t have confronted him like that,” Spencer says, jogging to catch up to me. “He could still be one of the killers.”
“He’s not,” I say, and I can feel it in my gut that I’m right. Mr. Murphy is too skittish, too nervous. He could hardly hurt a fly. And I mean that, like, literally. One time, there was this huge horsefly buzzing around our English lit classroom, and instead of just swatting it, Mr. Murphy spent fifteen minutes trying to shoo it out an open window. “I don’t know what he’s up to, or what his end-game is, but he’s not a killer.”
Spencer frowns and exhales, tucking his hands into the pockets of his yukata as we head inside the breakfast room and past Mark’s raucous table where all his heartless, annoying football friends howl and squeal, like Eugene was never there, like he was never one of them. I haven’t seen them show any remorse. They didn’t even light a remembrance candle for him on the little shrine near the front desk.
“You’re that certain he’s not a killer, so when are you going to be that certain about me?” Spencer asks, and as soon as we turn the corner away from the breakfast area, he pushes me against the wall with a hand on my shoulder. He leans his elbow on the wall above my head and stares down at me, eyes dark with frustration.
“You were outside wearing a hoodie, Spencer Hargrove,” I say, wanting to cry but refusing to let myself shed tears. I can’t decide if I’m upset because of the dead body, because of the chase … or because of the uncertainty. I’m frustrated with myself for not being able to trust the boys. And I’m frustrated with them for making it so hard to do it in the first place. “Right at the butt cheek of dawn.”
