Page 30 of Hunter's Hidden Camera
And with that, she and the whole team disappear behind a set of swinging double doors.
It’s actually kind of peaceful in the backseat of this Uber. The driver, a small twenty-something girl with a big silver nose ring, keeps her eyes fixed firmly on the road and her hands at “ten” and “two,” and she isn’t the talkative type, and her radio is off. This means I can just sit and think about the whole Nash/Alessandra situation.
I can’t just do nothing. If the police do find the body (or parts of it or pieces of her clothing) and if Nash uses my shoelace to connect me to Alessandra, then the murder might get pinned on me.
And even if her body never turns up and nothing happens with my shoelace and her killing turns into a cold case, then her death would weigh on me for the rest of my life. I mean, if I never secretly recorded my brother and uploaded his videos to a porn site, then Nash and Alessandra never would’ve gotten into an argument about it and she wouldn’t have ended up dead. But even if I can rationalize my behavior and convince myself I’m not responsible for her death, then not bringing the murderer to justice would permanently stain my conscience. And I knowI’m not all that religious, but I would still think about God’s wrath and eternal hellfire.
I can’t just call my parents. I mean, what would I even tell them? “Hey, Mom, Dad, Nash murdered his girlfriend, and I know all this because I installed a spy cam in his room. Here’s the evidence. Watch. Oh, and all that stuff Nash and Alessandra are talking about, about me recording him jerking off and then posting the videos to a porn site? Yeah, that’s all true. By the way, I’m gay, and when I masturbate I think about Nash.”
I can’t just send the video of Nash killing Alessandra to the police. I mean, yes, that’s hard evidence that he’s the murderer. But there’s still the matter of my shoelace and fingerprints. While the recording proves Nash’s guilt, the shoelace could be used to “prove” that I was involved somehow. I can imagine the police concocting a whole lurid story about two obsessed brothers planning Alessandra’s murder together.
I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.
I think the first thing I have to do is talk to Nash. Maybe I can convince him to turn himself in. Maybe he hasn’t done anything with the shoelace yet. Maybe this, maybe that.
The Uber arrives at my house. I thank the driver, and she nods her head.
As soon as I get out of the car, I see Victor’s old Honda Civic parked in my driveway. Victor, Oscar, and Oscar’s girlfriend, Blanca, are dancing sexily around the car, as all the car windows are open and a catchy Spanish-language song blasts from the stereo, one that Oscar plays a lot whenever I’m over at his house.
Blanca, a third- or fourth-generation Mexican American (her family has been in the U.S. for decades), starts twerking and backs up her ass into Oscar’s gyrating crotch.
Even though I feel terrible right now about Nash and Alessandra, I can’t help but smile at the sight in front of me.
“‘Sup?” I say.
Victor is snapping his fingers in the air, in time to the beat. “Dance, Hunter!”
Oscar, still pressed up against Blanca’s butt, turns to me. “C’mon, Hunter, this shit slaps!”
Sensing something, I look behind me and see my old white-haired neighbor across the street,Mrs. Prentiss, peeking out her window. She’s looking at us, while speaking urgently into her cell phone. I guess it’s not every day she (a Caucasian woman in a mostly Caucasian neighborhood) sees three Latino kids dirty dancing in a driveway while playing Chucho Flash at high volume. I hope she’s not calling the police. She’s just the type to do something like that.
I start walking towards the car. “Victor, turn the music off.”
Victor keeps dancing. “You can’t stop a song in the middle, dude.”
Blanca stops twerking and runs her fingers through her hair (black with blond highlights). “Don’t ruin our fun, Hunter. God, we were waiting for you for an hour. Where were you? Emma’s been blowing up my phone, looking for you.”
I command, “Turn it off!”
Like last night, Oscar looks a little afraid of me. I guess Ihavebeen acting weird and losing my temper in front of him lately.
He steps away from Blanca. “Yo, Victor, kill the music!”
“Okay, okay,” Victor says. He reaches through the driver’s side window and turns off the stereo.
“Chill, Hunter,” Blanca says. “You on your period or something?”
Oscar turns to her. “Shut up, Blanca.”
“You not my daddy, Oscar.Youshut up. We’re doing Hunter a favor, taking him to the mall, and we can’t even listen to a song. It wasn’t even that loud.”
“Look, I don’t mean to be a dick,” I say. “But I think the lady across the street might’ve called the police.”
“Why?” asks Victor.
Blanca’s face turns red. “That’s straight up racist!”
The three of them look across the street and make eye contact with Mrs. Prentiss. She immediately backs away from the window, out of sight.
