Page 26 of Hunter's Hidden Camera
“Wait,” I say. “Where’s my brother?”
“He left,” says Oscar.
“You said you guys were knocking on my front door for a long time and then my brother let you in. Was he in the house and opened the door for you and left?”
“Nah. We were on your front porch, and he pulled into the driveway, and he opened the door for us because, like I said, Victor had to piss. Your brother didn’t even come in the house. He said he just had to get a few things from the garage. So we went upstairs so Victor could use your bathroom, and by the time we came downstairs we saw him take off in his car. Something going on, Hunter?”
“No. Like I said, I’m just sick.”
Victor takes a few more steps backward toward the door. “Did Oscar tell you that my cousin can get you a discount on a new phone? We’ll take you to the Verizon store tomorrow, okay, Hunter? Okay? I can pick you up at like 9:30 in the morning, so we can get there right when it opens. It won’t be busy then.”
I stand here, thinking about Nash and Alessandra and what I saw and what I’m going to do about it.
I can tell that Oscar and Victor think I’m acting weird because Oscar gives Victor a WTF look over the fact that I’m not moving, that I’m so silent.
So I say, “Thanks, guys. See you tomorrow.”
There’s so much to figure out right now that I’m not sure I want to spend my Saturday messing around at the Verizon store. But I have to act naturally.
Victor walks out the door.
Before Oscar exits, he says, “See ya, bro.”
After I lock the front door, I run back to my room and review the last video file I was watching, the one in which Nash waslooking directly into the camera. After a few seconds, he looks away and then walks out.
I release a sigh of relief. From what I can tell, it seems like he didn’t know there was a spy cam hidden in the smoke alarm in his bedroom. He was just looking up, thinking, planning what his next move should be.
There’s no more footage for today. My brother hasn’t come into his bedroom again. He apparently, according to the guys, just went into the garage for something.
I head downstairs.
I flick on the light to the garage. I look around to see if I can figure out what’s missing, what Nash took. After a few minutes of careful observation and playing a kind of twisted memory game, I notice that our rusty gas can—where we keep fuel for our lawnmower—is gone. It’s usually sitting in the corner, but it’s now nowhere to be found. One plus one equals two, and Nash plus a dead body equals he’s going to set Alessandra on fire, a desperate attempt to get rid of all evidence. No body, no crime.
I’m not sure where he could even go to burn a corpse to ashes. It’s not like he could just drive up to the mountains and light up a dead body without anybody noticing. And it’s not like he has easy access to a crematorium. He would have to go far away, somewhere remote. The desert maybe? It’s a long-ass drive. But I guess when it comes to covering up a murder, you have to do what you have to do.
I walk back to the door that leads from the garage into our kitchen. Right when I’m about to turn off the light and go back inside the house, I see a cardboard box, sitting mid-level on a shelf, that’s sticking out, about to lose balance and fall to the floor, with the top partially open—while all the other boxes on the same shelf are in their proper place, pushed in like they’re supposed to be and closed up. It’s as if someone (Nash?) pulled out this particular box, opened it, and then hastily put it back on the shelf.
I grab the box. I look inside. It actually belongs to me. I keep a bunch of my old running shoes in here. Not all of them. Just the ones I was wearing when I won important track meets.
Why was Nash looking through this box? Maybe he didn’t want this box at all. Maybe he was opening a whole bunch of other boxes. But why is this one the only one that looks out of place?
I take out the shoes, one by one. They all seem to be here. They all seem to be paired.
But then I notice something that confuses me. The shoelace on one of my shoes—just one—is missing. Why did Nash take one shoelace? Why would he need a shoelace?
I think. And then, like a bolt of lightning, a troubling thought smashes into my mind:
I’ve used my hands to tie that shoelace many times—dozens of times, hundreds of times. My fingerprints, my very unique fingerprints, are all over it.
14
Patricia
Iwake up on the floor of my garage. It’s light out. It must be Saturday morning. After realizing that Nash may or may not be trying to frame me for Alessandra’s murder, I guess I collapsed and passed out. I may be overwhelmed by everything that happened last night. Or perhaps Emma was right and I have a concussion and that’s why I lost consciousness—it’s one of the symptoms.
I need to shake this cloud out of my head. I need to be able to think. I need to figure out what to do.
Find Nash, and confront him about what happened? Call my parents, and ask them for help? Dial 9-1-1 and tell them everything? Anonymously send all the incriminating video files to the police? Or do nothing? I can’t just do nothing, right?
