She pushes away from the table and heads inside, risking one last glance back at us before pulling the doors closed.
Tess pours yet another drink.
“The FBI is getting involved in Parrish’s case,” Tess tells me, and my pretend kitty ears perk up at the news. This is more proof that The Seattle Slayer and Parrish’s kidnapper really are one in the same. And, like, the FBI is good at what they do. They can crack this case a million times better than I can.
Only … I feel like Justin isn’t going to give up quite so easily.
“They’ve been so thorough, collecting evidence …” She trails off and swigs her drink. I expect her eyes to be even more glazed over when she looks at me again only … they’re not. There’s a sharpness to her that frightens me. “They went through the trash,” Tess continues, and … one, two, three seconds later, it clicks.
The trash.
The condom I used with Parrish.
I blanch.
“They found a condom in the garbage can in the garage. It was mixed in with trash from Parrish’s bedroom.” No, no, no, please make this stop. Please gods make this stop. She can’t find out this way; this isn’t what Parrish wanted. “But you know what I remember?” Tess continues, still staring right at me. “I remember Chasm bringing that garbage downstairs and disposing of it.”
It takes me almost a full minute to make the connection.
Oh.
Oooooh.
Shit.
“So I need to know, Dakota: is that Parrish’s condom or is it yours?” It never occurs to Tess that it could be ours. Fuck. Guilt and relief sweep over me in equal measures, making me feel queasy.
If I say that the condom belongs to Parrish, then the authorities might have it tested for evidence. Then they’ll know. The whole world will know. Tess will know.
“It’s mine,” I breathe out, looking down at my lap and remembering with a start that I’m dressed head to toe in Chasm’s clothes. For a second time. Yep, I can see how this might look.
There’s a long pause there as Tess mulls this information over. Either she’s been broken by her son’s disappearance or she’s drunk or … she really does want to change. Her response is calm and measured which I appreciate, and not entirely unexpected.
“You understand that Kwang-seon won’t be able to come over for a while?”
I nod.
Silence reigns between us, like a princess on a throne. It’s so awkward; I can’t even look at her. All I can do is stare at my lap and be glad the sweatshirt covers the hot flush on my chest.
“Do you …” Tess starts, stumbling over the words a bit. I look up and realize that she’s struggling not because of the alcohol, but because she’s embarrassed. “Do you have any questions about … anything? Boy bodies can be weird. Penises especially—”
I cut her off before this gets any more disturbing.
“No, no, I’m … I’m good. I … thanks but my grandmother gave me the talk in junior high. She’s a doctor so …” I trail off as Tess nods again, lifting her drink up in the direction of the balcony doors.
“You can go,” she tells me, her voice dropping into this distant, dreamy thing. I imagine that being an artist is a double-edged sword, too, just like love. You can dream up pretty, wistful things. Hell, you can create an entire world to your liking. At the same time, the nightmares must be so vivid, visions of Parrish bleeding and broken.
I stand up and flee the balcony before things get any heavier.
It hurts too much to look at Parrish’s door or to think about Maxx being behind it, so I rush into my room, slam the door closed, and put my back against it.
Without any apparent input from me, my body slides to the floor and I end up sitting hunched over for a while. Eventually, I gather the energy to reach over and open the nightstand drawer, pulling out the drawing that Parrish gave me.
The motion causes the nightstand to shake slightly, knocking several yellow petals loose from the sunflowers.
They’re dying. After eight days, they’re fucking dying.
I squeeze the drawing in my hands so hard that the page wrinkles.
“I’ll win this thing, Dad,” I growl out, fully aware that he’s listening in on me. I might only have theories at this point, but there’s no doubt about that. “Do your worst.”
Maxx is waiting for me when I come downstairs the next morning. He hands over a cup of coffee without a word, and even though I don’t usually do coffee in the morning, I take it with a grateful smile. I notice he isn’t drinking any and then remember my sister told me hates coffee. So … he made this just for me?
“I’m taking you both to class today,” he explains, glancing over at Kimber’s slumped form. She isn’t wearing a lick of makeup and her uniform is disheveled, the pieces a bit mismatched. The school gives us all these options—blazers, knitted vests, shorts and skirts, slacks—but there are only certain combinations we’re allowed to wear. Kimber is definitely a walking violation today with her shorts and vest and unzipped sweater, but I doubt any of the administrators will bother her.
