This Is How It Ends

I glared at Lincoln, feeling my ears burn. “If she was abused,” I said evenly, “it was under all of our noses. Don’t tell me you didn’t know her dad was a user and a dealer.”

His face darkened, and I knew I’d crossed a line I probably shouldn’t have. “You saw drugs at her house?”

“No,” I said flatly. I knew they were there that night Moose dragged me up to the trailer, but I didn’t actually see any. “I’ve never been inside Nat’s house.”

“Never?”

I shook my head. “We’d go up to get her sometimes—me and my friends—but we always waited in the car for her to come out.”

“So you’d never met her dad? Never talked to him?”

I hesitated, knowing I should lie. “Just at the door of her house.”

“When you were there to pick her up?”

“No,” I said. “A year or so ago.”

“What were you doing there?”

My hands felt damp. This wasn’t going the way I wanted. “I was with a friend.”

“And you went there because . . .” Lincoln drew it out, waiting like a cat who’s spotted a mouse. He knew exactly where this was heading.

“My ride needed to stop by.”

“For what?”

“What does it matter?” I said. “It has nothing to do with what happened last night.”

“How do you know?” Lincoln said, leaning close enough that I could smell the sourness of his morning coffee. “I don’t know what happened, and I’m investigating the case. So how could you?” He took a deep breath and, his voice calm but dead serious, asked, “What were you there for, Riley?”

“Look,” I said, “I don’t really know. I never went in, didn’t hear what they talked about or see what they did. All I know is we drove up there, I waited, we left.”

Lincoln looked ready to tear into me, but Bob interjected, “You said you met her dad.”

I nodded. “Yeah. It was late. I had to get home, so I knocked on the door. Nat’s dad answered.”

“And?” Bob asked. “What was your impression?”

“I don’t know. Same as it was yesterday, I guess. That he was . . .” I paused. “Kind of a mess.”

Lincoln snorted.

Bob ignored him, asking, “Did you see Natalie there?”

“No. We weren’t really friends back then,” I said.

“Did you ever tell her about that night? Stopping up there with your ‘friend’? Meeting her dad?”

I shook my head.

“Why?”

“She’d be embarrassed,” I said. “Natalie doesn’t talk about her dad or anything. I didn’t want to make her feel bad.”

No one said anything for a few beats, but I could feel the air in the room soften. Until Lincoln jumped in with the next question, “Did she know he kept a gun in the house?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does she know how to shoot?”

I saw where this was leading. “You think she did it?”

Bob shot a look at Lincoln, who asked, “Do you, Riley?”

“No!” I said. “No way.” I felt guilty. Like they’d somehow overheard our conversation in the car and gotten the idea our friend could shoot her father point-blank in the head.

“Why?”

“Why?” I echoed, thinking of Nat who always remembered birthdays and never let kids sit alone in the cafeteria. “It . . . it’s just . . . not something Natalie would do.”

“Why?” Lincoln pursued.

“She’s not like that. Not violent,” I said. “I’ve never even seen her argue with someone, much less, you know, try to hurt them.”

“Sometimes people just snap,” Lincoln said.

“Maybe. But Nat’s so protective of her dad. She’s never said a bad word about him. And won’t let anyone else, either,” I said. “She doesn’t have other family that I know of.”

“What happened to her mom?” Lincoln asked.

“She never talks about that, either.”

“But you have some idea.”

“No. I really don’t. I mean, I guess she just left. A bunch of years ago.” The rumor that she’d up and split was pretty common knowledge. “But I don’t really know.”

Bob was nodding, but Lincoln was looking back at his notebook. “Does she have a boyfriend?”

“Nat’s mom? I have no idea.”

Lincoln frowned, like I should have been able to read into his poorly phrased question. “No. Natalie.”

“Oh,” I said. “No.” Though John Peters seemed to be auditioning for the role last night. I wonder what he was thinking this morning. Would he believe Nat could kill her dad?

“Anyone on the ski team she’s especially close with?”

“Not that I know of.”

“How about at school?”

“Nat’s friends with lots of people. Pretty much everyone likes her.”

Lincoln scribbled some things down while Bob took over the questions, switching angles.

“Who do you think might have done something like this, Riley?”

“Me? Who do I think?”

He nodded.

“I have no idea.”

“Can you think of anyone who hated Nat’s dad?”

“Well, sure.” I frowned at them. “Bill Winston, for one. Not that I think he did it or anything,” I hurried to add as Lincoln kept scribbling.

“Do you think he’s a more likely suspect, or Natalie?” Lincoln asked, glancing up.

“So this is a multiple-choice test?”

Lincoln scowled. “We’re just trying to get some clarity here.”

“I think I’d have to go with ‘neither.’”

“Uh-huh,” Bob said. “Who else?”

“Who else what?”

“Who else might want Randall Cleary dead?”

I was not comfortable with this. At all. “I don’t really know,” I said, deciding to plead the Fifth on the rest of this conversation before I got my ass kicked by someone.

Lincoln took a few more notes and flipped another page or two. Bob smiled at me, and I felt everything inside me unclench. We were done.

Then Lincoln asked, “Who took you there that night, Riley?”

“What night?”

“The night you met Randall Cleary. Natalie’s father.”