This Is How It Ends
Page 44“How come you never asked me out?”
“See what I mean?” I said, hoping she’d drop it and spare me the agony. But of course she just sat there waiting. “You were going out with Trip,” I said finally. “I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have approved.”
“Before that,” she pressed.
I stared at her for a minute, then said, “I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”
Sarah nodded, looking at her hands, then back up at me. “I’m going to break up with him.” Which would have been great news if it had been anyone other than Trip.
“I . . . We . . .” I gestured at the space between us. “This still can’t happen.” Going out with your best friend’s ex was almost as taboo as what we were doing now.
“I understand,” she said. “It’s not about that.” Sarah shook her head. “I mean, it is, but—”
“Think about it,” I interrupted. “Things are complicated right now. With Nat and everything. I’m not sure any of us are thinking clearly.”
She nodded, maybe realizing the same thing I had—that if she and Trip split up, it wouldn’t be the five of us anymore.
“I’m not saying you shouldn’t. Or that you should,” I told her. “Just be sure you know what feels right to you.”
She stood then, shivering a little in the chill of the room, and looked me straight in the eye. “What feels right is the thing I can’t have.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I told her, “I’ll walk you down.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Humor me,” I said. “Let me be a gentleman.”
CHAPTER 25
MOOSE WAS AT THE DISHWASHER unloading a mountain of silverware when I walked in. With all the reporters in town, the restaurant had been extra busy, which I guess was the silver lining of a local murder. If there is such a thing. He grunted when I approached, looking like he was half-asleep.
I had started the day with an ice-cold shower, so was wide-awake but not in an especially good mood. “Nice to see you, Moose,” I said, snapping on my gloves.
“Fuck off.”
“Hey.” I turned to him. “Enough with the attitude, okay?”
He whirled to face me, not that sleepy after all. “No, it’s not okay. Thanks to you the cops have been all over me for the last few weeks.”
“Thanks to me? I’m pretty sure you chose your recreational activities, not me.”
“You didn’t have to broadcast it to the f**king world.”
“I didn’t,” I said, “but I wasn’t going to lie to the cops. I told you that.”
“Whatever.” He flipped the back of his hand my way. But now I was pissed.
“Maybe I should just give them this.” I held up the baggie.
Moose looked shocked, reaching for it, but I pulled it away. “Where’d you get that?” he demanded.
“At the trailer,” I said quietly. “By the sofa where Nat’s dad was shot.”
“You heard me,” I said. “You told me yourself you were up there that night.”
Moose glanced around. The kitchen was empty, and I was practically whispering, but I could understand why he was scared. He had reason to be. “I guess I dropped it.”
“I guess so.” I stared at him staring at me. Maybe I should have been scared myself, but more than anything, I felt massively disappointed. I didn’t want it to be Moose, didn’t want him to be another deadbeat, go-nowhere Buford loser rotting in jail. But I couldn’t change what he’d done. “So,” I said finally. “Are you going to turn yourself in?”
“For what?”
“For murder.”
“What?” Moose turned white. “No!” He lowered his voice, whispering furiously, “I told you before, I didn’t do it. Why do you keep trying to pin it on me?”
“Moose. I found this up there.”
“So?”
“It was on top of the bloodstains. Look.” I held the baggie up again, pointing to where Randall Cleary’s blood had dried. “It was lying in blood.”
Moose frowned, not getting it.
I sighed. “There was blood under it, Moose, but not on top. That means it was dropped after the blood,” I explained. “After he was shot.”
His eyes bugged out, and he held up his hands. “No. No way, man. I told you I was there, but he was definitely not dead. There was no blood—” Moose was babbling, words tumbling out. “You gotta believe me. Maybe I dropped it and someone else kicked it into the blood later or moved it there on purpose. I don’t even think I had it that night,” Moose said, a weird look on his face. “Maybe I left it somewhere or someone’s trying to frame me.”
I thought there was a lot of that going around for such a small town. It couldn’t all be true. “What were you doing driving past his trailer on Monday?” I asked, switching gears and feeling a little like bad cop Lincoln Andrews doing it.
“No. I was inside the trailer. I saw your car. Monday?” I said. “Around five?”
He glared at me, angry, then spat, “I was going to the Miloseviches’. I visit them every now and then.”
“What? Why?”
“Everyone knew last year,” he said bitterly. “I guess most people have forgotten by now.”
“I know who they are,” I said crossly. “Richie plays football, his sister OD’d.”
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s all anyone remembers about her. But her name was Jessica. And she was my girlfriend.”
“Your girlfriend?” I said stupidly.
He nodded, slamming the dishwasher shut and hefting the bucket of silverware and napkins. “Yeah. And sometimes I miss her. So I visit her family ’cause they do too, and no one else seems to give a shit.”
He pushed through the swinging doors, probably thinking he was getting away from me. But I followed him.
“Why were you on probation last year?” Moose shot me a dirty look and kept walking. “When the police first came to question us? After Mr. Cleary was killed? You were sweating it out because you’re on probation,” I reminded him. “Why?”