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I'm beyond grateful my parents were with me at church when DetectiveMendoza pulled me aside and asked me to come to the police station. Ithought I'd just get a few follow-up questions from Officer Budapest. Iwasn't prepared for what came next and wouldn't have known what to do.My parents took over and refused to let me answer his questions. They gottons of information out of the detective and didn't give up anything inreturn. It was pretty masterful.

But. Now they know what I've done.

Well. Not yet. They know the rumor. At the moment, driving home fromthe police station, they're still ranting against the injustice of it all. Mymother is, anyway. My father's keeping his attention on the road, but evenhis turn signals are unusually aggressive.

"I mean," my mother says, in an urgent voice that indicates she's barelywarming up, "it's horrible what happened to Simon. Of course his parentswant answers. But to take a high school gossip post and turn it into anaccusation like that is just ludicrous. I can't fathom how anyone could thinkBronwyn would kill a boy because he was about to post a lie.""It's not a lie," I say, but too quietly for her to hear me.

"The police have nothing." My father sounds like he's judging acompany he's thinking of acquiring and finds it lacking. "Flimsycircumstantial evidence. Obviously no real forensics or they wouldn't bereaching this way. That was a Hail Mary." The car in front of us stops shortat a yellow light, and Dad swears softly in Spanish as he brakes. "Bronwyn,I don't want you to worry about this. We'll hire an outstanding lawyer, butit's purely a formality. I may sue the police department when it's all over.Especially if any of this goes public and harms your reputation."My throat feels like I'm getting ready to push words through sludge. "Idid." I'm barely audible. I press the palm of my hand to my burning cheekand force my voice higher. "I did cheat. I'm sorry."Mom rotates in her seat. "I can't hear you, honey. What was that?""I cheated." The words tumble out of me: how I'd used a computer in thelab right after Mr. Camino, and realized he hadn't logged out of his GoogleDrive. A file with all our chemistry test questions for the rest of the yearwas right there. I downloaded it onto a flash drive almost without thinkingabout it. And I used it to get perfect scores for the rest of the year.I have no idea how Simon found out. But as usual, he was right.

The next few minutes in the car are horrible. Mom turns in her seat andstares at me with betrayal in her eyes. Dad can't do the same, but he keepsglancing into the rearview mirror like he's hoping to see somethingdifferent. I can read the hurt in both their expressions: You're not who wethought you were.

My parents are all about merit-based achievement. Dad was one of theyoungest CFOs in California before we were even born, and Mom'sdermatology practice is so successful she hasn't been able to take on anynew patients in years. They've been drumming the same message into mesince kindergarten: Work hard, do your best, and the rest will follow. And italways had, until chemistry.

I guess I didn't know what to do about that.

"Bronwyn." Mom's still staring at me, her voice low and tight. "My God.I never would have imagined you'd do something like that. This is terribleon so many levels, but most important, it gives you a motive.""I didn't do anything to Simon!" I burst out.

The hard lines of her mouth soften slightly as she shakes her head at me."I'm disappointed in you, Bronwyn, but I didn't make that leap. I'm juststating fact. If you can't unequivocally say that Simon was lying, this couldget very messy." She rubs a hand over her eyes. "How did he know youcheated? Does he have proof?"

"I don't know. Simon didn't ..." I pause, thinking about all the AboutThat updates I'd read over the years. "Simon never really proved anything.It's just ... everybody believed him because he was never wrong. Thingsalways came out eventually."

And here I'd thought I was in the clear, since I'd taken Mr. Camino'sfiles last March. What I just don't get is, if Simon had known, why hadn'the pounced on it right away?

I knew what I did was wrong, obviously. I even thought it might beillegal, although technically I didn't break into Mr. Camino's account sinceit was already open. But that part hardly seemed real. Maeve uses her madcomputer skills to hack into stuff for fun all the time, and if I'd thought of itI probably could have asked her to get Mr. Camino's files for me. Or evenchange my grade. But it wasn't premeditated. The file was in front of me inthat moment, and I took it.

Then I chose to use it for months afterward, telling myself it was okaybecause one hard class shouldn't ruin my whole future. Which is kind ofhorribly ironic, given what just happened at the police station.

I wonder if everything Simon wrote about Cooper and Addy is true too.Detective Mendoza showed us all the entries, implying that somebody elsemight already be confessing and cutting a deal. I always thought Cooper'stalent was God-given and that Addy was too Jake-obsessed to even look atanother guy, but they probably never imagined me as a cheater, either.With Nate, I don't wonder. He's never pretended to be anything otherthan exactly who he is.

Dad pulls into our driveway and cuts the engine, slipping the keys fromthe ignition and turning to face me. "Is there anything else you haven't toldus?"

I think back to the claustrophobic little room at the police station, myparents on either side of me as Detective Mendoza lobbed questions likegrenades. Were you competitive with Simon? Have you ever been to hishouse? Did you know he was writing a post about you?Did you have any reason, beyond this, to dislike or resent Simon?My parents said I didn't have to respond to any of his questions, but I didanswer that one. No, I said then.

"No," I say now, meeting my father's eyes.

If he knows I'm lying, he doesn't show it.

Nate

Sunday, September 30, 5:15 p.m.

Calling my ride home with Officer Lopez after Simon's funeral "tense"would be an understatement.

It was hours later, for one thing. After Officer Buzz Cut had brought meto the station and asked me a half-dozen different ways whether I'd killedSimon. Officer Lopez had asked if she could be present during questioning,and he agreed, which was fine with me. Although things got a littleawkward when he pulled up Simon's drug-dealing accusation.

Which, although true, he can't prove. Even I know that. I stayed calmwhen he told me the circumstances surrounding Simon's death gave thepolice probable cause to search my house for drugs, and that they alreadyhad a warrant. I'd cleared everything out this morning, so I knew theywouldn't find anything.

Thank God Officer Lopez and I meet on Sundays. I'd probably be in jailotherwise. I owe her big-time for that, although she doesn't know it. Andfor having my back during questioning, which I didn't expect. I've lied toher face every time we've met and I'm pretty sure she knows that. Butwhen Officer Buzz Cut started getting heated, she'd dial him back. I got thesense, eventually, that all they have is some flimsy circumstantial evidenceand a theory they were hoping to pressure someone into admitting.I answered a few of their questions. The ones I knew couldn't get me intotrouble. Everything else was some variation of I don't know and I don'tremember. Sometimes it was even true.

Officer Lopez didn't say a word from the time we left the police stationuntil she pulled into my driveway. Now she gives me a look that makes itclear even she can't find a bright side to what just happened.

"Nate. I won't ask if what I saw on that site is true. That's a conversationfor you and a lawyer if it ever comes to that. But you need to understandsomething. If, from this day forward, you deal drugs in any way, shape, orform--I can't help you. Nobody can. This is no joke. You're dealing with apotential capital offense. There are four kids involved in this investigationand every single one of them except you is backed by parents who arematerially comfortable and present in their children's lives. If not outrightwealthy and influential. You're the obvious outlier and scapegoat. Am Imaking myself clear?"

Jesus. She's not pulling any punches. "Yeah." I got it. I'd been thinkingabout it all the way home.

"All right. I'll see you next Sunday. Call me if you need me before then."I climb out of the car without thanking her. It's a bullshit move, but Idon't have it in me to be grateful. I step inside our low-ceilinged kitchenand the smell hits me right away: stale vomit seeps into my nose and throat,making me gag. I look around for the source, and I guess today's my luckyday because my father managed to make it to the sink. He just didn't botherrinsing it afterward. I put one hand over my face and use the other to aim aspray of water, but it's no good. The stuff's caked on by now and it won'tcome off unless I scrub it.

We have a sponge somewhere. Probably in the cabinet under the sink.Instead of looking, though, I kick it. Which is pretty satisfying, so I do itanother five or ten times, harder and harder until the cheap wood splintersand cracks. I'm panting, breathing in lungsful of puke-infested air, and I'mso fucking sick of it all, I could kill somebody.

Some people are too toxic to live. They just are.

A familiar scratching sound comes from the living room--Stan, clawingat the glass of his terrarium, looking for food. I squirt half a bottle of dishdetergent in the sink and aim another blast of water over it. I'll deal with therest later.

I get a container of live crickets from the refrigerator and drop them intoStan's cage, watching them hop around with no clue what's in store forthem. My breathing slows and my head clears, but that's not exactly goodnews. If I'm not thinking about one shit storm, I have to think aboutanother.

Group murder. It's an interesting theory. I guess I should be grateful thecops didn't try to pin the whole thing on me. Ask the other three to nod andget out of jail free. I'm sure Cooper and the blond girl would have beenmore than happy to play along.

Maybe Bronwyn wouldn't, though.

I close my eyes and brace my hands on the top of Stan's terrarium,thinking about Bronwyn's house. How clean and bright it was, and how sheand her sister talked to each other like all the interesting parts of theirconversation were the things they didn't say. It must be nice, after gettingaccused of murder, to come home to a place like that.

When I leave the house and get on my bike, I tell myself I don't knowwhere I'm going, and drive aimlessly for almost an hour. By the time I endup in Bronwyn's driveway, it's dinnertime for normal people, and I don'texpect anyone to come outside.

I'm wrong, though. Someone does. It's a tall man in a fleece vest and achecked shirt, with short dark hair and glasses. He looks like a guy who'sused to giving orders, and he approaches me with a calm, measured tread."Nate, right?" His hands are on his hips, a big watch glinting on onewrist. "I'm Javier Rojas, Bronwyn's father. I'm afraid you can't be here."He doesn't sound mad, just matter-of-fact. But he also sounds like he'snever meant anything more in his life.

I take my helmet off so I can meet his eyes. "Is Bronwyn home?" It's themost pointless question ever. Obviously she is, and obviously he's not goingto let me see her. I don't even know why I want to, except that I can't. Andbecause I want to ask her: What's true? What did you do? What didn't youdo?

"You can't be here," Javier Rojas says again. "I'm sure you don't wantpolice involvement any more than I do." He's doing a decent job ofpretending I wouldn't be his worst nightmare even if I weren't involved in amurder investigation with his daughter.

That's it, I guess. Lines are drawn. I'm the obvious outlier and scapegoat.There isn't much else to say, so I reverse out of his driveway and headhome.