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My mother's upstairs, trying to have a conversation with my father. Goodluck with that. I'm on our couch with my burner phone in hand, wonderingwhat I can text to Bronwyn to keep her from hating me. Not sure Sorry Ilied about my mom being dead is going to cut it.

It's not like I wanted her dead. But I thought she probably was, or wouldbe soon. And it was easier than saying, or thinking, the truth. She's a cokeaddict who ran off to some commune in Oregon and hasn't talked to mesince. So when people started asking where my mother was, I lied. By thetime it hit me how fucked up a response that was, it was too late to take itback.

Nobody's ever really cared, anyway. Most of the people I know don't payattention to what I say or do, as long as I keep the drugs coming. ExceptOfficer Lopez, and now Bronwyn.

I thought about telling her, a few times late at night while we weretalking. But I could never figure out how to start the conversation. I stillcan't.

I put my phone away.

The stairs creak as my mother comes down, brushing her hands on thefront of her pants. "Your father's not in any shape to talk right now.""Shocking," I mutter.

She looks both older and younger than she used to. Her hair's a lot grayerand shorter, but her face isn't so ragged and drawn. She's heavier, which Iguess is good. Means she's eating, anyway. She crosses over to Stan'sterrarium and gives me a small, nervous smile. "Nice to see Stan's stillaround."

"Not much has changed since we last saw you," I say, putting my feet onthe coffee table in front of me. "Same bored lizard, same drunk dad, samefalling-apart house. Except now I'm being investigated for murder. Maybeyou heard about that?"

"Nathaniel." My mother sits in the armchair and clasps her hands in frontof her. Her nails are as bitten off as ever. "I--I don't even know where tostart. I've been sober for almost three months and I've wanted to contactyou every single second. But I was so afraid I wasn't strong enough yet andI'd let you down again. Then I saw the news. I've been coming by the lastfew days, but you're never home."

I gesture at the cracked walls and sagging ceiling. "Would you be?"Her face crumples. "I'm sorry, Nathaniel. I hoped ... I hoped your fatherwould step up."

You hoped. Solid parenting plan. "At least he's here." It's a low blow, andnot a ringing endorsement since the guy barely moves, but I feel entitled toit.

My mother nods her head jerkily while cracking her knuckles. God, Iforgot she did that. It's fucking annoying. "I know. I have no right tocriticize. I don't expect you to forgive me. Or believe you'll get anythingbetter than what you're used to from me. But I'm finally on meds that workand don't make me sick with anxiety. It's the only reason I could finishrehab this time. I have a whole team of doctors in Oregon who've beenhelping me stay sober."

"Must be nice. To have a team."

"It's more than I deserve, I know." Her downcast eyes and humble toneare pissing me off. But I'm pretty sure anything she did would piss me offright now.

I get to my feet. "This has been great, but I need to be somewhere. Youcan let yourself out, right? Unless you want to hang with Dad. Sometimeshe wakes up around ten."

Oh crap. Now she's crying. "I'm sorry, Nathaniel. You deserve so muchbetter than the two of us. My God, just look at you--I can't believe howhandsome you've gotten. And you're smarter than both your parents puttogether. You always were. You should be living in one of those big housesin Bayview Hills, not taking care of this dump on your own.""Whatever, Mom. It's all good. Nice to see you. Send me a postcard fromOregon sometime."

"Nathaniel, please." She stands and tugs at my arm. Her hands looktwenty years older than the rest of her--soft and wrinkled, covered withbrown spots and scars. "I want to do something to help you. Anything. I'mstaying in the Motel Six on Bay Road. Could I take you out to dinnertomorrow? Once you've had some time to process all this?"Process this. Christ. What kind of rehab-speak is she spewing? "I don'tknow. Leave a number, I'll call you. Maybe."

"Okay." She's nodding like a puppet again and I'm going to lose it if Idon't get away from her soon. "Nathaniel, was that Bronwyn Rojas I sawearlier?"

"Yeah," I say, and she smiles. "Why?"

"It's just ... well, if that's who you're with, we can't have messed you uptoo badly."

"I'm not with Bronwyn. We're murder cosuspects, remember?" I say, andlet the door slam behind me. Which is self-defeating, because when itcomes off its hinges, again, I'm the one who'll have to fix it.

Once I'm outside, I don't know where to go. I get on my bike and headfor downtown San Diego, then change my mind and get on I-15 North. Andjust keep riding, stopping after an hour to fill up my tank. I pull out myburner phone while I'm doing it and check messages. Nothing. I should callBronwyn, see how things went at the police station. She's gotta be fine,though. She has that expensive lawyer, along with parents who are likeguard dogs between her and people trying to mess with her. And anyway,what the hell would I say?

I put my phone away.

I ride for almost three hours until I hit wide desert roads dotted withscrubby bushes. Even though it's getting late, it's hotter here near theMojave Desert, and I stop to take off my jacket as I cruise closer to JoshuaTree. The only vacation I ever went on with my parents was a camping triphere when I was nine years old. I spent the whole time waiting forsomething bad to happen: for our ancient car to break down, for my motherto start screaming or crying, for my dad to go still and silent like he alwaysdid when we got to be too much for him to take.

It was almost normal, though. They were as tense with each other as ever,but kept the arguing to a minimum. My mother was on good behavior,maybe because she had a thing for those short, twisted trees that wereeverywhere. "The first seven years of the Joshua tree's life, it's just avertical stem. No branches," she told me while we were hiking. "It takesyears before it blooms. And every branching stem stops growing after itblossoms, so you've got this complex system of dead areas and newgrowth."

I used to think about that, sometimes, when I wondered what parts of hermight still be alive.

It's past midnight by the time I get back to Bayview. I thought about gettingon I-15 and riding through the night, as far as I could go until I droppedfrom exhaustion. Let my parents have whatever fucked-up reunion they'reabout to get into on their own. Let the Bayview Police come find me if theyever want to talk to me again. But that's what my mother would do. So inthe end I came back, checked my phones, and followed up on the only text Ihad: a party at Chad Posner's house.

When I get there Posner's nowhere to be found. I end up in his kitchen,nursing a beer and listening to two girls go on and on about a TV show I'venever seen. It's boring and doesn't take my mind off my mother's suddenreappearance, or Bronwyn's police summons.

One of the girls starts to giggle. "I know you," she says, poking me in theside. She giggles harder and flattens her palm against my stomach. "Youwere on Mikhail Powers Investigates, weren't you? One of the kids whomaybe killed that guy?" She's half-drunk and staggers as she leans closer.She looks like a lot of the girls I meet at Posner's parties: pretty in aforgettable way.

"Oh my God, Mallory," her friend says. "That's so rude.""Not me," I say. "I just look like him."

"Liar." Mallory tries to poke me again, but I step out of reach. "Well, Idon't think you did it. Neither does Brianna. Right, Bri?" Her friend nods."We think it was the girl with the glasses. She looks like a stuck-up bitch."My hand tightens around my beer bottle. "I told you, that's not me. Soyou can drop it."

"Shhorry," Mallory slurs, tilting her head and shaking bangs out of hereyes. "Don't be such a grouch. I bet I can cheer you up." She slides a handinto her pocket and pulls out a crumpled baggie filled with tiny squares."Wanna go upstairs with us and trip for a while?"I hesitate. I'd do almost anything to get out of my head right now. It's theMacauley family way. And everybody already thinks I'm that guy.

Almost everybody. "Can't," I say, pulling out my burner phone andstarting to shoulder my way through the crowd. It buzzes before I getoutside. When I look at the screen and see Bronwyn's number--eventhough she's the only one who ever calls me on this phone--I feel amassive sense of relief. Like I've been freezing and someone wrapped ablanket around me.

"Hey," Bronwyn says when I pick up. Her voice is far away, quiet. "Canwe talk?"

Bronwyn

Tuesday, October 16, 12:30 a.m.

I'm nervous about sneaking Nate into the house. My parents are alreadyfurious with me for not telling them about Simon's blog post--both nowand back when it actually happened. We got out of the police stationwithout much trouble, though. Robin gave this haughty speech that was all,Stop wasting our time with meaningless speculation that you can't prove,and that wouldn't be actionable even if you did.

I guess she was right, because here I am. Although I'm grounded until, asmy mother says, I stop "undermining my future by not being transparent.""You couldn't have hacked into Simon's old blog while you were at it?" Imuttered to Maeve before she went to bed.

She looked genuinely chagrined. "He took it down so long ago! I didn'tthink it even existed anymore. And I never knew you wrote that comment.It wasn't posted." She shook her head at me with a sort of exasperatedfondness. "You were always more upset about that than I was, Bronwyn."Maybe she's right. It occurred to me, as I lay in my dark room debatingwhether I should call Nate, that I've spent years thinking Maeve was a lotmore fragile than she actually is.

Now I'm downstairs in our media room, and when I get a text from Natethat he's at the house, I open the basement door and stick my head outside."Over here," I call softly, and a shadowy figure comes around the cornernext to our bulkhead. I retreat back into the basement, leaving the door openfor Nate to follow me.

He comes in wearing a leather jacket over a torn, rumpled T-shirt, hishair falling sweaty across his forehead from the helmet. I don't say anythinguntil I've led him into the media room and closed the door behind us. Myparents are three floors away and asleep, but the added bonus of asoundproof room can't be overstated at a time like this.

"So." I sit in one corner of the couch, knees bent and arms crossed overmy legs like a barrier. Nate takes off his jacket and tosses it on the floor,lowering himself on the opposite end. When he meets my eyes, his areclouded with so much misery that I almost forget to be upset.

"How'd it go at the police station?" he asks.

"Fine. But that's not what I want to talk about."He drops his eyes. "I know." Silence stretches between us and I want tofill it with a dozen questions, but I don't. "You must think I'm an asshole,"he says finally, still staring at the floor. "And a liar.""Why didn't you tell me?"

Nate exhales a slow breath and shakes his head. "I wanted to. I thoughtabout it. I didn't know how to start. Thing is--it was this lie I told becauseit was easier than the truth. And because I half believed it, anyway. I didn'tthink she'd ever come back. Then once you say something like that, how doyou unsay it? You look like a fucking psycho at that point." He raises hiseyes again, locking on mine with sudden intensity. "I'm not, though. Ihaven't lied to you about anything else. I'm not dealing drugs anymore, andI didn't do anything to Simon. I don't blame you if you don't believe me,but I swear to God it's true."

Another long silence descends while I try to gather my thoughts. I shouldbe angrier, probably. I should demand proof of his trustworthiness, eventhough I have no idea what that would look like. I should ask lots of pointedquestions designed to ferret out whatever other lies he's told me.But the thing is, I do believe him. I won't pretend I know Nate inside andout after a few weeks, but I know what it's like to tell yourself a lie so oftenthat it becomes the truth. I did it, and I haven't had to muddle through lifealmost completely on my own.

And I've never thought he had it in him to kill Simon.

"Tell me about your mom. For real, okay?" I ask. And he does. We talkfor over an hour, but after the first fifteen minutes or so, we're mainlycovering old ground. I start feeling stiff from sitting so long, and lift myarms over my head in a stretch.

"Tired?" Nate asks, moving closer.

I wonder if he's noticed that I've been staring at his mouth for the pastten minutes. "Not really."

He reaches out and pulls my legs over his lap, tracing a circle on my leftknee with his thumb. My legs tremble, and I press them together to make itstop. His eyes flick toward mine, then down. "My mother thought you weremy girlfriend."

Maybe if I do something with my hands I can manage to hold still. Ireach up and tangle my fingers into the hair on the nape of his neck,smoothing the soft waves against his warm skin. "Well. I mean. Is that outof the question?"

Oh God. I actually said it. What if it is?

Nate's hand moves down my leg, almost absently. Like he has no ideahe's turning my entire body into jelly. "You want a drug-dealing murdersuspect who lied about his not-dead mother as your boyfriend?""Former drug dealer," I correct. "And I'm not in a position to judge."He looks up with a half smile, but his eyes are wary. "I don't know howto be with somebody like you, Bronwyn." He must see my face fall,because he quickly adds, "I'm not saying I don't want to. I'm saying I thinkI'd screw it up. I've only ever been ... you know. Casual about this kind ofthing."

I don't know. I pull my hands back and twist them in my lap, watchingmy pulse jump under the thin skin of my wrist. "Are you casual now? Withsomebody else?"

"No," Nate says. "I was. When you and I first started talking. But notsince then."

"Well." I'm quiet for a few seconds, weighing whether I'm about to makea giant mistake. Probably, but I plow ahead anyway. "I'd like to try. If youwant to. Not because we're thrown together in this weird situation and Ithink you're hot, although I do. But because you're smart, and funny, andyou do the right thing more often than you give yourself credit for. I likeyour horrible taste in movies and the way you never sugarcoat anything andthe fact that you have an actual lizard. I'd be proud to be your girlfriend,even in a nonofficial capacity while we're, you know, being investigated formurder. Plus, I can't go more than a few minutes without wanting to kissyou, so--there's that."

Nate doesn't reply at first, and I worry I've blown it. Maybe that was toomuch information. But he's still running his hand down my leg, and finallyhe says, "You're doing better than me. I never stop thinking about kissingyou."

He takes off my glasses and folds them, putting them on the side tablenext to the couch. His hand on my face is featherlight as he leans in closeand pulls my mouth toward his. I hold my breath as our lips connect, andthe soft pressure sends a warm ache humming through my veins. It's sweetand tender, different from the hot, needy kiss at Marshall's Peak. But it stillmakes me dizzy. I'm shaking all over and press my hands against his chestto try to get that under control, feeling a hard plane of muscle through histhin shirt. Not helping.

My lips part in a sigh that turns into a small moan when Nate slides histongue to meet mine. Our kisses grow deeper and more intense, our bodiesso tangled I can't tell where mine stops and his starts. I feel like I'm falling,floating, flying. All at once. We kiss until my lips are sore and my skinsparks like I've been lit by a fuse.

Nate's hands are surprisingly PG. He touches my hair and face a lot, andeventually he slides a hand under my shirt and runs it over my back and ohGod, I might have whimpered. His fingers dip into the waistband of myshorts and a shiver goes through me, but he stops there. The insecure side ofme wonders if he's not as attracted to me as I am to him, or as he is to othergirls. Except ... I've been pressed against him for half an hour and I knowthat's not it.

He pulls back and looks at me, his thick dark lashes sweeping low. God,his eyes. They're ridiculous. "I keep picturing your father walking in," hemurmurs. "He kinda scares me." I sigh because, truth be told, that's been inthe back of my mind too. Even though there's barely a five percent chance,it's still too much.

Nate runs a finger over my lips. "Your mouth is so red. We should take abreak before I do permanent damage. Plus, I need to, um, calm down alittle." He kisses my cheek and reaches for his jacket on the floor.My heart drops. "Are you leaving?"

"No." He takes his phone out of his pocket and pulls up Netflix, thenhands me my glasses. "We can finally finish watching Ringu.""Damn it. I thought you'd forgotten about that." My disappointment'sfake this time, though.

"Come on, this is perfect." Nate stretches on the couch and I curl next tohim with my head on his shoulder as he props his iPhone in the crook of hisarm. "We'll use my phone instead of that sixty-inch monster on your wall.You can't be scared of anything on such a tiny screen."Honestly, I don't care what we do. I just want to stay wrapped aroundhim for as long as possible, fighting sleep and forgetting about the rest ofthe world.