All the Little Lights
Page 78

“I have no words, Elliott, except that I’m so sorry that happened to you, and I’m going to make sure nothing like that is uttered in our school again,” Mrs. Mason said.
“I can’t believe Owen said something so horrible. I can’t believe he—”
“Ask anyone in that classroom, because he yelled it,” Elliott said.
“I didn’t mean that I don’t believe you,” I said. “I believe you. It’s just that, of all the people I know, Owen’s the last person I would think was capable of saying something like that to another human being.”
Mrs. Mason narrowed her eyes. “I’ll be asking Coach Peckham why he didn’t reveal that part.”
Elliott closed his eyes. “There’s more.”
“More?” I said.
“I need to tell you everything. Minka is in that class.”
“Oh no,” I said.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, Elliott finally confessed. “She accused me of doing something to Presley. She asked me in front of everyone if I raped her. She said I probably threw her body in a ditch in White Eagle. So I—I told her to shut up, or she was going to end up missing next.”
I covered my mouth as Mrs. Mason gasped.
“I know!” Elliott said, standing. Shame darkened his face. “I know it was stupid. I didn’t mean it. But after weeks of that crap, I’d finally just had enough!”
“Now is a good time to tell me in detail exactly what’s been going on,” Mrs. Mason said.
I stood next to Elliott, prepared to defend him no matter what, the way he had done for me. “The accusations. The racial slurs. They’ve been shoving him in the halls. Throwing things at him,” I said, watching Elliott get angrier after every disclosure. “But what you said, Elliott, it sounds like an admission of guilt. That’s why Owen yelled at you. He worships Minka, and you threatened her.”
“In front of an entire classroom. This isn’t good,” Mrs. Mason said.
“It just came out.” Elliott groaned. He laced his fingers together on top of his head, pacing.
“Why didn’t either of you come to me earlier? By the time Catherine told me what was going on, it was too late,” Mrs. Mason said.
“I thought I could handle it,” Elliott said. “I thought once they found Presley or couldn’t prove it was me, they’d let it go. But it’s gotten worse.”
Someone knocked on the door, and we froze.
“Stay calm,” she said, standing and walking to the door. When she opened it, she immediately crossed her arms over her middle and took a step back. “Milo.”
Mr. Mason stepped in, taking one look at Elliott and then turning to his wife. “What is he doing here?” he whispered, his lips barely moving.
“He came to see Catherine. She’ll be staying here awhile.”
“Are you insane?” Mr. Mason said. He tried to keep his voice low but failed.
“We can hear you,” Elliott said.
Mr. Mason continued, “The Brubakers went to the hospital after the Youngbloods left. They’re trying to talk Owen’s parents into pressing charges. If they do, they’ll be looking for Elliott.”
“Who will be looking for Elliott?” Mrs. Mason asked.
I stood, taking Elliott’s hand in mine. He squeezed, his palm damp. He was scared, too.
Mr. Mason looked at us, sympathy weighing down his face. “The police. They’ll take this opportunity to question him further on Presley’s disappearance. They have no other leads. They’re going after him, and then”—he looked to me—“they might come after Catherine.”
“No,” Elliott said, stepping in front of me as if Mr. Mason was there to take me. His fingers dug into mine. “We didn’t do anything! How many times do we have to say it?”
Mrs. Mason sat at the table, her palms flat against the dark wood. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and then nodded. “Okay. Nothing has happened yet. Let’s not worry until there is something to worry about.”
“Becca, he shouldn’t be here,” Mr. Mason snapped.
Mrs. Mason looked up at her husband. “And neither should you.”
Mr. Mason fidgeted, clearly hurt by her reply. He had lost weight since the first day of school, biceps beginning to bud from his arms, the flab beneath his shirt nearly gone. He wore clothes that reminded me more of Coach Peckham than the usual short-sleeved button-downs and boring ties Mr. Mason was known for.
He started to walk out but stopped by the tree, peering down at the presents. All were green, red, and silver foil but one: a small rectangle wrapped in the same shade of purple that was painted on the walls in my room. “Becca . . .”
“You should go, Milo.”
Mr. Mason pointed at Elliott. “He’s staying?” When Mrs. Mason opened her mouth to argue, he stopped her. “He’s a suspect, Becca. He shouldn’t be left alone. He shouldn’t have any moment unaccounted for.”
“Then I’ll follow him,” Mrs. Mason said.
Mr. Mason looked at Elliott and sighed. “I’ll do it. I don’t want you girls driving back here alone at night. Not with Presley still missing. And not after you’ve pissed off Mrs. Calhoun. No offense, Catherine.”
I shook my head and shrugged.
Elliott turned to me. “He’s probably right. If the cops stopped me on the way home, Mr. Mason could tell them where I’ve been at least.”
“You’ll see her in the morning at school. My office. Eight o’clock,” Mrs. Mason said.
Elliott nodded, then bent down to kiss my forehead, letting his lips linger for a while. “See you in the morning.”
He hugged me tight and then grabbed his jacket from the closet, his keys off the table, and then passed through the open door Mr. Mason was holding.
Mr. Mason’s eyes were full of conflict when he met his wife’s gaze. “The back door is locked? The windows?” She nodded, and he sighed. “This was reckless, Becca. I wish you’d talked to me first.”
She folded her arms across her middle. “I would’ve done it anyway.”
He breathed out a laugh. “I know. Be sure to lock the door when I leave. Enable the alarm.”
Mrs. Mason nodded, closing the door behind her husband and twisting the bolt lock.
She pressed a few buttons on a white, square display and then looked over her shoulder. “I need a four-digit number. Something you’re familiar with.”
I thought about it for a moment.
She pressed the code and then another button. It beeped twice. “You just press in your code and then hit this button to both arm and disarm the alarm when you’re leaving or coming home. This one to arm if you’re staying home. Get in the habit of arming it every time you walk in the door. I won’t always be here.”
“Okay, Mrs. Mason. I will.”
“Becca,” she said with a tired smile. She stretched and then rubbed the back of her neck, looking down at the nearly empty pizza boxes.
“I’ll get it.” I went to the table, gathering the plates, and took them to the kitchen, rinsing the dishes and breaking down the boxes.
Mrs. Mason watched me with a smile, leaning against the wall. Her eyes were heavy and red. Being watched by her was like being watched by Elliott, so different from feeling eyes on me at the Juniper.
“Thank you,” she said when I finished.