But still Kennedy’s not convinced. “The messages—they came from your school account.”
“It had to be Cashmere. She was always in my room, and she knew all my passwords. She was the only one who . . . would want to hurt you like that.”
There’s never a good reason to lay your hands on a woman. But if my ex-girlfriend was here now, I’d have a hard time holding to that.
Kennedy’s face is blank as she examines the evidence from all angles. “How did she know about the kiss on the roof? I didn’t believe it was really you, until that moment.”
I rub the back of my neck; the muscles are tight and knotted. “Maybe I told her about it at some point? Or during one of the stupid Truth or Dare drinking games we used to play. Somebody probably asked me about my first kiss.”
Her eyes soften just a bit. “You considered me your first kiss?”
The corner of my mouth quirks. “You were a girl, your lips were on my face—so yeah. I’ve always remembered it that way.”
She nods.
Slowly I reach out and cup her jaw, holding her. “Do you believe me? I need you to believe me, Kennedy.”
She searches my eyes. “I don’t know. All these years, I was so sure. Now . . . talking to you . . . what you say makes sense.” Her jaw goes tight. “But I won’t be anyone’s fool ever again.”
I drop my hand, drain the rest of my beer.
Kennedy’s silent for a moment. Then she says, “I’m ready to call it a night. Can we get out of here?”
I hear her. Revelations are fucking exhausting. I feel like I’ve taken a sledgehammer to the chest. Bruised and drained.
“Sure.” I throw the bills on the table, slide my chair back, and hold out my hand to her.
Out on the sidewalk, I offer to grab Kennedy a cab.
“My place is only a few blocks away. I’ll walk.”
“Okay, then I’ll walk you home. Lead the way, Lassie.”
She cracks a smile and pushes her hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to—”
“Yeah, I really fucking do, okay? Just . . . let me do this. Please.”
She looks at me, eyes crinkling, nose scrunching up, like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to figure out. It makes her look younger—cuter.
“All right. I’m this way.”
We walk side by side in easy silence, and about ten minutes later, we arrive. The house looks like a Victorian dollhouse, with a rounded tower on one side, a wraparound second-floor balcony, arched windows, and a spiked wrought-iron fence framing the roof. The same fencing surrounds the big corner lot. The house needs a paint job, new shutters, new steps where the old ones are sunk and uneven—but there’s so much potential. With a little love, it could be magnificent.
“I’m having it restored—which is about as miserable as it sounds when you’re living here,” Kennedy says. “But it’ll be worth it. My Aunt Edna left it to me.”
My head turns sharply. “Aunt Edna died? Shit, she was cool. Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Kennedy nods. “You were on a skiing trip—I overheard someone talking about it at the wake. Your mother probably forgot to mention it when you came home.”
I look back toward the house. “I’m glad she left it to you.” Then I grin, easily imagining her as a kid in that big old house with its cobwebs and secrets. “I bet you had a blast going through the attic.”
Her eyes widen. “I did, yeah.” Bull’s-eye.
Because people really don’t change when it comes to qualities like that. A love of adventure, of exploration, even if it’s of the past. She hasn’t changed.
“Maybe you can give me a tour sometime?”
She still looks a little wary, distrustful of my intentions. Old habits die hard, and this one’s gonna go down screaming.
She unlocks the front door, then turns. “Good-bye, Brent.”
I run my hand down her arm, ’cause I just can’t help myself. “Good night, Kennedy. I’m . . . I’m glad we talked. Cleared the air. And if I didn’t say it before, I’m really fucking glad you’re home.”
Her smile is small—but it’s there.
“Me too.”
I give her arm a gentle squeeze, then walk down the front steps toward the gate. Halfway there she calls, “Brent?”
I turn around.
“This doesn’t change anything. About the case, I mean. On Monday, I expect you to come at me with everything you have. If you go easy on me it’ll mean you don’t respect me—that you think I can’t handle it. And I’d never forgive you for that.”
I give her a quick nod and she goes inside, closing the door behind her.
My eleven-year-old self was right: girls are weird.
• • •
I wake up earlier than usual on Saturday, with the echo of Kennedy’s words in my head. Curiosity rubs me raw, like two jagged sticks sparking a fire. So I skip my morning run and spend an hour in my home office doing online research.
It’s amazing, and kind of fucking frightening, how much of our personal information is floating around out there, and how simple it is to access. After I get the info I wanted—an address just an hour outside of DC—I tap the address into Google Maps, then I head out.
When I knock on the door, I hear muffled voices inside, then the sound of walking feet.
And then the door opens.
And Victoria Russo, Kennedy’s old boarding school roommate, stares at me. “Brent Mason?”
“It had to be Cashmere. She was always in my room, and she knew all my passwords. She was the only one who . . . would want to hurt you like that.”
There’s never a good reason to lay your hands on a woman. But if my ex-girlfriend was here now, I’d have a hard time holding to that.
Kennedy’s face is blank as she examines the evidence from all angles. “How did she know about the kiss on the roof? I didn’t believe it was really you, until that moment.”
I rub the back of my neck; the muscles are tight and knotted. “Maybe I told her about it at some point? Or during one of the stupid Truth or Dare drinking games we used to play. Somebody probably asked me about my first kiss.”
Her eyes soften just a bit. “You considered me your first kiss?”
The corner of my mouth quirks. “You were a girl, your lips were on my face—so yeah. I’ve always remembered it that way.”
She nods.
Slowly I reach out and cup her jaw, holding her. “Do you believe me? I need you to believe me, Kennedy.”
She searches my eyes. “I don’t know. All these years, I was so sure. Now . . . talking to you . . . what you say makes sense.” Her jaw goes tight. “But I won’t be anyone’s fool ever again.”
I drop my hand, drain the rest of my beer.
Kennedy’s silent for a moment. Then she says, “I’m ready to call it a night. Can we get out of here?”
I hear her. Revelations are fucking exhausting. I feel like I’ve taken a sledgehammer to the chest. Bruised and drained.
“Sure.” I throw the bills on the table, slide my chair back, and hold out my hand to her.
Out on the sidewalk, I offer to grab Kennedy a cab.
“My place is only a few blocks away. I’ll walk.”
“Okay, then I’ll walk you home. Lead the way, Lassie.”
She cracks a smile and pushes her hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to—”
“Yeah, I really fucking do, okay? Just . . . let me do this. Please.”
She looks at me, eyes crinkling, nose scrunching up, like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to figure out. It makes her look younger—cuter.
“All right. I’m this way.”
We walk side by side in easy silence, and about ten minutes later, we arrive. The house looks like a Victorian dollhouse, with a rounded tower on one side, a wraparound second-floor balcony, arched windows, and a spiked wrought-iron fence framing the roof. The same fencing surrounds the big corner lot. The house needs a paint job, new shutters, new steps where the old ones are sunk and uneven—but there’s so much potential. With a little love, it could be magnificent.
“I’m having it restored—which is about as miserable as it sounds when you’re living here,” Kennedy says. “But it’ll be worth it. My Aunt Edna left it to me.”
My head turns sharply. “Aunt Edna died? Shit, she was cool. Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Kennedy nods. “You were on a skiing trip—I overheard someone talking about it at the wake. Your mother probably forgot to mention it when you came home.”
I look back toward the house. “I’m glad she left it to you.” Then I grin, easily imagining her as a kid in that big old house with its cobwebs and secrets. “I bet you had a blast going through the attic.”
Her eyes widen. “I did, yeah.” Bull’s-eye.
Because people really don’t change when it comes to qualities like that. A love of adventure, of exploration, even if it’s of the past. She hasn’t changed.
“Maybe you can give me a tour sometime?”
She still looks a little wary, distrustful of my intentions. Old habits die hard, and this one’s gonna go down screaming.
She unlocks the front door, then turns. “Good-bye, Brent.”
I run my hand down her arm, ’cause I just can’t help myself. “Good night, Kennedy. I’m . . . I’m glad we talked. Cleared the air. And if I didn’t say it before, I’m really fucking glad you’re home.”
Her smile is small—but it’s there.
“Me too.”
I give her arm a gentle squeeze, then walk down the front steps toward the gate. Halfway there she calls, “Brent?”
I turn around.
“This doesn’t change anything. About the case, I mean. On Monday, I expect you to come at me with everything you have. If you go easy on me it’ll mean you don’t respect me—that you think I can’t handle it. And I’d never forgive you for that.”
I give her a quick nod and she goes inside, closing the door behind her.
My eleven-year-old self was right: girls are weird.
• • •
I wake up earlier than usual on Saturday, with the echo of Kennedy’s words in my head. Curiosity rubs me raw, like two jagged sticks sparking a fire. So I skip my morning run and spend an hour in my home office doing online research.
It’s amazing, and kind of fucking frightening, how much of our personal information is floating around out there, and how simple it is to access. After I get the info I wanted—an address just an hour outside of DC—I tap the address into Google Maps, then I head out.
When I knock on the door, I hear muffled voices inside, then the sound of walking feet.
And then the door opens.
And Victoria Russo, Kennedy’s old boarding school roommate, stares at me. “Brent Mason?”
