One of Us Is Lying: Chapters 5–9

Maeve’s curled up on the window seat, tapping away on her laptop, and I’m sprawled across her bed with my Kindle open to Ulysses by James Joyce.

Maeve goes back to staring out the window with her usual faraway expression. She looks like a daydream herself: pale and ethereal, with dark-brown hair like mine but startling amber eyes.

As I walk toward him my nerves are jangling, and I’m acutely conscious of the fact that I’m in my usual hanging-out-with-Maeve ensemble: flip-flops, a hoodie, and athletic shorts.

Finally he meets my gaze with a wry smile that makes my stomach do a slow somersault.

Nate gets off his bike and follows me like it’s no big deal, so I try to act equally nonchalant.

There’s something about the way it builds, starting soft and sweet but gaining in volume and intensity until it’s almost angry. That’s the hard part, because at a certain point the notes grow harsh, verging on discordant, and I can’t muster the force to pull it off.

There’s something about the way it builds, starting soft and sweet but gaining in volume and intensity until it’s almost angry. That’s the hard part, because at a certain point the notes grow harsh, verging on discordant, and I can’t muster the force to pull it off.

This whole situation is too surreal to take seriously. If I woke up tomorrow and Maeve told me I’d dreamed it all, I’d fully accept that.

Even the crescendo—I don’t attack it as hard as I need to, but I’m faster and surer than I normally am, and don’t hit a single wrong note.

And there he is, in his football jacket with his chestnut hair tousled by the wind, giving me the exact same smile back.

“It’ll be cold at the beach,” I say tentatively, and he grins.

Pop won’t shut up on the way home, alternating between complaining about what I did wrong and crowing about Josh Langley.

She’s not wrong, but now doesn’t seem like the time to be that honest. Still, I’m not going to try defending Simon to Leah. “I guess people want to pay their respects,” I hedge.

I did feel bad watching Simon die. I’m not a sociopath.

I squelch the urge to follow her, and we trudge forward until we hit the ten-yard line.

She clears her throat and gives me a shrewd look.

She reads a weird, rambling poem and her voice shakes the whole time.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the
grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under
your boot-soles.

He and the other pallbearers put Simon’s casket onto some kind of metal stretcher, then step aside as the funeral directors angle it toward the hearse.

“Detective Laura Wheeler, Bayview Police. I’m looking to borrow Addy for a little while and get clarification on a few points related to Simon Kelleher’s death.”

“Addy, this is Lorna Shaloub, a family liaison for the Bayview School District. She’s here as an interested adult on your behalf. Now, this is not a custodial interrogation. You don’t have to answer my questions and you are free to leave at any time. Do you understand?”

“The social media alone—it’s like you can’t make a mistake anymore, can you? It follows you everywhere. The court is very forgiving toward impressionable young people who act hastily when they have a lot to lose, especially when they help us uncover the truth. Simon’s family deserves the truth, don’t you think?”

I’ve built my entire world around Jake and now that it’s shattered I realize, way too late, that I should have cultivated some other people who’d care that a police officer with mom hair and a sensible suit just accused me of murder.

My mother would care, but I can’t face that much scorn and judgment right now.

The other guy in the room, some representative from the Bayview School District who hasn’t said a word, nods like I’ve said something profound.

“Cooper, we examined those phones as soon as we started to suspect foul play. There’s no forensic evidence to suggest anyone else was involved. Our focus is on the four of you, and that’s where I expect it to remain.”

But to take a high school gossip post and turn it into an accusation like that is just ludicrous.

I can’t fathom how anyone could think Bronwyn would kill a boy because he was about to post a lie.

“Flimsy circumstantial evidence. Obviously no real forensics or they wouldn’t be reaching this way. That was a Hail Mary.”

If you can’t unequivocally say that Simon was lying, this could get very messy.

Calling my ride home with Officer Lopez after Simon’s funeral “tense” would be an understatement.

I feel like I should say more, but I’m not sure what, and we lapse into silence.

I feel sorry, then, for snapping at her and goading her about Charlie.

“Thanks,” I say, stepping past her into the foyer.

He sits back down, on the edge of the couch this time, his elbows resting on his knees as he gazes at me intently.