The Thrashers(72)

She moved quickly through the library tables, past the computer lab, and out toward the bus stop. She had to take her backpack off her left shoulder, having forgotten about the pain.

When she slid onto the sticky leather bus seats, Emily was there within seconds, joining her. “I’m sorry. I just care about you. I don’t think a lot of people care about you.”

Jodi glared at her open and honest gaze. “I’m fine, Emily. I would like it if you respected my boundaries, okay?”

Jodi held her backpack to her stomach as the bus gasped and took off. Emily faced her in their two-person seat. It was quiet for two stops.

“Does Zack know?” Emily asked.

“Yes. A little.”

Maybe it was the way Emily was pinning her to the bus seat or the echo of the words, I don’t think a lot of people care about you, that did it.

“My dad doesn’t hit me,” Jodi whispered. “He’s never hit me or grabbed me. But when he’s drunk he throws things. He has a shockingly good aim.”

“He throws things at you.”

“No, he—he throws things because he’s angry or frustrated or the team is losing. And more often than not, the thing in his hand is his beer.”

“A beer can gave you that bruise?”

“Bottle.”

Emily’s eyes were bright. Jodi was ready to stare out the window and ignore her, but then Emily said, “How did your mom die?”

Jodi’s head snapped to her, and Emily looked like she understood her—like everything fell into place.

“He didn’t kill her. What kind of person asks if your dad killed your mom? Jesus, Emily—”

“I’ll protect you,” Emily said, and Jodi felt like she’d inched closer, maybe even under her skin now. “How did she die?”

“She drowned. She fell asleep in the bathtub. Are you happy now?”

Jodi heard a buzzing in her ears, coalescing into conversation. The Thrashers’ pool winked at her.

“—can’t even prove it. I don’t know why this is on the table.”

“They said there’s an eyewitness, so…” Lucy rubbed her brow.

“It’s Reagan,” Jodi said.

Four pairs of eyes turned on her.

“What?”

“It’s Reagan. She told me she was the eyewitness.” Paige’s fingers lifted to her mouth, greasy from the hashbrowns. Lucy furrowed her brow.

“Lucy, what day was it?” Jodi said, pulling out her phone.

“May 3.”

She flipped through the videos she’d taken from the journal in the wall, but the last entry was in April. She still didn’t know why Emily had stopped writing in this journal the month before she died, but if the police were going off an entry in May from the journal they had, she was even more convinced that their journal was fake. There would be no corroboration from the journal in the wall about Lucy’s assault charge.

Jodi looked up at her friends, the people who’d come running at her first big mistake. Jodi felt her insides twist in hot anger at how Emily had pulled that secret out of her and then used it to hurt her friends. She needed to talk this out with someone.

“Julian, will you drive me home?”

She ignored the electricity of stunned silence that coursed through the group, staring at Julian with intent in her eyes. Despite his confession that he was behind the wheel, she didn’t trust anyone else with this yet.

Zack opened his mouth, and closed it. Julian slid off the counter and went to grab his keys without a word.

“I’m fine,” Jodi said to the rest of them. “I’m really glad you came for me. Lucy, I’m sorry to hear about this. I’m gonna do all I can to help you.”

Lucy tilted her head at her in confusion, but Jodi just said goodbye and met Julian at the door. He unlocked his truck, and she climbed up into the passenger seat. She thought she should probably thank him for rallying the troops last night, but instead, she waited until they were out of the driveway before saying, “My dad threw a bottle at me once. A glass beer bottle. It left a bruise on my shoulder and probably could have done a lot more damage.”

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, but he said nothing, keeping his eyes on the road.

“And the only person I ever told this to—before now—was Emily.”

Julian’s lips twisted into a wry smile, a soft laugh pushing out of him. He ran a hand over his neck and said, “Oh, that crazy little bitch.”

She watched his mind work, his eyes darting over the street and his fingers tapping the steering wheel.

“There’s more.”

“There always is.”

“In the Millses’ upstairs bathroom, there’s a broken tile in the wall. Behind it is a second journal. It’s Emily’s. The police have a fake.”

The truck pulled up to a stoplight. There was no indication that Julian heard her, aside from the tightening of his jaw and the focus in his eyes.

“So, Emily made a fake journal before killing herself?” he asked.

“Emily, or maybe her sister. Her parents. I don’t know.”

The light turned, and he seemed not to notice until the car behind them honked. He pressed the gas.

“How do you know about this second journal?”