Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“Nope. We’re just as curious as everyone else to find out who did it!”
Callahan doesn’t look convinced.
His piercing eyes linger primarily on Easton, narrowing ever so slightly behind the lenses of his glasses. The silence stretches painfully, and Easton shifts on his heels, doing a terrible job of appearing nonchalant.
If guilt were perfume, he’d be drowning in it.
My throat tightens under Callahan’s stare, and I feel like the coconspirator I am, considering I drove the getaway car…
“Good,” Callahan says at last. “Stay out of trouble—both of you.”
He turns to leave but not before throwing one last, unreadable glance over his shoulder in my direction. It’s the kind of look that has me wondering if he knows everything and is just waiting for us to dig our own graves.
Or if he knows nothing and is suspicious of everyone.
As soon as he’s out of earshot, Easton lets out a loud exhale.
“Holy shit. Do you think he knows?”
“How the heck should I know?!” I practically shriek, my stomach twisting into knots. The nerves aren’t for myself—they’re for Easton, who looks like he’s one step away from chasing after our principal and blurting out a full confession.
He runs a hand through his hair. “What if he does? Like, actually knows?”
“Maybe if you didn’t walk around acting guilty, he wouldn’t have his eye on you!” I hiss, pulling him down the hallway toward the exit. “You looked like you were about to confess to a murder.”
He’s going to ruin this for us.
“But you saw how he was looking at me, right?” he goes on. “He could smell my fear.”
“That’s because you reek of it.” I shove through the heavy doors. “Pull yourself together, Westermann—and keep your voice down.”
Easton groans, following behind me, muttering, “This is bad. This is really, really bad.”
“It’s only bad if you make it bad,” I say reasonably, trying to sound confident. “Just stop acting guilty, okay?”
“Easy for you to say,” he whines. “Jesus. I think I aged ten years in those two minutes.”
We walk quickly through the parking lot side by side, late-afternoon sun casting long shadows across the asphalt. The air is warm, but a slight breeze carries the lingering smell of cut grass and exhaust fumes, and I find myself unable to shake the tension that Callahan’s words left behind.
The guy has a knack for making even innocent people feel like criminals, and…well, Easton and I aren’t exactly innocent.
As we reach my car, Easton fumbles for the passenger door handle, glancing at me over the roof.
“He knows something. I swear he knows.”
“Stop,” I say, unlocking the doors. “If Callahan knew, he wouldn’t stare you down and walk away. He’d have you in his office and the cops would be writing you a ticket.”
“You’re being so dramatic.” Easton slides into the car beside me, shaking his head skeptically. “But did you see the way he looked at me? Like I had thief stamped on my forehead!”
I look both ways before pulling out of the parking lot. “Seriously, dude, you need to work on your poker face.”
As I drive, Easton stares out the window, expression pensive—maybe even a little distant? But I suppose guilt does that to a person.
“So.” I clear my throat. “What’s up with Marcus lately? You said he’s being a prick. Why couldn’t he give you a ride?”
Easton sighs, head thumping back against the headrest. “Who knows. He’s been MIA since he started dating Macy. Guess he’s too busy driving her around.”
Someone sounds jealous…
“I’m sure that’s not all Marcus is doing with his time. I mean, I know for a fact they go on a ton of fun dates—the zoo, walks on the lakefront…She even helps him with his landscaping job.”
“You just made my point,” Easton says flatly, tone heavy with sarcasm.
“Do you miss him?” I ask after a pause.
“Do I miss him?” He snorts, the sound sharp in my quiet car. “No. He’s an asshole.”
“Well okay, then.” I laugh, the sound lighter than I feel.
It’s a short trip to his house, and as I turn into his driveway, I glance at him again. He’s been watching me for several moments now, his lips twitching like he’s about to say something more, but of course, he doesn’t.
I cut the engine and the silence hangs between us, filled with everything we’re both too stubborn—or too scared—to admit.
A small dog catches my eye, sniffing at the bushes near the driveway. Its tail wags furiously, a blur of excitement.
“Who’s that?” I ask, nodding toward it.
Easton watches the dog for a moment, his brow furrowing.
“That’s Rudy. He’s supposed to stay in the backyard.”
“Doesn’t seem like he got the memo.” I put the car in park, grinning as the dog begins digging a hole beneath a bird feeder. “Looks he’s got a lot of energy. What kind of dog is he?”
“He’s a wheaten terrier. Rudy is basically a monster.”