One of Us Is Back (ONE OF US IS LYING)

Phoebe

Tuesday, July 7

When Cooper and I finally make it to Café Contigo’s brand-new roof deck, the rest of the Bayview Crew—Nate excepted, since he’s working—is already there. Evie is circling the table with a tray of drinks, and she briefly squeezes my shoulder when I pass. I haven’t seen anyone since the party Saturday night, other than Nate and Addy in the shed the next day, and I don’t remember much about that. Everyone called and texted and offered to stop by, but I couldn’t face them until today.

So I wasn’t sure what to expect, but…it’s nice. Lots of hugs, concern, and righteous anger on my behalf. For a few minutes, I feel like I’m back in the pre-Jared days, when I was part of the team and didn’t have anything to hide. It helps, probably, that I’m too physically wrung out from beating up the car to feel tense. And that the roof deck isn’t yet open to the public, so it’s perfectly private.

Finally, after Evie’s dropped off a tray of apps, Maeve opens her laptop with a flourish. “Okay, well, if we’re ready to start sharing information—I have some,” she says.

My stomach flutters with fear that she found something related to Owen. But if she had, she wouldn’t be looking straight at me, eyes warm with concern.

“We’re ready,” I say, with a glance toward Knox beside me. He’s a little green from the height, and clutching his glass of Sprite with both hands. “As long as everybody’s comfortable staying on the roof deck? We could always move—”

“I’m fine,” Knox says, releasing his death grip on the glass. “Go ahead, Maeve.”

“So, I’ve spent the past forty-eight hours hunting down the revenge forum, pretty much nonstop,” Maeve says, suppressing a yawn, and it’s only then that I notice the dark circles under her eyes. Of course she did; Maeve on a mission can’t be stopped.

“Except for those two hours you slept on me this afternoon,” Luis says fondly.

“You should have woken me up,” Maeve says, casting a severe look his way. “I lost valuable time. But anyway, what I found is—nothing.”

“Nothing?” Addy echoes.

“I mean, not nothing nothing,” Maeve clarifies, shifting in her seat. “I was able to track down a bunch of the guys who used to post on Vengeance Is Mine, and—”

“How did you manage to do that?” Kris breaks in.

“Simple,” Maeve says calmly. “I had screenshots saved with their user names, so I started with those, but also, they gave away a lot of personal details about themselves when they thought their posts were being erased.”

“Don’t even question her methods,” Bronwyn says, taking a sip of her drink. “Mere mortals can’t possibly understand.”

“Ultimately, a bunch of them congregated on Toq,” Maeve says.

“Talk?” Kris asks.

“Yeah. It’s pronounced like T-A-L-K, but spelled T-O-Q,” Maeve says. “It’s one of those free-speech apps that sprang up when certain people started getting too horrible to be allowed on regular social media. It’s full of racists and conspiracy theorists, which makes it a highly effective place for these losers to hide. Nobody in their right mind wants to spend time there.” She makes a face and holds up her phone. “I should know. I have an account now. My name is Tami Lee Spencer, and you don’t even want to hear what my hobbies are.”

“Yikes.” Knox grimaces. “Way to take one for the team, Maeve.”

“The Vengeance Is Mine guys all joined a couple of months ago, and they post pretty often. They’ve referred to Jared more than once—by his initials, JJ, but you can tell it’s him,” Maeve says. “The thing is, none of them seem to care about what happened to him. They’re not mad or plotting on his behalf. Mostly, they think he’s a loser for getting caught.”

“Have they mentioned Eli?” Addy asks. “Or Until Proven, or—”

“No,” Maeve says. “I’ve read all their posts on Toq, plus similar stuff on other apps, but I figured that wouldn’t be enough for you, so…” Her mouth puckers like she bit down on a lemon. “Since last night, Tami Lee has been messaging privately with the anonymous poster known as Jellyfish.”

Knox’s mouth drops open. “Wait…you mean that guy who was always whining on Vengeance Is Mine about getting back at his teacher?”

“That’s the one,” Maeve says. “And he’s still whining about that. In between trying to convince Tami Lee to attend a monster-truck rally with him.”

Luis clutches his chest. “I can’t believe you’re two-timing me with a guy named Jellyfish,” he says. “A monster-truck rally sounds kind of fun, though, doesn’t it?”

“No,” Maeve says.

“Give it a chance. Ask yourself, What would Tami Lee do?” Luis says. Then his expression turns grave as he adds, “He can’t trace who you really are, can he?”

Maeve shakes her head decisively. “There’s no way. I’ve been careful.” She turns to Addy and adds, “I’ve been working on worming my way into his confidence. He brags about a lot of dumb stuff, but nothing related to Phoebe, the Truth or Dare game, or the hacked billboard. No reference to Simon or Eli or Emma, or even Jake. Not from Jellyfish—his name is allegedly Axel, by the way, which is probably as real as Tami Lee—or any of these guys. I’ll keep monitoring, obviously, but I honestly don’t think they’re planning anything.”

Cooper puts down his fork, and I realize that he’s steadily polished off half the appetizers while Maeve was talking. I, meanwhile, haven’t taken a single bite. I lift an empanada and nibble its edge as Cooper says, “Well, that’s good news, right?”

“I think so. For Eli and Ashton, anyway,” Maeve says as Addy visibly exhales. “But it doesn’t give us much to go on in terms of the hacked billboard, or what happened to Phoebe. All the chatter about that is happening on social media. It’s not underground.”

Addy pokes her fork into an untouched scoop of guacamole on her plate. It doesn’t look as though her appetite is any better than mine. “What if…does anyone think Jake could’ve taken Phoebe?” she asks.

A shudder runs through me as Kris asks, “But he’s being monitored, isn’t he?”

“Supposedly,” Addy says. “The thing is, though…” She turns compassionate eyes toward me. “Sorry to bring this up, Phoebe, but is it okay to talk about your arm for a minute?”

“It’s fine,” I say, the phantom letters prickling as I take another bite of empanada.

“I’ve been thinking about what the writing could possibly mean,” Addy says. “And then I remembered what you told me when Jake fixed your flat tire. You said you didn’t want to thank him, so you said something like, I should learn how to change a tire. Right?” I nod, and she adds, “And then he said, All it takes is practice.”

The entire table falls silent. Kris freezes with his fork halfway to his mouth, Knox’s jaw drops, and Bronwyn’s and Maeve’s eyes both get so round that they’ve never looked more alike. The empanada in my mouth tastes like dust, and I need a big gulp of Diet Coke to get it down my throat. Cooper is the first to speak, with a lightly exhaled “Nooooo. It can’t…that’s gotta be a coincidence, right? Practice for what?”

“For me,” Addy says.

“Addy, no!” Bronwyn exclaims, and then it’s chaos at the table, everyone trying to reassure her at once. “That’s impossible,” Maeve says, her voice carrying above the noise. “People would know. He’s wearing an ankle monitor!”

“But he’s allowed to be at Bayview High,” Addy points out. “He could’ve been the one who stole Nate’s father’s keys. He was even there the day we found Phoebe.”

“With his parole officer,” Cooper says. “And there has to be some kind of time limit, right? I’m sure if Jake was there late at night when a girl goes missing, someone would notice.”

“You have a surprising amount of faith in law enforcement for someone who lives in Bayview,” Addy says drily. “Plus, all Jake needs is one friend with Maeve-level skills to spend half an hour on the dark web or whatever, learning how to get around an ankle monitor.” Maeve opens her mouth to protest, then closes it, because—yeah. She could probably figure that out. “And Cooper, you remember that red car you saw at Eli’s office? The one with the tan convertible top? Well, Nate and I saw it again near his neighbor’s house, right before we left for Bayview High the day we found Phoebe. And Jake knows exactly where the equipment shed is, and—”

“Addy, stop,” Bronwyn says, sounding a little desperate. “It’s not logical—why would Jake do something like that? All he needs to do is keep his head down, and…” She trails off, clearly not wanting to finish that sentence with He’ll be a free man.

“Since when is Jake logical?” Addy asks.

“Okay, that’s a fair point,” Bronwyn concedes. “I don’t blame you for being worried, Addy. But he couldn’t have had anything to do with the billboard or those flyers around town. That started before he was released.”

Addy snorts. “Do you remember that article in the Bayview Blade about Jake? It said he had dozens of pen pals. Dozens. God only knows what kind of stuff somebody might agree to if they were completely snowed by him.” She turns toward me, her expression urgent. “Phoebe, did you see anyone who looked like Jake at the party? Or a red car? Or is there anything else you haven’t told us yet that might be helpful?”

Everyone looks at me and I flush, eyes dropping to my plate. I think about what Cooper said earlier at the auto shop: I know what it’s like to feel like your life doesn’t belong to you anymore. And to feel like you can’t talk about it.

It would be such a relief to blurt out the truth about Owen. But Emma finally called on Sunday afternoon and promised to come home as soon as she could find an affordable flight. “I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you,” she said. “It’s been rough around here, but that’s no excuse. Just don’t do anything until I get home, okay? There are complications.”

I was too worn out to ask What complications?, so all I said was “Okay.”

But I need to give Addy something. “I remember wallpaper,” I say.

Addy blinks. “Huh?”

“I told the police,” I explain. “I don’t know if it’s even a real memory, but…I feel like I woke up at one point, and I was someplace I didn’t recognize, and all I could see was wallpaper. Green, with twisty vines. But maybe it was just a dream, because I don’t remember anything else, and—”

“Vines,” Addy interrupts, her face so pale that you can see the light dusting of freckles across her cheeks. She turns to Cooper and adds, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I…probably not?” Cooper says cautiously.

“The sunroom. In the Ramona house.”

I gaze around the table to see if I’m the only one who doesn’t catch the reference, but everyone else looks equally confused. Whatever Addy and Cooper are talking about, it’s shorthand only they know. “The Ramona…what? No,” Cooper says. “Those weren’t vines in that room. They were more like…wheat.”

“They were vines,” Addy says insistently. “And they were green.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Bronwyn asks, looking between them.

Addy tugs on her earring. “I’ve seen green-vine wallpaper before. Not wheat,” she adds, with a pointed glance at Cooper. “At a vacation house in Ramona, you know, near the Cuyamaca Mountains? Just about an hour from here.” She takes a deep breath before adding, “It belongs to Jake’s family.”

SIMON

Six Years Earlier

Jake’s vacation house reminded Simon of Jake’s family: bland, impractical, and more than a little pretentious.

Take the living room furniture, for example. What kind of family with a teenage boy would fill an entire room with stark-white furniture? The Riordans, that’s who. They had only themselves to blame for Simon propping his dirty sneakers up on one end of the couch while he opened a notebook and uncapped his pen. He was finally alone, since Mr. and Ms. Riordan were out antiquing, whatever that was, and Jake was taking a nap in his room.

Or pretending to be asleep. Either way was fine with Simon.

He flipped pages until he got to what he was looking for: People I Hate.

Concise and to the point; Simon didn’t like wasting words while cataloging grievances. He’d added Bronwyn Rojas last week, after they’d attended the same preparatory Model UN summer program. Bronwyn lived in Bayview, too, but she’d gone to St. Pius for elementary and middle school, instead of Buckingham Academy like Simon and Jake, so Simon had never met her before. He could tell instantly that they’d be in all the same honor classes in high school, and that she’d possibly challenge him for top grades. She’s not smarter than me, Simon decided as the dark-haired girl made her points of inquiry. But she’ll probably work harder.

Brownnoser, he’d written in his notebook then. Irritating voice. Insecure. He’d also written Ugly, but then, after some consideration, crossed it out. Simon prided himself on being harsh but fair, and other people’s physical attributes always tested his objectivity. Just because he didn’t find Bronwyn Rojas the slightest bit aesthetically pleasing didn’t mean that someone else might not think differently. Someone with terrible taste, clearly, but still.

Today, though, Simon wasn’t interested in adding to Bronwyn’s entry. Instead, he flipped to a blank page and started writing.

Jake Riordan

Sucks at video games

Watches reality television unironically

Stares at himself in the mirror

Fake

Simon kept writing, pen digging into the thin paper of his notebook. He’d thought about making an entry for Jake before, of course, because Jake could be fucking annoying. But he hadn’t done it, out of some kind of misguided loyalty that, he now realized, wasn’t returned.

Jake and his father liked to get up at seven a.m. to go running, and they knew better than to invite Simon along. Simon usually liked to sleep until noon, but he was restless in his uncomfortable bed—the mattress was like a gigantic pillow, much too soft for his liking—so today he got up earlier than usual and went outside. Then he wandered around the Riordans’ two acres of land, so bored that he was literally kicking rocks until he heard voices.

“Then why did you invite him?”

It was Mr. Riordan, huffing from whatever exercise they were doing now. The grounds were littered with fitness equipment that was meant to look like part of the landscape. A pull-up bar built into a tree, for example. That’s probably what they were using, because Jake was obsessed, suddenly, with having biceps. And abs.

“Who else am I supposed to invite?” Jake asked sulkily.

“Whoever you want,” Mr. Riordan said. “For crying out loud, Jake, you’re a Riordan. Since when do Riordans need to settle for the Simon Kellehers of the world? You should be hanging out with what’s-his-name from Mississippi. The baseball phenom.”

Simon paused at the edge of a clearing, trying to analyze the effect that Mr. Riordan’s words had on him. He’d never liked Jake’s father, but he hadn’t considered that the feeling might be mutual. He was surprised, he supposed, but ultimately indifferent, because he didn’t care what Scott Riordan thought. But Jake, on the other hand…Jake was actually complaining about Simon? Now, that was offensive, especially since Simon had always taken a certain amount of pride in being Jake’s friend. Jake was irritating, sure, but he had the potential to be a lot more. A person of consequence at Bayview High—a place that Simon was determined to rule once he got there. Simon had always assumed that Jake saw the same potential in him.

“Cooper,” Jake said. “I’m trying.”

That was news to Simon. He didn’t have a hate page for Cooper Clay yet, but it was probably only a matter of time. Nobody on the receiving end of that much mindless worship could escape being an asshole.

“Well, try harder,” Mr. Riordan said. “Or come here on your own and use the time to work out. Mark my words: there’s something creepy about that Kelleher kid.”

“I know,” Jake said. “You’re right, Dad. You’re always right.”

Now Simon carefully wrote Daddy’s boy on his list. Then he paused when the sound of tires crunching on gravel reached his ears. It looked as though the Riordans were back from antiquing, and that was enough to propel Simon off the couch and into hiding. He headed for the second floor, to a small balcony off the guest bedroom where he could hear anyone coming up the driveway without being seen. He was seized with a sudden certainty that the Riordans would be talking about him—they’d probably spent their entire antique trip plotting how to send him home early—and he wanted to know exactly what they had to say.

As it turned out, though, Simon wasn’t the center of their universe. “I can’t believe you, Katherine,” Mr. Riordan said tightly. He didn’t slam the car door, because it was a brand-new BMW, but Simon could tell from his voice that he wanted to. “This is a family trip.”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” Ms. Riordan said. “But we’re in such a crucial point in the campaign. I wish I could trust someone else to oversee the creative, but I can’t.”

“You need to learn the art of delegating,” Mr. Riordan said.

Boring, Simon thought. He’d heard enough and was about to withdraw from the balcony when Mr. Riordan added, “Otherwise, you’re going to continue setting a poor example for Jake.”

“Poor example?” Ms. Riordan echoed. “For taking my job seriously?”

“For caring about it more than you care about this family.”

“But I…but that’s…” Even on the second floor, Simon could hear Ms. Riordan take a deep, steadying breath. “How can you say that, Scott, with all the traveling you do? At least my work is local! I’ve never missed a Pop Warner game, or a parent-teacher conference, or—”

“So it’s my fault you’re obsessed with work?” Mr. Riordan asked.

“I’m not obsessed—”

“Just go, Katherine,” Mr. Riordan broke in. His tone was curt, dismissive. “I’ll take care of our meal for the evening. Like I always do.” The front door slammed, and then there was nothing but silence for so long that Simon assumed Ms. Riordan had slipped away too.

“Like it’s so hard to order takeout,” she finally muttered, and Simon nearly laughed out loud. Ms. Riordan had a spine, after all. Too bad she used it only when she was alone. She was quiet for a while longer, and when she spoke again, her voice was transformed. It was bright and energetic—the kind of tone where you could tell the person was smiling, even if you couldn’t see them. “I’ll be there in an hour,” she said. “I just need to pack a few things.” After a few moments of silence, she added, “I can’t wait either.”

Simon peered over the edge of the balcony as Ms. Riordan hung up the phone, turning in his direction. All she’d have to do to see him was glance up, but she didn’t, and Simon got a good look at her face before she went inside.

Her expression made one thing clear: Ms. Riordan liked her job a lot better than she liked her husband.