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

Phoebe

Wednesday, July 1

There are only so many things you can worry about at once, and right now, four hours into my shift at Café Contigo, I’ve hit my limit.

“If you don’t like ground beef, or garlic, or onions, or olives, then maybe you don’t actually want an empanada,” I tell the woman sitting at my corner table. “Maybe what you really want is a lump of dough. Unfortunately, we don’t serve those.”

The customer blinks in shock, as she should, because wow, that was rude. I open my mouth to apologize, but my throat is thick and I can’t think of anything to say except, Sorry, but you know the old saying about a last straw? That’s you. Before the woman can call over a manager, though, Evie swoops in beside me, her pad and pen in hand.

“Phoebe, you’re overdue for your break,” she says in a cheery voice. Her smile is as bright as her voice, but her hands are firm as she guides me away from the table, just as Ms. Santos glances up from the cash register. “Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll finish up here?”

“Okay,” I say stiffly. Then, belatedly, I add, “Thanks,” but Evie’s already bending over the woman’s shoulder, pointing out alternatives on the menu. None of which, probably, are a lump of dough. Adding that snotty little suggestion to all the times I’ve been late this month might be the last straw for Ms. Santos, and nobody would blame her.

I can feel my boss’s eyes on me as I debate my next steps. All I want to do is hide away in the kitchen for a few minutes of peace and quiet, but my brother is sitting at a corner table with the remnants of his dinner. Owen’s by himself like always, hunched over his phone, his black backpack at his feet and his too-long strawberry-blond hair hanging in his eyes. Family means everything to Ms. Santos, and if I skulk past my lonely little brother without a word, she’s going to think even less of me than she already does.

I paste on a smile and slide into the chair across from him. “How was your dinner?”

“Fine,” Owen says without looking up. Mom got him fake AirPods for his birthday, and he has one of them tucked into his ear.

“Didn’t feel like being at home tonight?” I ask, trying to match Evie’s cheerful tone. Owen usually gets takeout the nights that Mom and I are both working. She has a day job as an office manager and sometimes works nights and weekends on her wedding-coordinator business. That slowed down a lot after the disaster of Ashton and Eli’s rehearsal dinner, but it’s finally started to pick back up.

Owen shrugs, and the silence stretches between us until I try again. “What are you doing?”

“Watching TikTok.”

“Anything good?”

My brother finally glances up, and my heart skips at the trace of animation on his face. He’s changed so much, so quickly, that it’s like an unexpected gift to catch a glimpse of his old self—the sweet, earnest boy who could talk for hours about rewiring a toaster. Then he says, “This guy posted a video about how his girlfriend died in this freak fishing accident. He said she got dragged underwater by a giant carp and drowned, but it turns out she’s not actually dead. He made the whole thing up. She didn’t even know till she saw the video.”

And just like that, Former Owen is gone. “Why would he do that?” I ask.

“To get views,” Owen says, like it should be obvious. “And it worked. It’s his most popular video by, like, a million.” He lets out a little cackle that makes my skin crawl.

“That’s not funny,” I say testily.

Owen shrugs and swipes at his phone. “I think it is.”

I bite my lip to keep from asking, What’s wrong with you? I know how Maeve would reply—or Knox, or my mom, or pretty much anyone who’s observed Owen’s recent transformation: He’s thirteen. Which is true, but it’s also true that Owen kept a deadly game going that ultimately killed my ex-boyfriend. Snickering about somebody faking a death doesn’t seem nearly as harmless against that backdrop.

But Owen and I can’t talk about that, because he doesn’t know that I know. Back in April and May, when it was touch and go whether Emma might get into legal trouble, part of me hoped he might confess—that his conscience wouldn’t let her take the fall for him. That he’d at least confide in his family, even if he couldn’t bring himself to tell the police. But he never did.

Even though Emma ultimately wasn’t charged, it’s not like she wasn’t punished in other ways: the merit aid she’d been counting on for college disappeared, she lost all her tutoring jobs, and a small but vocal contingent around Bayview made it clear they felt she’d gotten away with murder. It’s why she moved across the country to my aunt’s, for at least the summer and possibly a lot longer. My smart, studious sister, who’s spent half her life planning for college, is suddenly staring at an empty, uncertain future.

Meanwhile, Owen’s acting like nothing happened.

“Did you see this?” he asks abruptly, holding out his phone.

I take it apprehensively—I really don’t want to watch a toxic video—but it’s just somebody’s Instagram picture of the billboard on Clarendon: time for a new game, bayview.

“Yeah, I’ve seen it,” I say.

“There’s a second part,” he says, swiping at what I now realize is a carousel post. The next image is of the same billboard, but this time it reads: there’s only one rule. Whoever posted the picture wrote beneath: Here’s my guess: the only rule is THERE ARE NO RULES MUAHAHAHAHA (skull emoji).

The knots that have taken up permanent residence in my stomach get tighter as Owen says, “Weird ad, huh? Like, what are they even selling?”

I search his face, trying to decipher his blank expression and tone. Do the words bother him because they remind him of the Truth or Dare game that killed Brandon? Do they scare him? Does he think they’re funny?

Did he write them?

No. That’s ridiculous. My brother might be a technology whiz, but even he can’t hot-wire a billboard. Probably. Then again, the words aren’t only on a billboard….

“Have you seen the flyers?” I ask, but Owen’s eyes are already back on his phone. A few seconds later, he snorts out a short laugh. I clear my throat and add, “Did you hear me?”

“I’m watching skateboarding videos now,” he says. “This one guy took a header off a rail and he’s covered in blood.”

“Stop watching that crap.”

“It’s dripping into his eyes. Oh, man, he looks dead,” Owen chortles, and that does it. My temper spikes, and before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve grabbed the phone from his hand.

“That’s. Not. Funny,” I growl, yanking out his earbud.

“Ow!” Owen winces and grabs at his ear. “What’s your problem?”

“You, Owen. You are my fucking problem!”

Oh God. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize how loud they are—and how easily they’ve carried through the small restaurant. Owen’s mouth drops open while the entire room stares at us, and my cheeks burn as Ms. Santos glides over from the cash register.

“Phoebe, why don’t you take off the rest of the night?” she asks. “You’ve been here so long already. Evie can handle your tables.”

I feel an irrational stab of annoyance at Evie then, for being so goddamn efficient at everything that she makes me look even worse. “I’m fine, I don’t need to leave—” I start, but Ms. Santos quickly cuts me off.

“Yes, you do,” she says. The rest of that sentence—or you’re not coming back—is unspoken but heavily implied.

“Okay,” I sigh. I can barely look at Owen, who’s fiddling with his earbud, but I force myself to ask, “Do you want a ride home, or…”

“I’ll walk,” he says. “I’m gonna stay here for a while.”

Ms. Santos pats his shoulder. “I’ll bring you some alfajores,” she says, before heading into the kitchen. If the customer who wanted an ingredient-free empanada hadn’t already been the last straw, this would be it: being tossed out of my home away from home while my brother, the potential budding sociopath, gets a plateful of cookies.

Maybe that’s my life now: a series of never-ending last straws.

I get up from the table without another word and skulk into the kitchen to get my stuff. Everyone’s too busy to talk to me, or maybe they’ve already heard that I lost it in the dining room and are giving me space. Which is a concept I’ve hated ever since Emma did it to me after our father died. I don’t understand how you can look at someone who’s obviously hurting and think, You know what this person needs? More time in their own head.

I’m almost at the door when someone calls my name. I turn to see Manny, Luis’s older brother, holding a brown paper bag. “Hey, could you take this? It’s for Mrs. Clay.”

“Of course,” I say. Café Contigo doesn’t normally deliver, but the Santos family has been making an exception for Cooper’s grandmother since her knee surgery. I volunteer whenever she orders while I’m working, because Mrs. Clay—who keeps telling me to call her Nonny—is awesome. Plus, hanging out with her has the added benefit of making me less starstruck around Cooper. It’s hard to be intimidated by someone once you’ve seen their baby pictures.

“Great, thanks. She loves you,” Manny says, which lifts my spirits a little.

I step outside and blink at where my car should be—right out front—before remembering how crowded it was when I got here. I had to park a good five minutes away, at the edge of a sloping side alley. I take out my keys as I approach, frowning at the pavement because I don’t remember it being quite that sloping, and—oh God.

It’s not the street that’s so uneven; it’s my car. The rear driver’s-side tire is flat.

“God damn it,” I hiss, kicking the tire much too hard. Not another last straw. Then I hobble on one foot, pain radiating through my toe, before carefully placing Mrs. Clay’s food on the ground so I can dig through my bag for my phone.

I need to call Café Contigo to let them know that someone else will have to deliver Mrs. Clay’s dinner, and then AAA. But once I have my phone out I hesitate, overcome with the sudden urge to call Knox. The last time a tire went flat on the ancient Corolla I used to share with Emma, he’d changed it. So slowly and painstakingly that I’d gotten impatient at the time, but now, it’s one of my favorite memories of him. One of those hidden sides I kept discovering back then.

Back then. It wasn’t even four months ago, but it feels so much longer.

If I called, I know Knox would leave Until Proven without a second thought. But I shouldn’t, right? We’ve hung out a few times since he kicked me out of his bed, and I’m doing my best to follow his lead and act like everything’s normal. The problem is, I’m not sure what that word means anymore when it comes to me and Knox.

“You okay there?”

I glance up, still favoring my sore foot, and nearly fall over.

Jake Riordan is standing on the sidewalk beside my car, dressed in a crisp blue T-shirt and jeans, like he’s some kind of regular person and not the monster who’s been haunting my friends’ nightmares. I can feel my jaw drop—unhinge, really—and my throat works convulsively without managing to push out any words.

“Looks like you’ve got a flat tire there,” Jake says amiably. There’s a woman behind him—middle-aged and well-dressed in a stylish floral sheath, with the same blue eyes and chestnut-brown hair as Jake. “You need help changing it?”

I’m frozen in place, still unable to speak. The woman glances nervously at me and touches Jake’s arm. “Sweetheart, she probably has someone coming—”

“I don’t.” I blurt the words without thinking, and before I can take them back, Jake flashes an easy grin.

“You have a spare in there?” he asks.

I glance at Mrs. Clay’s food, getting cold on the ground. And somehow, instead of telling Jake no, I find myself opening my trunk.

“I got it,” Jake says as I fumble with the latch on the trunk floor. I back away, giving him a lot more space than he needs as he hauls out the tire and jack. He kneels beside my car with practiced ease, as quick and confident as Knox was slow and cautious. After a few minutes of silence I glance at Ms. Riordan, who gives me a tentative smile. I suppose it would be polite to say something to her, or to him, but…what? How did I even let this happen? And why is he here? Aren’t there rules about him prowling the streets, just a few blocks away from where Addy works? I glance at his ankle and catch a flash of black plastic; at least he’s being monitored. But downtown Bayview feels like an overly generous geographic area.

“Phoebe, right?” Jake asks, popping the old tire from the rim.

“Huh?” I’m so startled to hear my name that I take another step back.

His head is still down, so maybe he didn’t notice. Not that I care, because so what if Jake Riordan thinks I’m rude? Or that I’m afraid of him? I’m not; or at least, I’m not while his mother is standing right there. “You’re Phoebe Lawton, right?” he says, grunting a little as he positions the spare tire. “I remember you from Bayview High.”

No, you don’t, I think. You remember me from whatever news program you watched in prison. Jared Jackson’s bomb attempt didn’t make quite as many headlines as Simon’s death, but it was close. All I manage to say, though, is “Yeah.”

“Nice to see you again,” Jake says, and—come on. How am I supposed to respond to that? Can’t say the same, but thanks for the roadside assist? At least he’s practically done already, and…nope, not practically, he’s done. He heaves my flat tire into the trunk, places the jack and other tools beside it, and closes the trunk.

“Well, that was fast,” his mother says, sounding relieved.

Meanwhile, I still haven’t thanked him. Somehow, I can’t bring myself to utter those words to Jake Riordan. This entire surreal scenario feels like a betrayal of Addy. The least I can do is not express appreciation for the guy who tried to choke the life out of her, and…oh God, they’re both staring at me now and I need them to leave.

Say something, Phoebe. Anything.

“I…I should really learn how to change a tire,” I manage.

Jake stands there with his hands on his hips, eyes glinting as he holds my gaze for a few beats too long. I can’t help it; I back up another step. Then he smiles again—more wolfish than charming this time—and says, “It’s easy, Phoebe. All you need is practice.”

JAKE

Six Years Earlier

“You wanna keep playing or what?” Simon asked.

Jake rolled his eyes, annoyed for reasons he couldn’t really explain. No, he didn’t want to keep playing. He was bored with the video game they’d already been at for three hours. He was bored, period. Or maybe restless was a better word. It was the summer before freshman year of high school, and all Jake could think lately was that there should be more to life by now than sitting in his living room playing video games with Simon Kelleher.

That was fine for middle school, but things were changing. Jake wasn’t nearly as tall as his dad yet, but he was finally starting to get there. His football skills had really taken off in eighth grade, to the point where his coach told him he should try out for varsity at Bayview High. Girls were looking at him differently, and when he examined himself in the mirror—which was a lot lately—he knew why. His face was changing in a good way, losing what his mother called, mortifyingly, baby fat. Jake Riordan was finally starting to go places.

But Simon? Simon Kelleher was the same angsty, nerdy, scrawny, pissed-off kid he’d always been. Simon hated sports, parties, being outdoors for any length of time, and most people. Last month, all he did was complain when Jake made him watch the Little League World Series, even though the whole town was watching because a Bayview team made it all the way to the semifinals. Cooper Clay, that new kid from Mississippi, pitched an unbelievable no-hitter, and the team missed out on going to the championship game only because of fielding errors. All Jake could think as he watched Cooper—so cool and calm under pressure, clearly destined to be a legend at Bayview High—was That’s the kind of friend I need.

For now, though, he was stuck with Simon.

The front door opened then, and a deep voice boomed, “Katherine? I’m home.”

“Mom’s not,” Jake yelled back.

He glanced at the clock, surprised to see that it was past six. He knew he shouldn’t be, though; ever since his mother had gotten promoted, she’d started coming home later than Dad. Now that he knew how late it was, he decided he was starving and added, “What’s for dinner?”

“Hell if I know,” Dad said, poking his head into the living room. He unknotted his tie and tossed his briefcase onto the nearest armchair. Jake’s father was a lawyer—“Biglaw,” he always said, which Jake took to mean he made a lot of money. Enough to pay for this house and buy all his perfectly fitted suits from some legendary London shop. Mr. Riordan stopped by whenever he was there on business, to keep his measurements up to date. “Some kind of takeout, probably. How’s it going, Simon? You staying for food?”

“Nah,” Simon said, getting to his feet. Another one of the things Simon hated was making polite conversation with adults. “I’m out. See you tomorrow.”

“Maybe,” Jake said noncommittally as Simon skulked out of the room.

“You talk to your mom lately?” Dad asked, leaning against the door frame. His blond hair had gone prematurely silver years ago, and his eyes were a clear, sharp hazel. He’d been an Ivy League athlete and was still in shape, fast enough to beat Jake in sprints. Jake admired his father; he’d never gone through the kind of I hate you phase that Simon was stuck in with his parents. Even though Jake resembled his mother, he mimicked his father’s mannerisms so closely that everyone commented on how much they looked alike. It was interesting, Jake thought, how easy it was to make people see what you wanted them to see.

“Not today,” Jake said. His mother usually checked in with him at some point, unless she had too many meetings.

“Busy woman,” Dad said, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Let me see if we should wait for her or order now. Are you up for Vietnamese?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Not sure why we bothered renovating the kitchen, for all the use it’s getting lately,” Dad muttered as he swiped at his phone.

Jake knew why: because it looked great. Just like the rest of the house. When Mr. Riordan made partner at his law firm a few years ago, the family had moved onto the street he’d had his eye on for years. “Wellington Avenue,” Mr. Riordan would say every time he drove past it. “That’s the best of the best, right there.”

Most of the time Mom smiled, but every once in a while, she’d wrinkle her nose and say, “Too much house.”

“There’s no such thing,” Dad always replied.

Jake agreed with him. Who wouldn’t want five extra bedrooms, a game room, the kind of finished basement you almost never saw in this area, and a giant backyard with a perfectly landscaped pool? Now all Jake needed was the right kind of friends to fill it with.

And the right girlfriend.

Dad frowned suddenly, his phone to his ear. “Who’s this?” he asked. “Oh? And you’re answering my wife’s phone because…? Yes. Please do that.” A pause, and then Mr. Riordan asked, “Katherine? You joining us at home anytime soon?”

Jake lunged for his headphones, plugged them into his phone, and turned on some music. He didn’t like when Dad sounded like this—as though he was already mad at you before you’d even had a chance to start talking. There was no winning with Mr. Riordan when he took that tone, and he’s been taking it a lot lately with Mom.

The best thing to do, Jake decided, was block it out. Because if you can’t see or hear something, there’s no reason it should bother you.