SNAPPED (The Slate Brothers 1)

“No, no, nothing. I didn’t say anything— I didn’t have anything to say. It’s not like you’ve told me anything new—“ I wince, because I hear how that sounds; like I was analyzing what he told me, sorting it into “new information” and “old information” instead of “things the guy I like is saying to me”. I try to start over. “I should have told you, but I really do love you, Sebastian. I didn’t want you to leave. And then it just became too late, and I just…I should have told you.”

“I just can’t believe you kept this from me. I never lied to you.”

“But you said we could pretend like the murder never happened,” I plead uselessly, like I might be able to argue my way out of this mess. “That’s what I wanted, too.”

Sebastian looks away for a moment, grits his teeth. “When I thought I was the only one really pretending. When I thought you were a girl willing to look past my father’s case. When I thought you were with me for me, not for research. When I thought you were being as honest with me as I’ve been with you.”

“I didn’t even know who you were the first night, Sebastian. At the party, when you gave me your jersey, I didn’t know who you were, but I wanted you.”

“You didn’t kiss me, then, till you knew who I was,” he answers coldly. I frown, thinking he must be wrong— but no. He’s right. I froze up that first time. I know how this must look— like I didn’t want him, then I did as soon as I learned the truth. I shake my head, but I can’t think of a way to explain that this wasn’t the case, that I wanted him all along.

“I promise, I won’t keep anything from you again. I was just so overwhelmed,” I say, holding my hands out in surrender.

Sebastian nods, but not in a way that makes me think he’s accepting my vow. “Okay,” he says testily. “No secrets? Fine. Tell me the truth, Ashlynn— do you think my father’s innocent?”

I take a long, slow breath, let my eyes drift shut— because I don’t want to be looking at him when I say this. “No,” I whisper. It’s the truth, and I hate it.

“Well. I think we’re done here, then,” Sebastian says briskly, and when my eyes spring open, he’s already walking back to the car. My lips part, I want to say something else, but what? So I merely watch in the near darkness as he swing back into the driver’s seat and, without any delay, drives off.

Leaving me behind.

25

Fall break is the following week, thank god— because it means I get to go home. I planned on staying here, truth be told, but now I can’t wait to get away for a week. I speed out of class on Friday afternoon and straight to my already-packed car. My face is still tender and puffy from crying, and my phone is full of messages from my roommates who are sending me funny memes on the hour, every hour, trying to cheer me up. One thing my phone is totally void of? Messages from Sebastian. I haven’t heard a word from him since that day after his practice and, honestly, I can’t blame him. Why talk to someone who not only lied by omission, but is sure your dad’s a murderer?

And I am still sure about it. I think about this as I drive home— how confident I am that Dennis Slate killed my aunt. Somehow, losing Sebastian has made it suddenly easy for me to accept the idea that Dennis Slate is a monster, but Sebastian isn’t. Perhaps it’s because of how much I miss Sebastian; perhaps it’s because even my mother pitied me when I came clean and told her who I’d been in a relationship with. She was shocked, of course, but not nearly as angry as I expected her to be— more confused, if anything. Though she did say that she used my confession to mark off “decides to stop dating ‘nice guys’” on her Bad Decision Bingo board.

“Do you want to talk any more about it?” she asks when I get home.

“I really don’t,” I say, hugging her tightly. “I just want to mope around, mostly.”

“Reasonable,” she says, nodding. “Also, Stephanie sent you a fruit basket. She feels really badly about the whole thing.”

“It’s not her fault,” I say.

My mom nods. “Okay, well, can we talk about your aunt, and just leave Sebastian out of it?”

“Of course,” I say, and slide into a chair at the kitchen table— the one that’s been here since I was a little girl.

“Well, Dennis Slate was released on bail. As I assume you know?” she says slowly. I nod. She takes a breath, then goes on, “And the Slates want to know if we’re willing to settle the civil suit out of court.”