SNAPPED (The Slate Brothers 1)

I widen my eyes. “Before the criminal trial?”

“That’s what Stephanie said. They’re under the strong impression there will be enough reasonable doubt to get him off entirely in the criminal trial. She says that if he’s found innocent in a criminal trial, getting anything in the civil after the fact will be harder. If they’re found guilty, it’ll be easier— but then, Dennis Slate will be in jail, so he might be able to move money around so that we can’t get to any of it.”

“It’s not about the money,” I say, shaking my head.

“No,” my mother says carefully, “of course it isn’t. It’s never been about the money. But I want something, Ashlynn. I want him to go to jail forever, and I want him to have to pay us forever, and I want him to never be able to live a day without thinking about what he did to our family. If bankrupting the Slates is the way to make them remember Tessa’s name, then I’ll take it. We can donate the money, for all I care— I just want them to have to give it up.”

“So you think we should settle?”

“I think we should consider it. But, they aren’t going to officially make an offer until this spring, at the end of April.” She waits, like she expects me to realize something. I’m about to protest, ask for the answer, when I get it.

That’s when the NFL draft will be finalized. They aren’t looking to settle with Dennis Slate’s money— they’re looking to settle with Sebastian’s. He’s the one that would be paying my family for ages, the one who would have to think of Aunt Tessa daily. Not Dennis, not even Mrs. Slate. Sebastian, who didn’t do anything wrong. Sebastian, who I still care about, still worry about, still think about even though I know it’s over.

“What do you think?” my mom asks when she’s sure I understand what the settlement offer means.

“I don’t know,” I say with a sigh. “I have no idea what to think.”

“Well, there’s no huge rush. The criminal trial is a ways off, and like I said— the offer isn’t officially on the table until April. I just wanted you to know because…well…” She looks away.

“Yeah. I know. Thanks,” I say, and capture her eyes for the weakest of smiles.

I sleep late and ruin any semblance of a schedule while at home. Mom and I go see every movie that’s playing, and I meet up with a handful of high school friends, all of whom know better than to pelt me with questions about my aunt, and who thankfully don’t know anything about my relationship with Sebastian. By Wednesday, I’m starting to feel the tiniest bit lighter, though it’s possible that’s because my vegan mother has been feeding me actual vegetables instead of a rotation of Easy Mac, ramen, and frozen waffles. Wednesday night, however, I hear my phone chime— and the message is from the last person I expected to hear from.

Sebastian Slate: Are you busy?

I stare at the message, unsure what to do. How do I respond? Is it worse to just pretend I didn’t get the message, or to answer only to discover he wants to tell me another thousand ways he’s angry with me? I sit cross-legged on the twin bed I’ve slept in since I was a kid, debating, deciding…

I text him back.

Ashlynn Sawyer: No.

Sebastian Slate: I’d like to talk to you.

Ashlynn Sawyer: Ok.

My hands are shaking, now, but I hype myself up.

Sebastian Slate: 10 minutes?

I frown, then realize— he doesn’t know that I’m not at school. Why would he? I’d planned to stay there over the break, after all— the decision to come home was made after we broke up. I tense and chew my lip. I hate to turn him down, but Berkfield is almost six hours away.

Ashlynn Sawyer: I’m not at school. I came home for break. I’m in Walton.

Sebastian types something, but never sends it— I’m left with the Ellipses Of Anxiety for a minute or two before they disappear altogether. I mentally plan a thousand things to send back: promise that I’ll meet up with him the moment I get back, offer to give him a call. Maybe we could Skype? Is it appropriate to offer to Skype with your ex-boyfriend, potential legal settlement funder, and son of your aunt’s murderer?

And then I hear it— a knock at the door. A knock I recognize. Sebastian— he’s here.

I fly to my bedroom door just in time to see my mom walking toward the front. She must have heard my feet pounding on the ground; she stops to look upstairs at me quizzically as she enters the foyer.

“It’s Sebastian,” I say weakly.

“Oh!” she whispers. I know Sebastian can see her through the decorative glass on our front door, but my mom doesn’t seem to care. “Should I not answer?” she whispers up at me.