“So you made it through the obstacle course downstairs, huh?” Nate asks.
“Is your house always like this?”
Nate shrugs. “Only on weekends. They usually clear out by ten.” He leans back in his chair. “Hey, you have any update on Maeve? She said you were going with her to the doctor today, but that’s the last I heard from her.”
“Nothing yet. She doesn’t think she’ll hear till Monday at the earliest.” I shove my free hand into my pocket with a rush of guilt. Instead of feeling jealous of Nate like usual, I should thank him for being a better friend to Maeve than I was. “I’m glad you convinced her to tell her parents. I didn’t even know. I feel like a jerk.”
“Yeah, well, don’t beat yourself up about it. Nobody knew,” Nate says, tapping the pencil he’s holding against the desktop in front of him. The desk is empty except for a battered laptop, a stack of books, and two pictures—one of a kid posing with two adults in front of what looks like a Joshua tree, and the other of Nate and Bronwyn. She’s behind him, her arms around his neck while she kisses his cheek, and he looks happier in the picture than I’ve ever seen him look in person. Nate’s eyes linger on the photo, and I start to feel like an intruder. I’m about to back away when I catch sight of his laptop screen. “Are you doing…construction homework?” I ask.
“What?” Nate looks down with a short laugh. “Oh. No. I’ve been helping your dad document cleanup work at the mall site where Brandon Weber died. We have to take pictures of everything for the investigation.” He gestures to the screen. “These are bugging me, so I keep looking at them.”
“Why?” I ask, curious. My father won’t tell me anything about the site investigation. The pictures on Nate’s computer don’t look like much. Just piles of shattered wood on a rough cement floor.
“Because of what’s not there, I guess. There’s not all the debris you’d expect when a well-constructed landing crashes down. Some of the beams don’t even have any joists so, like, how were they supposed to stay up in the first place?” Nate narrows his eyes at his computer. “But the beams have holes like joists used to be there, so…if you were totally paranoid, you’d almost think somebody messed with the landing.”
“Messed with it? Are you serious?” I lean forward, intrigued, and drain half my beer before remembering I have to go home after this. I set the cup down at the corner of Nate’s desk and look more closely at the photos. They still look like nothing to me.
Nate shrugs. “Your dad thinks it’s weird, too, but the company working on this was crap at their job and left shitty records. So we can’t be sure of anything.” He taps his pencil again. “Your dad really knows his stuff. Guys at work are always talking about how other companies cut corners, but he never does.”
My first instinct is to be petty and say I wouldn’t know. But there’s an almost wistful tone to Nate’s voice, like he’s imagining what it would’ve been like to grow up with a dad who runs a respected business instead of one who abandoned his kid for a whiskey bottle. And when you put it like that—yeah, my father issues pretty much pale in comparison. So I just say, “He really likes working with you. He tells me that all the time.”
Nate half smiles as the door bursts open, startling us both. Concert T-shirt Guy leans against the frame, looking flushed and sweaty as he points toward Nate. “Dude,” he slurs. “Hypothetically speaking. If a bunch of us decide to streak through the neighborhood, are you in?”
“No,” Nate says, rubbing a hand across his face as he turns to me with a weary expression. “If I were you, I’d take that as my cue to leave. Trust me.”
* * *
—
When I get home from Nate’s, my dad is alone at our kitchen table. It’s the same table we’ve had since I was a kid, a wooden monstrosity that could seat all seven of us comfortably. I used to be squished in the middle next to the wall—the worst, hardest-to-access spot for the youngest kid. I can sit anywhere I want now, since there are only three of us left in the house, but