We Are All the Same in the Dark - Julia Heaberlin Page 0,102
Not for a second, not for a single second, did she think about returning me after she accidentally opened the bathroom door.
“I haven’t talked to Ms. Martinez … yet. Now would be the time to tell me the truth about your psychic abilities.”
The hate I feel for him right now is overwhelming.
“I go to sleep,” I say softly. “And Odette comes to me. We’re always at the lake, so green it’s like a big paint bucket. She sinks away at the end. Her lips. Her nose. Her eyes. The top of her head. She leaves a perfect ring of ripples. Like X marks the spot, only it’s a circle.”
Rusty is swerving into the library parking lot, pulling beside my parked rental. I was so preoccupied with our conversation, I barely noticed we’d entered town. With every mile, Rusty’s expression has grown scarier, more furious.
The doctor, she revved him up.
All it took was a little gold glitter.
I don’t think Rusty is racing to a soccer field. I think Rusty is going after Wyatt, maybe for the last time.
“I need you to get out of town if you won’t cooperate,” Rusty growls. “Will you do that?”
I nod. Lying.
60
A group of noisy kids are exiting the library. Normal. Rusty had shot off as soon as I slung my backpack over my shoulder and started walking toward my rental car. Now I’m inside, windows rolled up tight, wondering if Wyatt is going to die because of me.
I don’t think Wyatt killed Odette. Or Rusty or Finn, for that matter.
That’s a problem. Because I never thought my father was a killer, either.
A tear splashes on my arm. This must be my new thing, crying one tear at a time.
I saw a dried tear under a powerful microscope once. It looked like a black-and-white aerial view of an Oklahoma ranch, all water squiggles and sharp architecture lines. The teacher said our tears look different under microscopes, depending on whether they are happy or sad.
That’s what it feels like I’m trying to do right now—find Odette in the aerial view of a single sad tear. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe our whole world is somebody’s single tear.
Odette had written Wyatt’s phone number in her Betty Crocker diary like she knew I would need it. The thing is, I can’t remember the order of the last four digits, just that they were eights and zeros. I remind myself that numbers are my thing, that they calm me down, that my perfect math score on the SAT is part of why I have a full ride scholarship. All I need is for my fingers to stop trembling.
There are only sixteen possible combinations of those four numbers.
If it were ten digits, there would have been a thousand. Twenty digits, a million. Thirty digits, a billion.
Keep doubling and pretty soon you are in the realm of the number of subatomic particles in the Milky Way and military-grade encryption. I try to use this kind of logic to convince Bunny the Lotto is a racket. She tells me not to take the magic out of it.
But sixteen combinations, that’s perfectly reasonable.
I start dialing. I hang up on eight voicemails, two teenagers, one clothing store, one McDonald’s, and one old man.
On my fourteenth try, I get Wyatt’s voice, sort of surprised, like he doesn’t get many calls or has forgotten I exist.
“It’s Angel,” I say urgently. “We need to talk. I met with Odette’s old therapist today. Dr. Greco. She says you met her, too. She says …”
“Stop.”
“Wyatt, did you kill Trumanell?”
“No.”
“Do you know who did?”
“I do.”
Those two little syllables knock my breath away.
“And Odette?” I stutter out.
“I don’t.”
“What was buried in the ground where Odette disappeared?”
“A gun.”
“If you know who Trumanell’s killer is, why haven’t you turned him in?” It’s almost a whisper. “Why did you wait? Is the killer already dead?”
“Trumanell wants me to leave it alone.”
“Please tell me who it is,” I beg. “Please, Wyatt. Please tell Rusty.”
I hear him breathing.
Now I don’t.
“Don’t hang up, please, please don’t hang up!” I’m shouting into the phone. “I think Rusty and his partner are coming for you. I don’t know what they will do to get answers this time. Wyatt. Please. If you won’t talk, just get in your truck and go.” My desperation even surprises me.
Nothing.
“Wyatt, are you still there? I don’t care about Trumanell, Odette would want you to leave.” I pause.
My phone is pressed so tightly to my ear that I can hear my heartbeat. “Please say something.”