Murder Mystery | Herophine story

Chapter Twenty Eight

Josephine

Thursday, November 8th 7:00 pm

I keep reading through the Dylan's News Tumblr as if it's going to change. But it never does. The words run through my head from the other day, about how Tom could've had something to do with it. But does that mean he really did something? Maybe he told somebody else what I had said, and they wrote it. Or maybe it's just all a coincidence. 

Except. A memory surfaces from the morning of Dylan's death, so seemingly insignificant that it hadn't crossed my mind till now: Tom pulling my backpack off my shoulder and carrying it for me as we walked into math. He'd never done that before, but I didn't question him. Why would I? 

And a phone that wasn't mine got pulled from my backpack a few hours later.

I'm not sure what's worse- that Tom might be part of some thing so awful, that I drove him too it by making out with Hero at a party, or that he's been putting an act on for weeks. 

"His choice, Jo," Kat reminds me. "It's not like you two were dating. Just flirting back and forth. You getting wasted and making out with someone has nothing to do with him. It's not your fault."

That might be true. But it doesn't feel true.

So I'm supposed to talk to Molly, who hasn't been in school all week. I tried texting her a few times after school and again after dinner, but she never responded. Finally I decided to borrow the car- find her address in the school directory and just show up. When I told Inanna she offered to come along, but I thought it might just be better alone.

Sam insists on driving me even though I tell him he'll need to wait in the car. There's no way Molly'll open up about anything if he's around. "That's fine," he says as he pulls across the street from Molly's house. "Text me if things turn weird." 

"Will do," I say, giving him a salute as I close the door and cross the street. There aren't any cars in Molly's driveway, but lights are burning throughout the house. I ring the doorbell four times with no answer, glancing back at Sam with a shrug after the last one. I'm about to give up when the door cracks and one of Molly's black-rimmed eyes stares out at me. "What are you doing here?" she asks. 

"Checking on you. You haven't been around and you're not answering my texts. Are you all right?" 

"Fine." Molly tries to close the door, but I stick my foot in to stop her.

"Can I come in?" I ask.

She hesitates but releases the door and steps back, allowing me to push it forward and enter. When I get a good look at her, I almost gasp. She's thinner than ever, and angry red hives cover her face and neck. She scratches at them self-consciously. "What? I'm not feeling well. Obviously?"

I peer down the hallway. "Anyone else home?" 

"No. My parents are out to dinner. Look, um, no offense, but do you have some reason for being here?"

 I know what I should say. I'm supposed to start with small, subtle questions about where Molly's been all week and how she's feeling. To follow up on the thread of Dylan's depression and encourage her to tell me more. As a last resort, I can maybe talk about what Hero's facing as the DA's office tries to send him to an honest-to-God prison. 

I don't do any of that. Instead I step forward and hug her, cradling her scrawny body as though she's a little kid who needs comforting. She feels like one, all weightless bones and fragile limbs. She stiffens, then slumps against me and starts to cry.

"Oh my God," she says in a thick, raspy voice. "It's all fucked up. Everything's so massively fucked up." 

"Come on." I lead her to the living room sofa, where we sit and she cries some more. Her head digs awkwardly into my shoulder while I pat her hair. It's stiff with product, her brown roots blending into shiny pink dye.