Get Out If You Can

Diego | The Torrez Way

Alison has a point.

I do think that one of us is hiding something – and I'd like to say I have a fair idea who, but that'd just be senseless speculation. I don't do that. It never works.

Well, I should probably look through everyone's work so far. Maybe it'll help.

Alison, for starters. I'm pretty sure there's more to her than simply a denial. She can run, with that face of hers – but she can't hide. Who can?

Hunter's – Hunter's weird, and that's being mild. I thought, prior to today, that he was one of those ideal badass kids, who showed up at every party and had the juice on every happening. He's neither. He's just – he's just a general personality. One-dimensional. I can't even find adjectives to describe him – so far all he's been doing is wobbling around pillars without any reason to.

Emilie? Emilie's the one I'm not sure of at all. The story she let out is one piece of the puzzle – and I wonder what else she has. Emilie's surprisingly good at hiding what she's intent on keeping to herself. I think it develops after all the time you spend with the crowd she hangs out with. They're faker than my mother's innocent face.

My mother. I shouldn't think of her – not now, not today. I can't – let's face it – I can't handle the thought of not being able to go back to her.

I sit back on the armchair in front of the computer table as the rest of them talk to Emilie. I fish for my phone in my pocket.

I take it out and unlock it. A dark, bleak, gray wallpaper stares back at me.

I've never understood the need for color. Never have, and probably never will.

I swipe past the apps on my phone, looking for the Camera Roll – and there it is. I scroll down, scroll down, and scroll down some more – I'm surprised at the amount of pictures I took – the amount of pictures I took that did not include a single member of my family.

I find one, finally. I must've been thirteen – my hair was longer than it is now, falling in light tendrils over my face. Mom had dressed me up in a fancy suit way too formal for a thirteen-year-old. I hadn't bothered to brush my hair.

Mom hadn't minded. Her arm was around my shoulder, and mine around her waist, hugging her, grinning at the cameraman. She was wearing a blood red dress, her other arm on the shoulders of my father.

I never realized how much I missed these moments until now.

"Hey, Diego." Alison's voice startles me. I hurriedly stuff my phone back into my pocket. If she noticed, she doesn't push it.

"Check the other pictures – pictures, videos, whatever," she says, gesturing to the computer. "We've about five hours. Don't," she says, just as I open my mouth to yell at the others. "Don't. They won't do well to know."

I nod, uncomfortably. I'm surprised she's no longer mad at me for my shitty behavior earlier. Well, not exactly shitty. I'm no closer to entertaining the possibility that my brother was murdered than I was then. I just could have – addressed the situation in a better way. Like Mom did.

I'm not even going to reprimand myself for thinking of her. Better now than never again.

"Diego," Alison says, and I look up, into her eyes. I've never seen that color in eyes before.

Or maybe I just haven't been paying that much attention.

"Yeah?"

"Scroll."

Oh, right. I pick up the mouse and scroll to the right once more.

"There's something here," I say, clicking on the next thumbnail – something in September. "It looks like – this is an audio recording. And there are a few pictures here, I guess."