Ovenshine

3.

His name was Lamar Pine.

Indy's every waking hour is spent looking into the case, which becomes doubly as enticing because of the strange lack of information she can find on it. Brief articles list clues stolen directly from other articles, then falter off into silence. Pine's background is never discussed, as if his life began the moment he allegedly took Elizabeth Dobbs's. She can't find an execution date, either, only a grainy scanned image of the murder victim's obituary. At every turn, the world seems to be telling her, Give up. There's nothing here. Not that the world hasn't lied to her before.

Nevertheless, Indy vows to stow away her curiosity for at least the next hour, for Sylvia's and Gatz's sakes. The last thing those two probably want to hear while they're trying to eat lunch is the gruesome details of Dobbs's autopsy.

Indy steps into the dining hall, shaking off the cold, and freezes in place. Just ahead of her is Percy, mystery meat burger and a generous helping of crinkle fries balanced on the tray in his hands. He notices Indy at the same time she notices him, and Indy decides right then to turn back around and exit the way she'd come in. Sylvia and Gatz will understand.

"Indy. Wait, Indy—God. How long are we going to do this?"

He's closer to her now, she can hear it, but she still doesn't turn to face him. "Your parents are worried about you, you know. Harvey, too."

"I know. I was planning on calling them soon."

"That's good," Indy says. "You should do that."

"Indy. Are you really not going to turn around?"

"Why should I?"

"Because you look like a weirdo standing there talking to a wall," Percy says, "and I want to apologize to you, but it's harder to apologize to the back of your head."

Indy wishes she had more petty bones in her body, but unfortunately she's been afflicted with the flesh-eating disease known as kindness for as long as she can remember. She'll always forgive and forgive and forgive, even if one day it leaves her with nothing left to give at all.

Indy turns around.

Percy smiles briefly, dimple appearing in his cheek. "There you are."

She raises an extremely judgmental eyebrow. "Here I am."

Percy hesitates a beat before he starts, "About the other night—"

"And all the other nights before that one?"

"Yeah," Percy says, sucking his bottom lip underneath his teeth. "Listen, Indy. I'm sorry I made you deal with all of that. It's not fair to you, or to Sylvia, for that matter, and it won't happen again."

Indy wants to believe it'll be that simple, that he really means what he says, but past experience has her doubting his word. Percy has always been somewhat of a party animal, ever since they were still in high school. He was always the brightest thing in the room, and Indy could tell that he knew it, too. People just wanted to be around him, and he just wanted to be wanted.

Over the past few weeks, though, it's spiraled quickly into something else. Nights for making fond memories became nights he would never remember at all, and Indy still didn't know just what set him off.

He's apologized before. And yet here they are.

"I don't know, Percy," Indy says at last, dropping her eyes to the floor when she can look into Percy's pleading ones no longer. "You keep telling me that, but how do you know it won't?"

"I just—I really mean it this time. I don't want to do this anymore, so I won't."

"Percy, you know you can tell me anything, right?" Indy says, and while she internally kicks herself for sounding like such a mom, it doesn't make the words or the sentiment any less true. "Is there something else going on here?"