The Edge

Chapter 15

Wes and I are firmly entrenched in the sofa, nestled in a cozy pile of pillows and fuzzy blankets with Mowgli and Frodo resting comfortingly between us. Wes has been kind enough not to bring up the events of the previous day. He consoled me each time I woke up panting and raving during the early morning hours, and shoved a cuppa into my shaking hands as soon as I'd stirred out of bed around noon. We've been commiserating, pajama-clad and tousle-haired, ever since. I don't even complain when, as usual, half the food traveling towards his face rains into the bedding (but at least Mo's here to clean up now). Whatever his faults, my brother always has my back. He'd even fielded the calls from dad making sure I was alright.

As you might imagine, it had been a long night. Relentless questions and venomous insinuations were hurled my way like fast-pitched softballs. Questions like:

What were you doing at the victim's home?

Nosin' around in other people's bidness. The usual.

What's the nature of your relationship with Thomas Fairchild?

Parasitic? Simbiotic, at best.

Why did you lie about encountering Wilder at the crime scene?

I failed to properly expound upon the event. My bad.

And on and on it went in that vein. They pried out most of what I knew; by the end of the interview I'd regurgitated nearly every detail of that day. Of course they also wanted to know what had gone down at the Wilder house that had sent me stomping away in full view of the cameras (hurrah, I made a nightly news cameo). I'd fudged some details there, for all the good it did Luke. Gifted with a profound sense of timing, he'd chosen last night to abscond from the premises, ostensibly to "go camping." Even better, he'd ignored attempts to make contact and nobody could say where exactly he'd gotten off to. There would be no alibis for him this go around, no siree. Have a mentioned yet that the scope of this guy's astronomically disastrous decision-making abilities, compounding in stupidity by the day, astounds me every time?

"I really will be a leper at school now," I mutter into my mug. "A freakin' Typhoid Mary."

The gears in Wes's head grind in search of reassurances, but apparently he's fresh out. "I think you mean Thai - phoid? Ha." I can't bear to muster even a halfhearted chuckle. Nary a chortle escapes me. His halfhearted grin twists into a grimace.

After a massive caffeine binge, however, a sense of normalcy begins to creep its way into my consciousness. "Turn on the tv. I want to see the news." Wes wraps a recently tattooed arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. "Don't think that's a great idea."

"I need to know what's going on. Is she...is she okay? Is she going to make it? Have the police already arrested...someone?" I'd provided Tom an alibi myself, though he'd still been at the station when they finally cut me loose. The police had been unwilling or unable to give me an update on Paige.

"Not that I've heard."

"What about Avery? He was ranting to the press last I saw of him. Does he have an alibi? Did you see the broadcast yesterday? What did he say to them?"

"Oh, not much. Spouted off about what you'd expect, accusations, slander and whatnot."

"Turn it on," I insist.

"Nah."

Irritably, I reach across him for the remote, but he catchs my grabby hands into a surprisingly strong grasp. "Nuh uh." Well spoken as ever.

"My house, my rules, baby brother."

"Might makes right," he counters, then add infuriatingly, "It's for your own good." I jerk out of his grip and snatch up the remote control before he has a second chance to intercept. I utter a victory cry, but instead of sighing or laughing me off, my brother's expression grows cloudy. I feel another case of Serious Wes coming on, and it's happening far too often for my tastes.