JACQUARIOUS

I expected silence as we drove the three-point-two miles to Marigold Crest Park; I figured the other guys, especially Grey, were probably kicking themselves over their presumptions about Cody.

What I didn't expect was dead silence—not a single sigh, no shifting across the belt buckles that sprouted between the seats, no leaning against the windows over the whining protest of the leather cushions.

They blamed themselves; it was pure and simple.

Just like I had, back when I'd first seen that bruise on my cousin.

Sure I'd been young, but there were signs. Everywhere, every time she talked, every forced giggle at one of her fiancé's stupid jokes.

Stop it.

I couldn't go there, not now.

Casey wasn't my cousin, and Miles wasn't the man who almost took her away from the people she loved—I wouldn't give him that chance.

"We're here." Dash's words were the first to break the silence. "You can park by the badminton courts, and the quarry is just around the trees."

The locks flicked open as I slid the gearshift into park, somber waves of muted silence spilling from every door as we stepped from the car in unison.

I turned to Dash. "Lead the way."

He gave me a slight nod, hands trembling at his sides ever so slightly before he took his first slight steps, tracing the manicured edges of the badminton field.

I was the first to follow, Brayden and Grey trailing at my heels. Dash rounded a paved corner overstepped by bushy shrubs, the buzz of bumbled bees brambling through the briars.

The foliage peeled back as we crested over the last low rise of the path, and the quarry opened up before us—sudden and solemn, a crater in the earth that Goldengate had long since drenched in beauty. Its stone walls curved wide and deep, jagged faces dampened by years of moss and rain, sun and shadow. Silver-green lichen crept the slate like quiet regrets, spring grasses fringing defiantly through jagged cracks that littered the cavernous stone.

Further out and further down, the lowest depths at the center of it all were filled with the remnants of tearful rainwater, a still pool as dark as ink. Streaked shelves of granite bordered the water on all sides, their stumpy surfaces bleached white in the pale sun. The trees that edged the quarry itself stood back with reverence, their limbs dipped toward the basin as if in apology.

No birds sang here. Even the bees had vanished, left behind in the bustling barbs we had brushed in passing. Only the sound of our footsteps, softened by dry soil and the pine needles that sprinkled it, disturbed the stillness.

Where is he? I narrowed my eyes, gazing into the distance. Where would he—?

"Cody!" Brayden called, Grey wincing away.

Dash and I turned in unison, the athletic frame of Cody Ashford standing to his feet from a mossy boulder, eyes wide as he spotted the four of us just under fifty feet away.

"Dude, wait up!" Dash tried as Cody angled his back to us, staring toward the edge of the quarry.

"...Please," Grey said, his words crawling just above a whisper, carried through the chasm and freezing Cody in place. "Don't leave, man."

Cody turned back to us, his face twisted into something between an angry pout and a withering scowl.

We pattered across the rocks, feet leadening with every step as we closed the remainder of the gap.

"What do you want?" Cody growled.

"I...I just..." Grey trailed off.

"To clear your name," I said. "And to get rid of Miles—once and for all."

Cody gasped. "Miles? How do you know about—?"

"It's a long story. And I know it's hard, but...I need you to confirm something."

He crossed both arms, stared back at me with uncertain eyes.

"Those towels, the ones you bought from the pharmacy Browning Heights."

He stiffened. "...Yeah?"

"They were for your sister, weren't they? The blood...it was hers."

Cody nodded, his face grim.

"And this was after she moved into your parents' old house, right—the one you were helping her with all those times when you had to run off?"

His breath hitched, but he nodded again. "Yeah. I didn't want her to be alone with...with that creep."

I held up my phone, showing for the first time a vibrant green light pulsing from the top.

"What the—?" Cody stepped back. "Were you just...recording me?"

"Video calling, actually—with Officer Longchamp, the same guy who interviewed you yesterday."

Officer Longchamp stared back through the screen.

"And you just gave him reasonable cause to make an arrest."

Cody's eyes popped wide. "What? But I didn't do anyth—"

"Not you, Cody. You're not under arrest, but Miles is about to be."

"Huh?" Grey spoke up, sidling to my shoulder.

I grinned back at him and the other guys, holding my phone higher. "Just watch."

At the bottom of the screen, a second video faded into view, a vantage of Casey and Miles in their new home as they plodded back and forth, passing the refrigerator in animated strides before Miles stopped in his tracks.

"What is this?" Cody breathed.

"A live feed," I said. "And Officer Longchamp's about to set the bait."

Onscreen, Miles picked up his smartphone and held it to his face, his voice crackling out through my videochat with Officer Longchamp as he answered in real time:

"Miles Cavendish," Officer Longchamp said, "This is Gavin Longchamp with the Goldengate Police Department."

"Officer," Miles's satin tone flecked with static, "I hope you're well. Is this about my girlfriend's brother Cody? He's still out of the home, I'm afraid; but I'll be sure to let you know if he—"

"Actually, yes," Officer Longchamp said. "I wanted to be the one to personally inform you that Cody Ashford has been cleared of all charges in relation to the murder of DeWayne Cartrell."

Miles froze in place. "Is that so? Well, it's nice to hear that—"

"And," Officer Longchamp continued, "that your manipulation and abuse of Casey Ashford ends today."

The jingling of the doorbell pealed through the screen, Miles's pixilated frame jumping with fear. "I don't understand, Officer," he tried.

"No? Then let me explain it for you very clearly. I looked you up, and you've got quite the record. Every inch of your file is spotted with clean slates, fresh erasures, and more redacted lines than a CIA report. In fact, a reasonable man might conclude that the Gridiron Valley PD is just one massive case of boy-who-cried-wolf after the next. I was content to let it all go; I mean, footage of Cody paying off a cashier with literal blood on his hands looked pretty open and shut. Good thing he had even more footage locked away."

Even through the blurring of the screen, I could see Miles's knuckles constrict as they gripped his phone in rage—in panic.

"Turns out," Officer Longchamp said, "the blood on those towels wasn't DeWayne's. But you already knew that, didn't you? You knew there was only one place Cody could've possibly gotten that bloody. And it was in his own home."