Page 21 of Entangled

“It’s a big house,” Luca comments as he parks in my driveway. I peer out of the windscreen at the white, colonial-style house with gray shutters and a red door.

Instead of replying, I exit the car. Luca, dressed in a black beanie and a thin jacket, follows close behind with his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Shielded beneath the large entryway from the bright winter sun, I dig in my bag for my keys. Luca is a steady presence at my back, patiently waiting for me to unlock the door so we can exit the cold. My eyes trail over to Grayson’s front yard. His car is gone; he must be out. I haven’t seen him for a couple of days. It makes me antsy. I keep debating if I should show up with a bag of groceries and offer to cook for him again, but then I remember the woman with the amber hair, and the thought flees my mind as quickly as it entered.

We step into the spacious hallway, and Luca walks ahead while I toe off my shoes and toss my keys in the glass bowl on the console table. It’s strange to have him here in my house, scanning his eyes over the framed landscape paintings on the walls. “Let’s go to my room.”

Sliding past him, I show him the way upstairs. He says nothing, but I sense him close on my heels. I’m not sure why he’s here or what he wants to talk about, but I’ll hear him out.

As we step into my room, I drop my bag by the door. I avoid looking at him while he inspects the strewn books on my desk before walking the length of my room. “I didn’t expect your room to be so… girly.”

Mom decorated it. Pink walls and a flowery bedspread topped with enough throw pillows to open a store are not what I would’ve chosen for myself. I offer him a noncommittal shrug.

He picks up the book on my bedside table, and I fight the heat creeping into my cheeks at seeing him so close to my bed. I’ve never had a boy in here before, and Luca—dressed in destroyed jeans and a red T-shirt beneath his black jacket—looks out of place next to the pinks and whites.

“It’s my current read.”

He puts it back down and fingers the gold necklace that hangs from my bedside lamp.

“It was my grandma’s,” I explain, unsure why I feel like I need to fill the silence with small talk.

Luca scans his eyes over my room once more before sitting down on my bed. I inch closer, wondering if he expects me to join him or if I can stand up while we have this conversation.

“I’ve been to visit Dylan,” he says after a while when the silence becomes too much. “He’s not doing so well.”

My feet eat up the distance between us, and I carefully lower myself down beside him. I don’t speak.

“He, uh, he’s gonna plead not guilty.”

My eyes fall closed and I release a shaky breath, fisting the comforter to steady myself.

“He seems so fucking sincere. I don’t know what to believe.”

“Luca…” I whisper, opening my eyes. Grayson’s curtains are open, and his bedroom is empty.

The branches sway on the tree between our houses as Luca whispers, “What if he didn’t do it? What if the killer is still out there?”

“Her blood was discovered in his bedroom,” I reply.

“It was such a small fucking amount. Why would he swear to me that he didn’t kill her if he did? It seems so fucking cruel.”

I tentatively meet his gaze. It’s hard to look at him when his eyes are so intense, full of grief and regret.

“Do you think he did it?” he asks me, and I swallow thickly. I’ve been dreading the question from the moment he set foot in my house. There’s no straightforward answer.

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” I reply, swiping at my wet cheeks. “He was the last one seen with Chloe; her blood was in his bedroom.”

Luca nods slowly, his jaw clenching before he looks away and rests his elbows on his knees. Dragging his fingers though his hair, he blows out a tired breath. “He was my best friend. We’ve known each other since we were five, or at least I thought we did. This has me questioning everything I thought I knew about him. Because if he’s lying to me… If he really did kill her…” His eyes find mine and he looks at me for a long moment. “They’ve offered him a plea deal.”

My breath catches. “They have?”

“A life sentence in turn for a guilty plea.”

“But you said…”

“He’s gonna plead not guilty, yes.”

My hand flies up to my mouth. “The prosecution will pursue the death penalty.”

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