Complicit Read Online Free PDF Page B

thought we were talking about—oh, never mind. And nah, with Jenny, we just, you know, flirt a little and touch sometimes. Nothing serious.”
    â€œSo you’d like to get to know her better?”
    I stare at my feet. I don’t want to feel embarrassed. Not about something like this. “Look, maybe I haven’t done it yet, but I know about sex. The internet can be very … educational in that regard. And I know how to be safe. My real mom had me when she was eighteen. She had Cate when she was sixteen. I don’t plan on repeating history, okay?”
    â€œOkay.”
    I sit there. I wait for her to ask what set off my nerve attack. I wait for her to ask something, anything, so that I can bring up Cate and talk about what it means to me that she’s out. That she’s calling my phone. That she claims she’s coming back to Danville to see me.
    And that I’m kind of freaking out about it all.
    But Dr. Waverly doesn’t ask. Instead she sticks with the sex thing and runs with it, because that’s what she thinks I really need. Or maybe that’s what she thinks my unconscious wants to talk about.
    Or whatever.
    I give up, so I run with it, too.

TEN
    After my therapy appointment, I walk up the canyon road to the Murphys’ house. They live on Blue Ridge. My own house isn’t much farther, maybe a half mile more up Oak Canyon, on a private drive at the very top. A lot of the homes around here are built on stilts. We’ve even had to evacuate a couple times when the rain falls for days and the mud starts to move, but nothing bad’s ever come of it.
    My mind tumbles with thoughts as I walk, until I feel light-headed. Cate. Scooter. Jenny. I sort of wish I’d asked Dr. Waverly if we could have spent my session today doing one of those guided imagery exercises she sometimes leads me through when I’m feeling extra tense or down on myself. Sounds lame, I know, but we used to do it a lot when I was a kid, and I always felt more relaxed after spending time in my happy place, which is a mountain lake, in case you’re wondering. I also feel bad about lying to Dr. Waverly about the Prozac, but what can you do? I don’t want to take pills for the rest of my life. I took enough when I was younger and it’s not like I don’t know what’s making me anxious.
    No one answers when I knock on the door and ring the doorbell, so I sneak around the back of the Murphys’ enormous mansion. My fingers remember the gate code better than my mind does. I type the four digits and wait for the light to turn green. Then I pull hard on the wrought-iron handle and step into the yard.
    Scooter’s black Lab Lady bounds for me, shoves her wet nose against my crotch. I push her away. I don’t like dogs.
    â€œHey, Scooter,” I say when I find him reading in an Adirondack chair not far from his family’s sport court. The rain hasn’t returned but the ground’s wet and the air is, too. There’s a basketball nearby, but despite his long limbs and lanky height, I doubt he’s been shooting hoops. Most likely, the ball belongs to one of his stepbrothers, who are both away at college. Scooter Murphy’s always been just as unathletic as I am, though I suppose a lot can change in two years.
    Scooter rips his earbuds out and puts his book down. I glance at the title. It’s one of those Stieg Larsson books.
    â€œWhat’re you doing here?” he snaps. “And don’t call me that, by the way.”
    â€œDon’t call you what?”
    He gives a wave of his hand. “That kid name. My name’s Scott.”
    â€œI know what your name is.”
    â€œThen use it.”
    The light-headedness returns, worse than before, and I almost turn and leave right then. I don’t need this. His anger. His spite. All directed at me. Only I have to tell him. That’s the thing about guilt, I’ve learned.
    It’s