Blood on My Hands

about Slade’s being sent overseas.
    Now she leaned close and dropped her voice. “Don’t you want to be part of the inner circle?”
    I’d heard passing reference to the IC before. Mia seemed to think it was some kind of secret society, but when I asked her what she thought it was for, she admitted that she didn’t know.
    “What is it?” I asked.
    Katherine gestured at Mia and Kirsten, then gave me a conspiratorial smile. “It’s what they’re not in.”

Chapter 26
    Monday 6:57 P.M.
    JERRY FAIRMAN WAS Sebastian’s best friend, and as strange and mercurial as Sebastian is, Jerry is stranger still, a reclusive techno-whiz freak geek who rarely leaves his parents’ house. I know I’m taking a chance by going to see him, but at this point anything I do means taking a chance. Besides, Jerry isn’t the sort of person who deals well with authority, and conspiracy theories are like catnip to him. I remember at Sebastian’s nineteenth birthday party, Jerry cornered me and went on and on about how this country never actually sent men to the moon, and how the moon landings were faked on a Hollywood movie set to give the Russians the impression of America’s great superiority in space.
    Of course, he also believes that UFOs exist and that the air force knows all about them. But the most disturbing thing he ever told me was about something called the New World Order, which he said was headquartered in a secret city under the Denver International Airport and run by the wealthiest and most powerful men in the world, who controlled everything and had ordered the destruction of the World Trade Center towers on 9/11 to drive up the price of oil.
    Now that’s extreme.
    I don’t know what to expect as I tiptoe through the dark around the back of the Fairman house. The basement light is on. I bend down and tap my knuckles gently against the glass, hoping it will be just loud enough for Jerry to hear and not alert the rest of the household. A few moments later a shadow appears on the floor and then I see Jerry’s pale face as he peers up, squinting and frowning, with no trace of recognition.
    Afraid of being overheard, I lean closer to the glass. “It’s Callie,” I say in a low voice. The frown on Jerry’s face deepens. It’s hard to imagine that there is anyone in Soundview who is so detached from the outside world that he doesn’t know about Katherine’s murder. But if such a person could exist, it would be Jerry.
    “Callie,” I repeat, a little more loudly. “Sebastian’s sister.” I slide the fake hoop off my lower lip. On the other side of the window, Jerry squints, blinks with astonishment, then motions to the semi-subterranean door beside the window. I go down three mold-darkened concrete steps to the screen door. It’s locked. Jerry opens the inside door and gives me a perplexed look through the screen.
    “Did you hear about Katherine?” I ask.
    He nods.
    “I was set up. Someone wanted to make it look like I killed her. I came here because I need your help to prove I’m innocent. The person who set me up is hoping everyone will think I’m just like my brother.”
    I’ve made it sound like a conspiracy, and Jerry nods in complicity. I reach down to the latch on the screen door and jiggle it to show him it’s locked. Jerry’s eyes travel down and then back up. His forehead furrows. “You want to come in?”
    “I need help, Jerry. There’s no one else I can go to.”
    It’s easy to picture the gears grinding in Jerry’s head. He could be hesitating for any number of reasons. “What do you want from me?” he asks.
    “I’m having a problem with texting and cell phones. I thought maybe you could help.”
    There’s nothing he likes more than fixing techy problems. To him it’s a form of recreation. Relief floods through me as he reaches down and unlocks the latch, then gestures me in and points at the floor, where shoes and boots are lined in an orderly row. I take off my wet shoes and socks … but now he looks at my bare feet and makes a face.
    “I had to go through a marsh,” I explain.
    Someone else might go get me a pair of dry socks, but Jerry doesn’t think that way. Instead, he pulls a bottle of Purell out of his pocket and gestures for me to cup my hands so he can squeeze some onto my palms. He waits while I rub the gel into my hands; then he nods down at my bare feet.
    Yes, he’s serious, and I’m not in a position to argue. So I do what he wants and then follow him