“Was it before your daddy died or after that you found them?”
She shrugs, moves her penguin to her lap, and leans back in her chair.
“If you really think hard, can you try to remember?”
Emblem closes her eyes, pressing them firmly shut, as if to demonstrate that she is thinking hard like the interviewer asked. “I think it was right after.”
“Right after what?”
“Right after Daddy died. I found them right after.”
“What makes you think it wasafteryour daddy died?”
Emblem pulls the penguin to her chest, presses her eyes shut again. “Because I knew he couldn’t be mad at me for taking them.” She opens her eyes and looks to the interviewer, eyes wide and lips parted as if to ask,Did I do good?
26.
Admission (n.)
a voluntary concession of the existence of certain facts
a confession ten years coming
We ride back to the Singer Suites after a full day in court, my head spinning from the day’s testimony and the questions it’s left me with. Having empathy for those who lost Joe does not make Margot guilty, I remind myself as our shuttle exits the freeway, greeted by the fast-coming early dark of late October. I work to ignore the gnawing doubt that continues to creep into my once resolute stance on this case. On Margot.
I’m lost in thought until we are just a few blocks from the hotel, when Cam leans forward from the back row of the shuttle, positioning his face between Damon and me. “Let’s meet up tonight instead,” he says, then falls back into his seat. It takes a moment to grasp what he’s saying.
I had forgotten entirely about Cam’s invitation from the bowling alley on Saturday:Come to my room. Say, tomorrow night? I wanna show you guys somethin’.After my Outback Steakhouse bathroom hallway run-in and then our subsequent confinement to our rooms yesterday, I was content to follow the rules and stay in my room. But Cam doesn’t seem to want to let the idea go.
“What do you think Cam wants to show us?” I whisper to Damon beside me. “Are you gonna go over?”
“Not sure,” Damon whispers back. He shifts his eyes to me. “Do you want to?” It’s as though he’s willing, but only if we go together.
“I don’t know,” I say, staring up at his darkened face.
He leans in. “It’s just Cam.”
Well. Perhaps Damon can’t think of any sinister options with “Just Cam,” but my mind forms an immediate list of possibilities. Maybe the trial has sent Cam mad and he plans to butcher us in his room with a dull butter knife from the breakfast buffet. Maybe he silently followed Damon and me up to the presidential suite that third night of the trial and plans to blackmail us in exchange for silence. I could go on and on. It’s perhaps my most accomplished trait, catastrophizing. And with Judge Gillespy’s newest security directive just this morning, the idea seems incredibly foolish.
We climb out of the vans and head to the dining area for dinner. The crowd, generally, has returned to the somber humdrum of the previous week, all remnants of Saturday’s uplift squashed by Judge Gillespy’s announcement this morning and subsequent heavy day of testimony.
Despite my mental exhaustion, I make a concerted effort to chat with a few of the other jurors (outside of Cam, Tamra, and Damon). However, most beeline for their rooms the second they’ve finished eating tonight’s dinner selection of chicken fingers and fries. Xavier pats each person’s shoulder as they pass on their way out of the dining area as if he’s a coach consoling his locker-room-bound players after a tough loss. Gray Man steps around him to avoid his touch.
Later, as we stand in a line in front of our respective doors, Cam and Damon look over at me questioningly. I promptly shove myself inside my room, letting it close with a thud behind me.
I’ve told myself to keep things platonic with Damon. I can’t exactly keep my distance, but I can avoid situationslike this. Like the presidential suite. I’m here for one reason: to ensure Margot gets a fair trial. But Damon’s presence screams at me in a way I can’t seem to ignore. He’s adventure. He’s all the good from my childhood—every bit of it still resides in him. I can’t seem to say no to it, to the opportunity for more time with him. Even if it means Cam, too. And after today’s testimony, that of both Jackie KitschandEmblem, time beside Damon feels more like a need than a want.
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and present my argument. “We’re not going to talk about the case,” I tell her. “We’re probably just... blowing off steam. From being so cooped up all the time.” We stare at each other, and I blink first. As soon as I’ve spoken the words, I know I’ve already decided.
I walk past Cam’s door and knock quietly on Damon’s. As I do, I hear the elevator beep from around the corner. Shit. There’s a fifty-fifty chance whoever exits the elevator will come this way. I can’t risk a guard catching me break curfew. Damon’s door swings open, and I shove my way into his room. He eyes me in silent question.
Close it,I mouth, motioning toward the door. His hand still clasping the handle, he does as I say and quietly presses the door shut.
“What is it?” he asks, his voice still low though we are now alone in his room.
“The elevator dinged. I thought someone might see me,” I say.
He looks out the peephole for a long moment and then turns to face me, shakes his head to indicate the hallway is clear. Now, though, I’m distracted by the details of his room. My eyes catch on the bed, comforter pushed to the foot, flat sheet messily stretching across it, a ripple along the fitted sheet where he sleeps. I clear my throat and force my eyes to focus elsewhere. Scanning the rest of the room, I survey the stack of books on the nightstand and the pair of jeans neatly folded over the armchair in the corner. The room is incredibly small, with no way to keep a physical distance from him.
