Free Naked Edge by Charli Webb

gaze trained on the floor in front of his feet, for the most part. But every third or fourth step, he looks up and glances at me. I know he’s trying to decide whether or not to tell me about the ‘really bad thing’ that Boone hinted at yesterday.
    Rowdy slides both hands into his hair and tugs. I hate to see him get so worked up, but if I let him off the hook now, I might not get another chance to crack through that tough shell of his. So I wait in silence and let the tension build.
    He stops in the middle of the room and drops his hands. He takes three deep breaths then turns to face me. “Why do you care about my past?”
    “Because I care about you.”
    “I’m surprised you haven’t looked it up online.” He glances at my laptop, sitting open on the desk.
    “I googled your name every day and never found anything online.” Great. If that doesn’t sound like an obsessive stalker, I don’t know what does.
    “I didn’t turn eighteen until after it happened, so they kept my name out of the papers.”  
    “Can’t you just tell me about it?”
    “No.” His voice cracks. The color drains from his face. Whatever it was, it must have been huge. His shoulders slump as he exhales. “My mother’s name was Blaire Jones. Not Daletzki.”  
    “Oh.” None of us wanted to risk running into Rowdy’s stepdad so we always hung out in the canyon or here at Boone’s house. When I thought of his mom at all, she was just ‘Rowdy’s mom.’  
    “You don’t mind if I look up the article?”
    Rowdy presses his lips together. “Good night, Skylar.”
    I don’t want him to leave, but he obviously doesn’t want to stay. And I want to read the article. “Goodnight, Rowdy.”
    Typing the correct information into the search engine makes all the difference. The link to the archived article pops up on the top of the first page.

Keith Jones, 39, was arrested early Saturday on charges he fatally shot his wife during an argument at the mobile home they shared in the unincorporated town of Marshall, near Eldorado Springs. He remained jailed after being arraigned on criminal homicide and other charges in the Saturday night shooting of 38-year-old Blaire Jones.

Mrs. Jones’s 17-year-old son was also taken into custody in connection with her death. The minor’s name has not been released due to his age. Police say Mrs. Jones’s son claims he came home from a date and found his intoxicated stepfather pointing a gun at his mother. He claims the gun accidentally discharged while he was trying to wrest it from Mr. Jones.  
    Jones claims his stepson was already armed with the weapon when he barged into the bedroom where he and his wife were having a heated discussion and threatened to use the gun on Mr. Jones. He attempted to disarm his stepson who then willfully and purposely fired the weapon.  
    Police waited to file the charges because there were no other witnesses and they needed to determine from autopsy and other evidence whether Mr. Jones or his stepson fired the weapon and whether or not it was accidental.

    My vision blurs as tears fill my eyes. This is so much worse than anything I could have imagined. I close the page and erase the search history then shut off my laptop.  
    The pipes rattle as the shower starts. Boone was already in his pajamas when we got here so it must be Rowdy. I wait for him in my doorway.
    Steam pours into the hall when he comes out of the bathroom. He’s backlit, wearing nothing but a towel around his narrow hips.  
    I run to him without thinking and plaster myself against his damp chest. I bury my face in his shoulder before I have a chance to consider the consequences. “God, Rowdy. I’m so sorry.”
    He pries my arms off his neck. His voice is hoarse. “It’s not your fault.”
    “I know. But I still hate that it happened. And I’m so sorry about your mom.”
    “Stop.” He speaks through clenched teeth. His fingers dig into my wrists as he yanks my hands over my head and pins