Free This Is How It Ends by Jen Nadol Page B

questions.
    â€œYou’re not gonna tell him anything, right?” Moose asked, his eyes darting to the restaurant floor, the entrance, then me.
    â€œWhat would I tell that half the town doesn’t already know?” I asked.
    â€œYeah, yeah, exactly,” he said, bobbing his head. “Just . . . you know . . . nothing about that one time we went up there with Wynn, right? I mean, I didn’t even know Mr. Cleary. I was just doing a favor. It—”
    â€œMoose. Calm down,” I interrupted, taking a step back. “You’re freaking out. Talk like that, and they’ll think you did it.” I raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t, did you?”
    I was joking, but Moose didn’t think it was funny. “Jesus Christ,” he exploded, “that’s exactly what I don’t need!”
    He stalked away, and I stared after him. I’d never heard him yell before. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Nat had found her dad dead, and there’d been a murder in our little town. People were going to be freaking—it wasn’t something to joke about. I kept my head down the rest of the morning, busing and cleaning and trying to ignore pretty much everyone and everything.
    â€œYou must go to school with Natalie Cleary.”
    The guy behind me at table ten was sipping a Coke and wearing a flannel shirt that looked fresh from a package, still creased down the front. There was a pen and notebook open on the table, the page clean and white. Reporter number two. I wondered how many others would follow.
    â€œNo comment,” I told him, loading the last of table nine’s plates into the bus pan and heading for the back.
    Bob Willets and Lincoln Andrews walked in just after one p.m. “Too busy to make it this mornin’, I reckon,” Patti said. They looked less rumpled but more exhausted than when I’d seen them behind the yellow crime scene tape six hours earlier. “There’s some outta towners at yer table.” She gestured to a pair of city people. “But I can seatcha by the fountain.”
    I was busing table three and watching them from the corner of my eye. Patti was pulling menus from the rack when Bob said, “Actually, Patti, we’re here to ask some questions. About the Clearys.”
    She froze. I did too.
    â€œWe’ll need to have a few minutes with a couple of people here,” Bob continued.
    â€œI best get George out here, then,” she told them.
    Lincoln nodded. “Yep, we were figuring to talk to him first. Where’s his office?”
    They followed Patti back to see the manager. Moose was fidgeting beside me as soon as they disappeared.
    â€œYou think they’re gonna talk to all of us?”
    â€œI don’t know.” I surveyed Moose, who looked ready to jitterbug right out of his uniform, tap-tap-tapping his fingers on the seat back. “Dude,” I said. “Calm down.”
    â€œYeah.” He nodded, a little manic. “Sure, sure.”
    â€œJust be straight with them, Moose.”
    He hesitated. “You know I can’t,” he said softly.
    â€œLook,” I said. “So you did things up there that”—I looked around at the empty booths nearby before continuing—“weren’t exactly legal. So what? When was the last time you went up?”
    â€œI dunno. A couple months ago.” He flicked his eyes toward the ceiling. It was a classic tell. Trip had taught me that back in third grade, after his mom had caught us taking quarters from her purse.
    â€œLook them in the eyes,” he’d said sternly when his mom had finished scolding us. “And don’t fidget. That’s how they know.” I’d never gotten good at it.
    â€œMoose,” I cautioned now. “Don’t lie to them. You’ll just get in bigger trouble.”
    â€œI’m not lying.”
    â€œEven I can tell you are,” I told him. “You think