Page 38 of No Way Home
MAGNOLIA
I staredat the artwork in front of me. My entire world rocked. My mystery sketch artist was none other than Bowen Dupree—the boy who’d appointed himself the role of arch nemesis. I couldn’t wrap my head around it.
Why?
Why would he be so hurtful every time I saw him and then turn around and do something so sweet, so thoughtful? It made no logical sense.
“Welp.” Sophie slapped both hands against the dinner table. “Mom and Dad, why don’t you go check those cows? Or whatever that’s code for.” She pretended to retch. “We’ll get going on the dishes.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Silas took Lemon’s hand and they headed outside.
Sophie stood and turned on the faucet, filling the sink with hot water. Bowen immediately hopped up to clear plates. And I sat there watching him. He stacked the plates quickly, hands trembling slightly, looking anywhere but at me.
I needed to get up and help, but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t process what I’d just learned. I glanced back at thesketch he’d done of his mom. The style, the colors, the strokes, were the same as all the sketches I’d received.
“Can you finish this up?” he whispered to Sophie. “I’m going to drive over to Dupree Ranch and see if Gramps needs any help tonight.”
“Mhmm,” Sophie said, scrubbing away.
He bolted for the front door. I hopped up and hurried after him. He’d just reached the sidewalk when the screen door banged shut behind me.
“Bowen,” I said.
He stopped, his back to me, hands on his hips, shoulders falling in resignation as he gazed at the fields below. But he said nothing.
“Bowen,” I repeated. “We need to talk about it.”
He turned to face me, eyes cold. “Talk about what?”
I cocked my head to the side. “Seriously? Just be honest for once.”
His forehead tightened, ready to deflect whatever I threw at him. “I don’t know what you mean?”
“You drew those pictures of me.”
He gave me a single defiant headshake. “No, I didn’t.”
“You did,” I said calmly, no accusation in my tone. Because why would there be? It was one of the kindest things anyone had ever done for me. “Please tell the truth.”
“I didn’t,” he bit out, trying to terrify me into submission. “And you can’t prove it.”
“I mean, I can. One of my dad’s best friends is an FBI profiler.” True story. “He’s scary good at this stuff. All I have to do is give him one of my mystery sketches and one of the ones from back inside.”
“You wouldn’t?”
“I would. No…” I nodded. “I will. Or you could just admit it.”
His hands shoved into his hair, messing up his man bun. “Fine. It was me.” He looked so ashamed. “But you can’t tell Griffin.”
I wasn’t making any promises. Not yet.
I bounded down the stairs and stopped in front of him. “Why’d you do it?”
“I can’t.” He fell back a step like I was radioactive. “I’ve said too much.”
“No. That’s not how this is going to go. I’m the one calling the shots this time. Why’d you do it?” I asked again, with less patience.
“Because.” His head dropped back and his eyes closed. “I hated being so mean to you, and I was trying to make up for it. You weren’t supposed to find out.”
