Speechless(15)

                I’m too preoccupied skimming the article and nursing my                     hangover to eavesdrop on Kristen’s conversation, but then she lets out an                     especially sharp “What?” that makes me snap to                     attention. When I look at her, she’s speechless, eyes wide and mouth hanging                     open. But she turns her back to me and lowers her voice so I can’t hear whatever                     it is she says next. It isn’t until she hangs up the phone and drops into the                     seat next to me, the shocked expression etched into her features, that I get an                     answer out of her.

                “What’s going on?” I demand.

                She drags her eyes off the phone in her hand and meets my gaze.                     “Noah Beckett is in the hospital,” she tells me.

                “Wait, are you serious?” Kristen just nods, and my mouth goes                     dry again. I wrap my hands around my empty mug and ask, “What the hell                     happened?”

                “He was in the parking lot of the Quality Mart, and he…he got                     beat up really bad,” she says. She pauses for a long time. “I guess he’s                     unconscious.”

                My heart kind of stops, thinking about Noah like that. Who                     would do that to him? And then I realize.

                I don’t want to ask the question because I’m so afraid I                     already know the answer, but I have to. “Did Warren and Joey do it?”

                Kristen doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to. The look                     on her face says it all.

                “Oh, my God,” I breathe, slumping back in my chair. “Oh, my                         God.” I cover my mouth with one hand. “I thought                     they were just going to talk to him!”

                “You can’t say anything.” Kristen’s tone has a careful edge to                     it.

                “But—”

                “I mean it,” she says, more emphatically this time. “I’m not                     kidding. If anyone asks, nothing happened. You don’t know anything. Got it?”

                I stare down at the open magazine, but the words there are a                     jumbled mess. I can’t wrap my mind around this. I’m an expert at finding out                     secrets, but keeping them—especially a secret of this magnitude—is something                     else.