“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I already explained it.”
“No.
You denied it.
Tyler explained it.”
Clare reached us, breathing hard.
“Marcus, give him the key and stop making a scene.”
“The key is on the roof.”
She looked at it, then at Derek.
Neither of them reached for it.
They thought the key was a trap.
They were right, although not in the way they imagined.
My phone was still recording inside my shirt pocket.
I kept my voice calm.
“Did you tell Tyler my Gibson was fake?”
Derek glanced toward my parents, searching for support.
My mother spoke from several feet away.
“Everyone is emotional.
Let’s go inside.”
“No,” I said.
“We’re going to finish the conversation everyone wanted me to swallow.”
Derek’s jaw tightened.
“I made a joke.”
“What joke?”
“That you overpaid.
That musicians waste money trying to look important.”
Clare touched his arm.
“Derek.”
He pulled away from her.
“What? That’s what happened.
I was teasing him.”
“You were teasing me through a nine-year-old?”
“I didn’t think Tyler would actually do it.”
There it was.
Not a complete confession, but the first crack in his denial.
I took one step closer.
“Actually do what?”
Derek realized too late that he had walked into the question.
His eyes flicked toward my pocket.
“Are you recording me?”
I did not answer.
He pointed at me.
“You’d better not be.”
Tyler spoke from beside Clare.
“You told me to prove it.”
Every adult turned toward him.
Clare crouched quickly.
“Tyler, sweetheart, you’re confused.”
“No, I’m not.” His voice was smaller now, but steady.
“Dad said Uncle Marcus acts rich because he has a fake guitar.
He said real ones don’t break.
He said I could prove it.”
Derek’s face changed.
Not guilt.
Calculation.
