Liar by Justine Larbalestier

at me odd. “What do you mean ‘foxes’? Hot girls I didn’t notice? Other than you, I mean.” He stopped, looked around.
    â€œNo, foxes. Actual foxes.”
    â€œDoes it mean something I don’t know about? ’Cause you can’t mean the red animals with the big tails, right?”
    I laughed. He was balanced on one leg, staring at me as if I was about to do something weird.
    â€œYes, doof. Foxes. The animals.” I wrinkled my nose, brought my hands up to my face. “Red. Tricky. Eat rabbits. Foxes, you know?”
    â€œOkay. Foxes. The animals. What about them?”
    â€œDo you want to see some?”
    â€œHere?” Zach looked around. “In Central Park?” A Mercedes drove by. Four bikes with riders tricked out in dazzling fluorescent zipped past.
    â€œYes, here. C’mon,” I said, taking off at a slow trot. “Follow me!” I breathed deep, sucking in fox scent, weeding out all other odors. Mine. Zach’s. Car fumes. Rubber. Urine. Rain getting ready to fall. I left the path and headed deeper into the park.
    Zach followed.
    When we came to the den, I led us upwind and crouched down on rocks behind bushes.
    â€œNow what?” Zach asked.
    â€œNow we wait.”
    â€œBut I don’t see anything.”
    I pointed at the brush a little downhill from us. “In there is a fox den.”
    â€œThat’s just bushes.”
    â€œAnd a fox den.” I couldn’t believe he didn’t see the trampled grass. Or smell the sharp meat-eater odor. “See those white and brown things lying there?” I pointed.
    Zach nodded.
    â€œBones.”
    â€œFox bones?” Zach asked.
    â€œNo, bones of stuff they’ve eaten. Probably chipmunk or rabbit. Though mostly they get into the trash cans and eat our leftovers.”
    â€œYou’re really serious? That there are foxes in there?”
    â€œYes! Shhh, now. Wait. You’ll see.”
    Zach blew air through his teeth but he hunkered down lower, his thigh brushing mine.
    When the first fox emerged it was dusk. Its snout was in the air, orange and white, black tip glistening, tongue hanging out.
    â€œNo shit,” Zach whispered. “A fox!”

    AFTER
    â€œWhen we interviewed you last Tuesday,” Detective Stein says, “you said you’d never spoken to Zach.”
    â€œYes,” I say, because that’s what I’d said. I don’t like them calling him “Zach.” They didn’t know him. They should call him “Zachary” like all the other clueless adults.
    This is a house visit. Even though we live in an apartment. A tiny apartment. We are in the kitchen. My dad leans against the fridge next to Detective Rodriguez, who’s leaning against the sink. They are mere inches from where me and Mom are seated side by side on the other side of the kitchen table from Detective Stein. I hope one of the bicycles falls on him.
    Mom has offered both of the detectives coffee and tea and juice and water. They’ve rejected everything. She offers Rodriguez the seat next to Stein. He says no, he prefers to stand. At the last interview he sat and Stein leaned.
    I figure they reject all forms of hospitality to make it clear that they don’t trust me and thus, by extension, my parents. It feels petty. I wish I could ask them questions. Where did they find Zach? Who killed him? Why?
    â€œNow, we hear that Zach’s your boyfriend,” Stein says.
    I look down at my hands. I want them to think that I am shy and afraid of them. Not that I am pissed that I have to talk to them. Mom takes my left hand in hers and squeezes it. Like Yayeko did at the first interview.
    â€œIs that correct?” Rodriguez asks.
    â€œWhat?” I ask. Maybe if they think I’m stupid they’ll leave me alone.
    â€œIs it true that Zachary Rubin was your boyfriend?”
    â€œHe was Sarah Washington’s boyfriend.”
    Stein shifts in his seat and