Shutter

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  I clenched my teeth, wishing the floor would swallow me whole. More rain pelted down against her head, soaking her hair, draining down her neck.

  “Just tell me. Is it true?”

  My eyes slammed shut. Every inch of me shattered.

  “They were your fingerprints?” she continued. “How could you leave a detail like that out? I trusted you to be honest with me.” Her voice cracked over the words.

  My heart cracked because I’d hurt her.

  “So, now what?” she asked.

  “It may sound selfish, but I didn’t want you to know that about me.”

  Day shook her head and went back to the house, leaving me in darkness, taking all the light with her.

  I spend the following morning catching up on the non-Julian-related aspects of my life. I work on my photography project, finish my French and Chaucer essays, study for a physics exam, and call Jeannie to wish her luck on her date with Max tonight (at the “It’s-Saturday-Let’s-Party” party).

  After lunch, in my room, I gaze out the window, feeling a gnawing sensation inside my gut. I haven’t spoken to Julian since last night. But still I’ve been thinking about him.

  A lot.

  Am I surprised that he didn’t tell me about the fingerprints? Someone who barely confided in anyone? Who writes his feelings down in a notebook because that’s safer than revealing them to other people?

  No.

  Not at all.

  He hasn’t been honest with me, but I’m not willing to give up on his case. I’m way too invested now. Plus, it’s no longer just about him. This case is about me too—about having a sense of purpose, and feeling as though what I’m doing matters.

  I grab my camera and bag, then ask Mom to borrow her car for a trip into town, which isn’t entirely a lie. I will drive into town, straight down Main Street, on my way to Wallington.

  Mom says yes. I grab her keys. Wallington Hardware is a tiny shop in the center of the city, about thirty minutes away. I park right in front and fish Hayden’s receipt from inside my pocket. The doorbells chime as I enter the store. There’s a bearded guy at the counter.

  “Can I help you?” he asks.

  “I’m looking for the manager,” I tell him.

  An older woman emerges from the back room. She can’t be more than four feet nine, with hair hiked up in a cone-shaped bun (perhaps to add a few more inches). “Look no further,” she says.

  “I bought a couple of items here back in May,” I explain, showing her the receipt. “I was hoping that you could tell me what they were.”

  She gives me a befuddled look, with a creased forehead and pouty lips. Still, she goes behind the counter and types one of the item numbers into the register.

  The register beeps. Words flash across the screen: PIPE, STEEL, 24-IN.

  A shiver runs down my spine.

  The woman raises an eyebrow at me. “Looks like you may have had some sort of plumbing issue back in May.”

  “Right.” I nod. “Could you also check the other number? I don’t remember what I bought with the pipe.”

  She types that number in too. “Gloves,” she says, reading the screen.

  “Gloves?”

  “That’s right.” Her face furrows as she studies my expression. “Working gloves. Lots of people use them, including you if this is indeed your receipt.”

  Working gloves.

  A steel pipe.

  My head spins.

  I feel my face flash hot.

  “Anything else?” she asks.

  “Could you tell me how heavy a twenty-four-inch steel pipe might be?”

  She moves from around the counter and disappears down one of the aisles, returning a few seconds later, holding a steel pipe. It’s about three-fourths the length of a baseball bat. “Feel for yourself,” she says, handing it to me.

  I wrap my hand around it. It’s easy to hold, about an inch and a half thick, and short enough to hide, but still it has ample weight, at least five pounds. Is it possible that Peter Hayden concealed a pipe like this behind his back, tucked inside his pants, with his shirt draped over the end? Was he wearing gloves at the time?

  I pull my camera out of my bag and take several pictures of the pipe. “Would you mind showing me the gloves too?” I ask her.

  The woman exchanges a look with the guy at the counter. “I must say, I’ve never had a customer take photos of items they purchased in the past. What is this really about?”

  “A school project. Photography class.”

  Her eyes squint. I can tell she doesn’t believe me. Still, she retrieves the gloves from one of the aisles: black leather, size large. I take a series of shots, suddenly noticing the surveillance camera over the cash register. Would the police watch the recording? Would the manager call them after I left?

  “Thank you for your time.” I snatch up the receipt and bolt for the door.

  Back in the car, I grab a notebook and add to my lists of facts and questions, trying my best to get a grip.

  FACT: Peter Hayden bought a steel pipe and some construction gloves on the morning that his girlfriend’s husband was killed.

  FACT: Mr. Roman was hit over the head with a blunt object that’s yet to be identified.

  QUESTIONS: Could the purchases have been a coincidence? Does either of the above factors really mean that Peter Hayden is guilty?

  I spend a few more moments coming up with a list of interview questions, then I grab my phone, as well as the tape recorder from my bag, and dial the number for Hayden’s Ranch.

  A woman answers.

  “Could I please speak with Peter Hayden?” I ask her.

  “Can I tell him who’s calling?”

  “Paula,” I lie, pulling my tape recorder close.

  The woman doesn’t question it, just tells me to hang on. I push RECORD, set the phone to speaker mode, and take a deep and cleansing breath.

  PETER HAYDEN (P.H.): Hello?

  ME: Hi. Is this Peter Hayden?

  P.H.: It is.

  ME: A friend of mine took riding lessons with you a little while back and recommended that I do the same.

  P.H.: What did you say your name was?

  ME: Paula.

  P.H.: And who was your friend?

  ME: Her name was Jennifer Roman.

  P.H.:…

  ME: Hello?

  P.H.: I don’t give lessons, Paula.

  ME: Did you use to—within this past year maybe? Because she said she took them from you.

  P.H.: I haven’t given lessons in a couple of years.

  ME: Really? Because I didn’t get the impression that it was that long ago.

  P.H.: It’s been a couple of years.

  ME: Since you’ve seen Jennifer?

  P.H.:…

  ME: Do you think you could make an exception for the friend of a friend? I’d love to try a lesson, and she said I shouldn’t go to anyone else.

  P.H.: When did she say that?

  ME: When I saw her last—maybe three or four months ago. It’s taken me since then to muster up the nerve to go forward with this idea.

  P.H.: Are you aware that Jennifer Roman passed away?

  ME: Wait, what?

  P.H.: She died, back in May.

  ME: There must be some mistake.

  P.H.: No mistake. I’m sure you can look it up online.

  ME: I feel like I just saw her.

  P.H.: Well, you haven’t seen her since before May.

  ME: How did she die?

  P.H.: She took her own life.

  ME: Oh my god.

  P.H.: I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you.

  ME: I should’ve called her. I should’ve visited. I mean, I knew she was unhappy, but I never thought she’d…

  P.H.:…

  ME: When was the last time that you saw her?

  P.H.: It’d been a while.

  ME: More than five months, like me?

  P.H.:…

  ME: What was the date she died?

  P.H
.: Saturday, May fourth.

  ME: Had you seen or talked to her that day?

  P.H.: No.

  ME: Because you were working? You work on Saturdays, right? That’s what the woman at the front desk said.

  P.H.: I wasn’t working on that Saturday.

  ME: Just by sheer coincidence?

  P.H.:…

  ME: Hello?

  P.H.: Who is this?

  ME: I told you already. My name is Paula.

  P.H.: Who is this really?

  ME: What were you doing on Saturday, May fourth?

  P.H.: I’ve already spoken to the police.

  ME: About an alibi? They questioned you?

  P.H.: That’s right. I was at home changing a gas pipe—not that it’s any of your business.

  ME: So you don’t have an alibi for Saturday, May fourth. You were at home, all day?

  P.H.: The police don’t have anything on me, and neither do you, Paula. Now, I suggest that you hang up and forget we ever spoke.

  ME: And if I don’t?

  P.H.:…

  ME: Hello?

  P.H.: Don’t call back here again.

  The phone clicks. I press STOP. My whole body chills.

  I start the ignition and pull away from the curb, more suspicious than ever that he’s getting away with murder.

  I come in through the front door, able to hear voices in the kitchen. Mom’s talking to someone. There’s a male voice—not my dad’s. I head down the hallway to see who it is.

  They’re standing by the sink. Staring straight at me. The same two officers that were here before.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “We got a call,” Officer Nolan says. She comes closer and flashes me a photo of Julian—the same one she showed me before.

  “The boy from the convenience store.” I nod. “His posters have been all over town.”

  “Do you know where he is?” the detective asks.

  I shake my head, telling myself that I honestly can’t be sure. He could be in the barn. He could also be in the woods. Or, maybe he ventured out on the bike path.

  “We’ve already checked the barn.” Detective Mueller gives me a knowing look, his eyebrows darted upward.

  “Okay.” I try my best to keep a poker face, but I can feel the emotion speckled across my neck, the bright red hives.

  What did the officers see? Were they able to tell that Julian was here? Did Julian sweep up all the hair from when I cut it?

  I peek over at Mom for help.

  “You heard my daughter,” she says. “She doesn’t know where this boy is.”

  “Well, we still have more questions for her.”

  “Not now,” Mom says, using the same assertive tone she reserves for her clients. “My daughter just got home, and I’d like to speak to her first.”

  “This will only take a few minutes,” Mueller says.

  “Well, then it can take a few minutes another time,” Mom insists. “Need I remind you that she’s a minor?”

  Officer Nolan reaches for her card. “Please call us as soon as you can. The suspect is considered highly dangerous.”

  “As opposed to mildly dangerous?” Mom asks.

  “This isn’t a game,” Nolan says. “If you do see him, call nine-one-one right away. Don’t try to apprehend him on your own. I’ll be following up before the end of the day.”

  Mom takes the card, and I move to the kitchen window to watch the officers leave. They cut across the yard, pausing in front of the barn before heading down the bike path.

  Mom locks the door and turns to face me with her arms folded. “You have some explaining to do.”

  There’s no point denying it: “I’ve been helping him.”

  “The boy they’re looking for?”

  I nod. “Julian Roman.”

  She clenches her teeth. “I don’t even know what to say to you right now.”

  “Say that you love me and trust me, and that you know I’d never do anything I didn’t believe was right.”

  She opens up a carton of eggs and breaks three of them into a pan, with the stove turned off, not even bothering to throw out the shells.

  “At first I was just curious about his case,” I venture. “He was a boy who seemed to need help. But then I got to know him…”

  “And it became personal,” she says, smashing another egg into the pan.

  “I don’t think he’s gotten a fair deal.”

  “He hasn’t been convicted yet, either. Why is he hiding instead of pleading his case, putting up a fight?”

  “You know how it works without the right people in your corner. It’s a losing battle.”

  “And where do you fit in?” she asks, picking the shells out of the pan.

  “I’ve been gathering clues, offering support. He’s been staying in the barn.”

  Mom turns to face me again. “So, now we’re aiding and abetting?”

  “You can just plead ignorance. It’s more likely that I’d have kept Julian a secret.”

  “Which you did.”

  “Until now.”

  “I see.” She sighs, folding her arms again. “Well, I don’t think he’ll be staying here much longer. The police will be back—with search warrants next time. And who knows about this phone call tip they got—who it’s from and what they know.”

  “What did they find in the barn?”

  “They didn’t actually go inside. I caught them peeking through the windows. A sneaky pair too: they didn’t even park out front; they must’ve hidden their car somewhere.”

  “So, where do we go from here?”

  “You should’ve told me about him.”

  “I was respecting his privacy and giving him my trust—the way you do with your clients and the way Dad does with his.”

  Mom turns back to the pan of eggs, unable to deny it. “Well, I suspect your friend isn’t stupid, since he’s made it this long. He’ll probably be on the run again—that is if he isn’t already. But if you really believe he’s innocent, maybe there’s something I can do to help.” Her cell phone rings, cutting through our conversation. “Shit,” she says, checking the screen. “I have to take this. It’s about Pandora’s case. But we’re not finished yet, you hear me? I want to meet with this boy.”

  While she talks on the phone, I hurry out to the barn. I open the door and step inside.

  Everything’s been cleaned up, put back—like he was never even here. The clothes and blankets are collected in a corner. The food and water bottles are gone.

  I grab the knitted blanket I lent him as tears roll down my face. There’s a hollow sensation inside my heart. How could he leave? Just like that. Without even a hint of a good-bye.

  It’s one day later. Julian hasn’t come back—at least not to stay. But this morning, when I passed by the barn on my way to take Gigi for a walk, there was a forget-me-not in the window box, making my heart instantly clench.

  I peered over my shoulder before going to have a look. The whole window box had been filled with potting soil, the flower freshly planted. I moved closer to have a sniff. It smelled like honey. And reminded me of our date. I had to assume that Julian had done this—and that he was sending me a message.

  He isn’t far away.

  The police have yet to follow up like they said they would. Mom thinks it’s because they don’t have sufficient evidence to make a connection. “Of course, that also gives them all the more reason to find that evidence,” she says.

  It’ll only be a matter of time.

  Until then, while Mom’s been busy with her case, I’ve been trying to find out more about mine. I picture myself going back to the horse ranch, talking to the woman at the desk again, and sneaking into Hayden’s office. But what if my showing up there for a second time raises a red flag?

  I resort to a Google search (to start with, anyway). In my room, I type a bunch of words into the search field:

  Peter Hayden, Jennifer Roman

  Peter Hayden, Michael Roman
r />   Peter Hayden, homicide case

  Peter Hayden, alibi

  Peter Hayden, police questioning, alibi, May 4, Jennifer Roman

  The latter combination of words does the trick. An article pops up about the case. It was published a few weeks after the crime. I’m pretty sure I’ve read this article before, from the Decker Daily Journal. But the part that I didn’t read? A recent remark in the comments section. All of my words are highlighted:

  I just heard that Peter Hayden was questioned about the Roman murder. Don’t the police know what a lying son of a bitch he is? What’s his alibi? Not that you could believe it. That crook has more friends in low places than I have credit card debt. I saw him and Jennifer Roman together a couple of summers ago. She didn’t look well, but frankly I’d be sick too if I spent longer than two minutes in Hayden’s company. No wonder she killed herself.

  I close my laptop, not quite sure what to think. How is Peter Hayden supposedly a crook? And how did this person find out that Hayden was questioned by the police? My mind spinning with questions, I go into my virtual gallery, looking for a little diversion, not to mention a much needed brain break.

  I have twelve pairs of photos for my project. I arrange them on the computer screen, starting with the snapshot of Jeannie—the one I took on our hike. She looks so peaceful, with the sun setting behind her, illuminating her skin. But in the next photo, as soon as she’s turned her head, you can see the angst welled up in her eyes.

  I’ve titled the project “My Excavation: An Exploration of Perspectives,” because while some people dig to unearth the truth, others strive to bury it. I’m hoping to submit the project for consideration into the Shutter Exhibition at the Contemporary Art Institute. But before I do, there are just a couple more photos I need to get.

  Instead of going home after school, I take the bus into the town of Decker and get out at the Orange Park stop—the same place that I met Barry.

  I retrace my steps to Julian’s house, feeling the rush of adrenaline the closer I get to his street. There’s a police car parked in front of a drugstore on the main road. I readjust the scarf around my neck, trying to partially conceal my face, fearing it might be one of the officers that came to my house.