by T. A. Kunz
Uh-oh. Big mistake.
“I’m not trying to step on any toes here, but you might want to have someone out there separating those two when they arrive,” I suggest.
The sheriff studies me for a moment then gestures for Deputy Owens to handle it. “Now, back to my question,” he says.
“Actually, I have a quick question of my own.”
His eyebrows rise. “Okay, shoot,” he says, leaning back in the chair again.
“I’m not even sure you can answer this since it’s an open investigation, but did Trent’s story check out?”
He takes a moment, seeming to ponder if he should answer. “As far as I know, yes, it did,” he says at last. “We’ve found a few people who can corroborate his statements. I can’t go into much more detail than that, but that’s one of the reasons I’ve asked all of you here. To try and get a better understanding of what happened that night. So any other information would be greatly appreciated.”
I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t really have anything else to say other than what I’ve said already.”
He releases a sigh and nods as though this is what he expected. “Well, thank you for your time, Mister Walsh. We’ll be in touch if we need anything further.”
He motions to the door, dismissing me. The principal hands me a hall pass, and as I leave the room, I see Drea sitting at one end of the bank of chairs with Trent at the other. Deputy Owens is seated dead center between them. None of them look happy about it. Drea’s tired eyes meet mine and she waves. I return it.
“Mr. Blakemore, could you please come into my office?” Mrs. Grayson says from her doorway.
I watch Trent lift from his seat. His expression is pitiful and lacks the usual cockiness. I move aside as Deputy Owens passes by, accompanying Trent inside the office.
I make a break for the seat next to Drea and we begin talking at the same time. “Wait, wait. Me first,” I say, putting my hands up. She nods. “Where were you? Did you get any of my texts this morning?”
She groans. “I completely forgot to charge my phone last night and it wouldn’t turn on when I woke up late. It was a rough morning.”
“I’m just glad to see you’re okay,” I say, prodding a faint smile from her. My voice lowers to a whisper. “Before you go in there, I have to tell you something I just found out. The sheriff said Trent’s story checks out, so he might not be the killer.”
“He’s still guilty of being a crappy person,” she grumbles.
“I agree. No doubt about it, but that still leaves a giant question mark about who did this.”
“Mister Walsh, I believe you’re wanted in class,” Gloria says from over the counter. Her glasses are perched on the tip of her nose and she adjusts them to sit higher.
“Right.” I turn back to Drea. “Meet me at lunch.”
“Where?” she asks, her eyes panning over to Gloria, who is still leering at us.
“In that little courtyard off to the side of the main one.”
“I’ll be there,” she says.
“Mister Walsh?” Gloria singles me out again with her pointed question, her voice raising an octave.
“Okay, okay, I’m going,” I mutter, and head for the entrance.
I glance back over at Drea. She looks drained. Her head is leaned back against the wall and her eyes are barely being held open. The dark circles around them stand as proof of lack of sleep. I guess we’re twins in that department.
We’re not out of the woods yet, my friend.
Drea
The very last person I expect to find waiting for me as I leave the main office is Trent. Yet there he is, leaning up against the bank of lockers across from me as I exit. His eyes lock onto mine. His face bears a hint of unease and his posture is slouched. This pleases me for some reason.
“Why?” is all I ask.
He lets out a low grumble and pushes himself off the lockers to stand on his own. He seems like he doesn’t know what to say. It’s kind of nice to see him squirming there unsure of himself. Like a predator caught in a trap.
“You know what? Never mind,” I say. “I don’t know why I was even entertaining the idea of hearing you out in the first place. Like every word out of your mouth won’t be a lie anyway.”
“Wait,” he says, stopping my departure. His voice sounds raspy and forced.
Is he on the verge of tears?
When I turn to face him, it’s deliberate. He’s now closer to me and inching forward. I put my hands up.
“Six feet back please,” I insist. “If you want me to hear you out, I’m gonna need my personal space.” His hands lift as he takes a couple steps back. “And let me make one thing clear,” I continue. “I’m only doing this because I currently lack the energy to be mean to you. You also kind of look like shit, so I guess this is me feeling the slightest shred of pity for you. But don’t for a moment think I’ve forgotten what you’ve done to me, Lori, or the rest of the female population here at this school.”
His light brown eyes dart away and then back to me. Their normal arrogant luster is gone. I’ve honestly never seen Trent like this.
“Look, I know you’re probably not going to believe me, but I have to get this off my chest,” he says, sounding even more pathetic than before.
Is this just an act, or does the master manipulator really sound sorry?
I cross my arms over my chest. “Well you better spit it out, because I need to get to class.”
He clears his throat and takes a step forward, but then retracts. “I know I’ve done some crappy things.”
“No arguments there.”
He releases a heavy sigh over my cutting tone. “I’ve accepted that, and now have to deal with it. But I need you to believe me about these next two things because though I’m guilty of a lot that I’ve been let off the hook for, these two things I’m not.”
It’s shocking how much of his egotistical wall is crumbling at his feet. This is not Trent Blakemore standing in front of me. This is a broken boy. Gone are his polished looks and arrogant grins. Gone is his confidence. His ego is deflating right in front of me. I almost feel sorry for him, but it’s a fleeting feeling.
“Go on,” I say.
“The night you claim I did something to you, I promise you, I did nothing. The truth is, we were drinking and having a good time, but then you passed out on the couch. I left to take a leak, and when I came back, you were gone. And yeah, I started making out with another girl pretty much right after that, but I didn’t do anything to you.
My gut reaction is to reply that he’s lying, but there’s this desperate energy he’s giving off that leads me to believe he might actually be telling the truth.
“If you didn’t do anything to me, then who did?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know. Like I said, I lost interest after I saw you gone.” Before I can respond, he interjects, “I’m a pig, I know.”
I nod in agreement. “And the second thing?”
“I didn’t kill Lori. I swear.”
It sounds like tears are bubbling up in his throat again. I don’t want to believe him. I want to hate him. Despise him. Not trust a single syllable he’s uttering.
But somewhere deep inside, I find myself thinking he’s telling the truth. He’s being unusually honest, even admitting to his past wrongdoings. He’s either telling the truth or is desperate and is making a last ditch effort to convince someone he isn’t guilty. I think back to what both Donovan and the sheriff said about his story checking out.
“Why are you telling me all of this?” I ask.
“I don’t know. This whole situation has me all twisted up and thinking about shit. The thought that I could’ve been responsible, even on an emotional level, for someone’s death has me shook … made me wake the hell up.” He exhales a heavy, uneven breath. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, or anyone’s for that matter, but I am sorry … for everything.”
“For some strange, off-the-wall, ridiculous reason, I b
elieve you. And I do forgive you, Trent. But not for you. I forgive you for me, so that I can release all of the anger and resentment I harbor toward you. I still want absolutely nothing to do with you, understood?”
He gives me a slow nod. “That’s fair.”
“I do have one question for you though.”
“Okay. What is it?”
“Why were there pink pills in Sophia’s dad’s car?”
“Oh, that.” His expression eases. “Lori had a few on her and said they were Molly. It didn’t look like any Molly I’d ever seen, so I said I wasn’t interested. She insisted, but I was too focused on hooking up. That’s when she flipped out and tried to leave. I admit I may have gotten a little forceful with her, but I let her go because I didn’t need her accusing me of anything.”
I almost regret asking him the details.
“Thanks. You’re still a piece of crap, but at least you had some useful information,” I bluntly reply.
“You’re right. I hope we can just move on from this.”
“Oh, I can move on, but you have a lot of asshole soul-searching to do. Just because you attempted to make things right with me doesn’t excuse the rest of your crappy behavior,” I say.
He nods. “I know. I just mean that I hope this can be a new start for us.”
“We’ll see,” I reply, and then turn to head down the hall toward my first class.
What the hell is with today? Opposite day much?
When lunch rolls around, I head straight for the little seating area branched off from the main courtyard. It’s three stone benches nestled on a small patch of loose gravel surrounded by short trees and shrubbery. The perfect place to have a secret meeting. Donovan’s already waiting for me when I get there.
“You will not believe the strange conversation I had with Trent this morning after talking with the sheriff,” I say as I take a seat next to him on one of the benches.
“Wait, you talked with Trent? And he’s still alive?”
“Surprising, right?” I say. “Actually he left me with a lot to consider. And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think he’s telling the truth. Which are words I never thought I’d ever say in reference to him.”
He puts his hand up to my forehead. “Nope, you don’t have a fever.”
I appreciate his sense of humor during such weighty circumstances. “I know. I’m as shocked as you are,” I say while lightly batting away his hand. “So, you mentioned in your text last night that you need to talk to me. What about?”
He goes quiet, seeming to mull something over. He has me worried when he chews on his lip, like he’s afraid to say words.
“I just wanted to apologize in person for kind of low-key avoiding you these past couple of days,” he eventually says. The faint smile he sends my way doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Yeah, I sort of figured that’s what you were doing. I understand though. Emotions are hard to deal with on this level.”
Is there something else he’s not telling me?
“Yeah … emotions,” he says, and I can tell he’s back in his head again. “I just felt like crap for doing that to you. It was a bad friend move on my part.”
I pat his hand. “Don’t worry about it, seriously.”
“Thanks, Drea. So, how are you feeling today?” he asks, concern reflecting in his eyes.
“I’m hanging in there.” My gaze locks onto Sophia making her way to her usual table in the main courtyard.
This is my chance to ask her about Carrie.
“Glad to hear that.” Donovan’s voice wades its way into my mind, but I’m still mainly focused on Sophia.
“Yeah. Hey, Donovan, give me a sec, okay? I’ll be right back.”
The entire trek over to Sophia, I rehearse what I’m going to say in my head. Thankfully she’s alone for the moment. The rest of the squad is probably still in line getting food. She sees me approaching and waves. I return it and take a seat across from her. It almost feels like I’m about to interrogate her.
“I can’t believe the news about Lori,” she says in a dismal tone. She reaches over the table to grab my hand squeezing it lightly. “Drea, she was killed at my house. Someone at the party did this. I just can’t believe it.” Her voice shakes.
I go quiet for a moment while watching her roll through these very familiar emotions. “I know. I can’t either. I still have no idea who would have done something like this,” I reply, rubbing my thumb across the back of her hand. “If you don’t mind, Sophia, I do actually have a question.”
She withdraws her hand back to rest on the table. “Sure. Anything.”
“Do you remember a girl named Carrie Phillips back in middle school?”
A flash of recognition crosses her face. “That name does sound familiar. Why?”
“I remember Lori mentioning her, but I don’t have any details on her. Do you remember if she went to any of your parties, or if she was a part of any groups in school? Who her friends were?”
She leans closer as though I spurred a memory. “Wait. You said Carrie Phillips, right?” I nod. “I kind of remember her coming to one of my parties, now that you mention it. I think she died near the end of the summer before our freshman year. The reason never really came out. Accidental, I think. She wasn’t really on my radar. I know that sounds harsh, but it’s true.”
“She died?” I ask, remembering that added line to the last entry in the diary.
This just took a totally morbid turn.
An icky sensation hits me right in the stomach. Like I just ate and then immediately went on the loopiest rollercoaster right after.
I read a dead girl’s diary last night?
I think back to flipping through the pages and peering in on all the gory details. It feels gross. And the fact so much was scratched out now has me wondering what was there that someone didn’t want anyone to see.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” Sophia says. “Why do you ask?”
I focus on regaining my composure. “No reason,” I reply. “I was just curious. Like I said, I remember Lori talking about her and wanted to know if you knew who she was.”
“Well, that’s all I can remember. Sorry I can’t be of more help.”
A few members of the squad start filling the seats around us. They toss curious looks my way. I guess they’re not over me quitting just yet. Neither am I, really. I get the feeling that I’ve been the subject of quite a few conversations at this table during lunch while I was absent. Not much I can do about it now, I muse as I brush off their stares and return my focus to Sophia.
“Can you remember anyone she hung out with?”
Sophia shakes her head as her attention shifts to the squad. After exchanging a few greetings, she turns back to me and lowers her voice so only I can hear her.
“Sorry,” she says, “but I really need to get back to my lunch since we only have, like, twenty minutes. It’s been nice chatting with you though.”
I get the feeling Sophia knows more than she’s letting on.
With everyone’s eyes on me, I utter my quick, awkward goodbyes to the squad and leave. Things definitely feel different with them now. Strained. I guess I’m not surprised. It’s not like I’ve been the easiest person to interact with lately. Social pariah number one.
On my way back to Donovan, so many questions whirl through my head, and all I crave are answers. I think it’s about time I Google Carrie Phillips and see what shows up.
Who were you, Carrie?
Donovan
About halfway up the steepest hill I’ve ever biked, the guilt from the lie I told my aunts begins to set in. They think I’m working on a group project after school. In reality, I’m headed to meet Connor and his friends. His directions to the old barn were clear. I just wish I’d taken him up on his offer to pick me up from school since I find myself struggling with this incline.
There’s a pattern emerging here.
Even in these cooler fall temperatures, the constant little strea
ms of sweat cascading down my back consistently remind me of my current struggle. Normally I wouldn’t be so adamant about this and I’d just walk my bike up the hill. Today it seems I’m trying to punish myself for not accepting the ride from Connor.
What the hell am I trying to prove here?
My feet are firmly planted on the pedals, pushing with all my might to beat this hill. My legs burn from excessive use, but I push through. Then my bike decides to forsake me. The right pedal gives way under my foot at literally the worst time, right as I’m about to reach the top. I stagger to the side before catching the bike between my legs as my feet hit the ground.
That could have been disastrous.
I stare down at the now limp pedal. Upon closer inspection, it seems fixable. I readjust it to lay flat and then jiggle it back into place as a temporary work-around. It takes a little force, but after three solid jabs with the palm of my hand, it pops back into what seems to be the right position. I wish I could say this was the first problem I’ve had with this bike.
Karma 3, Donovan 0.
Once I reach the apex of the hill, a full view of Lake Wilson fills my vision. It’s breathtaking. The whole area is surrounded by trees with foliage that seems set ablaze. Way different than trees in the south this time of year. It’s quite picturesque. Like an oil painting.
The road forks, and I veer right as detailed by Connor’s text. I’m thankful for the cool air flowing through my clothes during the decline. Wind wafts through my hair, giving me the relief I need after sweating my ass off on that insane hill.
There’s another quick dip in the road and I appreciate the continued leg rest. A large willow tree is nestled near the end of this particular decline, and a path big enough for a car to drive down comes into view beside it. I brake in front of the path and strain to see the end of it. The barn isn’t visible from the road, and the trail grows darker and more winding the deeper into the woods it goes. My whole body shudders while staring down the new route in front of me.
Do I really have to go through there?
An old rickety wooden sign sits next to the path. It once hung there by two chains, but now one has broken free, causing the sign to sit crooked off to the side. The whole thing is strangled by layers of vines, obscuring some of the words. I can still decipher its message.
