by R. H. Herron
“I’m going to get you that Coke.”
“I don’t need anything. Let’s just talk. I’m hoping you know more about her relationship with Kevin Leeds.”
“The football player?” He looked honestly surprised.
“Yeah.”
He glanced down at his hands and brushed them on his pants, as if wiping something off. “I guess I’m the one who needs a soda. Fuck it, I need something stronger.”
Laurie nodded. Jack had always been a drinker.
“I’ll be right back.” He let himself out the kitchen door into the garage.
Laurie blew a tight breath from her lungs. He was freaked out. Of course he was. Yeah, it was going to be a big deal that he’d been sleeping with a minor, but it was an even bigger deal that she was missing, and Laurie found that she didn’t really care how freaked out he was. He just needed to help them find her. He didn’t seem like he had any info on Leeds, but she wouldn’t know for sure until—
A bang sounded through the kitchen. It could have been interpreted as a car backfire or an M-80 firecracker going off.
But Laurie knew without a doubt the sound of a gunshot.
TWENTY-THREE
RAMSAY WAS ON the other side of the Lexus in the garage. He’d fallen sideways from the force of the bullet, landing on his back, his left arm trapped below his body at an unnatural angle. There was a small entry wound at his right temple, and the left side of his head was gone, leaving brain matter and clots of blood all over the tools on the bench. The blood pooled into a puddle—soon it would be a lake. Hollow-point bullet, of course, to deliver maximum damage to internal organs, making death more certain. Cops never fucked around when it came to suicide.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Her breath came in small, tight bursts. She pulled her phone from her pocket with clammy hands, but it wasn’t her phone, it was Harper’s, and she could barely figure out how to get to the emergency option, and why the hell had she left her own phone in the car? She couldn’t go out there, not yet. And what about Jojo? Had she heard the noise? Fuck.
She scanned the walls and found an old-fashioned corded phone hanging next to the garage-door opener. She punched 911.
“911, what’s the address of your emergency?”
“Maury, it’s me. I’m at Jack Ramsay’s house. This is a landline—you got the address?” She couldn’t have pulled it out of her brain if a gun had been pressed to her—Oh, God. “He’s dead. Ramsay’s dead.”
Rapid keystrokes clicked over the line. “What the fuck, Laurie?” He’d get in trouble for that later when the tapes were pulled—which they would be—but she would have said the same thing.
“Gunshot wound to the temple. Suicide.”
“Where’s the gun?”
She stretched the cord till she could see Ramsay again. The blood was still moving like a sluggish red river on the floor, the scent of copper rising from it. “The gun’s next to him.”
“Don’t touch it, okay? You want EMD?”
Like she didn’t know all the instructions by heart, like emergency medical dispatch instructions would help him now. “Too late.”
From behind her came a high-pitched female scream, a whine that wound its way up into the rafters and ricocheted back down. Laurie dropped the phone, knowing that the line would be left open, that Maury would keep listening. She didn’t care.
She turned and opened her arms, planting her feet wide. She made herself as big as possible, as if she could block Jojo’s view. “Out!”
“Mama!”
Laurie stabbed the air with her pointer finger. “Get out. Back. Come on. Come with me. Into the kitchen.”
Jojo stumbled up the two steps that led back into the house. “Is he dead? Did he shoot himself? Is he really dead?”
“It’s okay,” Laurie lied ridiculously. In the kitchen she shut the garage door and leaned against it with all her weight. “It’s okay.”
Jojo had already sunk to her knees, her hand clamped firmly against her mouth. Laurie sank down, too, keeping the door shut with her shoulders. She wrapped her arms around Jojo and continued to hold her until the sirens outside drowned out the sound of her daughter’s sobs.
* * *
* * *
JOJO sat in the hard blue plastic chair in the front lobby of the police department. She unlocked her phone for the fifty-millionth time in the last ten minutes, as if there would be something waiting for her, a message that had sneaked in silently. She pulled up a Tumblr she liked, where puppies regularly cavorted with baby hippos, that kind of thing, but all she could see was blood.
So much blood.
All of it pouring out of his body, and her mother hadn’t done anything to stop it. It hadn’t seemed right. Logically, Jojo knew that Ramsay was big-time dead, but shouldn’t they have tried something? CPR? But then she saw an image of her mother pressing her face to the half of a face that Ramsay had left to blow air into—of course Mom couldn’t have tried.
Jojo shook her head hard. She stared at a small bird singing “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.” It was supposed to be funny.
She closed her eyes and saw the image of the blood again, flowing like thin lava across the garage floor.
Nate Steiner had told her to wait in the lobby for her mother. There’d been something in his voice like he was mad at her, but she didn’t know why. They’d finished Jojo’s interview fast, like he didn’t care anymore. Maybe he was just angry about everything. If so, that was good. Harper was the one who mattered now, not her.
Harper was the only one who mattered. The only one in the whole world. Jojo held her breath for a beat to see if she could slow her racing heart.
When Mom and she had gotten back to the station—after the ambulance and the fire engine and like seven thousand cop cars had shown up, after they’d shoved them out and told them to get back to the station—they’d practically carried Mom into the interview room with them. Mom had been sagging, her shoulders terrifyingly slack. She’d looked as if she’d needed propping up. She had to give a statement to Lieutenant Colson and Officer Frank Shepherd about Ramsay.
While she did that, Jojo had finished giving her statement about the rape to Steiner. The word echoed in her head every time it bounced in. Rape, rape, rape.
Other words started bonging in her head, as if words had become clappers and her brain a bell. She saw Zach’s face, could almost hear his laugh. Murder, murder, murder.
Harper was still missing.
Missing, missing, missing. The terrible but true thing was that the word missing, when attached to Harper, was more important than even murder. No one could help Zach. But someone had to help Harper.
Jojo’s heart clenched. How many investigations were happening? Four—her attack, Zach’s murder, Harper missing, Ramsay dead?
They couldn’t all be related, she tried to tell herself.
But no, they had to be. Dad always said there was no such thing as coincidence, that there was always something that connected things.
Harper.
They had to find her.
Ramsay—the blood—
What if Harper . . . ?
Jojo thought about praying, but she wasn’t sure what god to pray to, and she didn’t think she had anything to offer. I’ll give up Raisinets in my popcorn at the movies. I won’t let Harper copy my math homework senior year. I’ll be nice to Mom every day.
Stupid. God wouldn’t give a shit about such trivial things.
Jojo flicked her phone on again, not trusting that she’d hear the notification sounds, not with the blood pounding in her ears. She hoped for something—anything—from Harper, or Kevin. . . . No, that was impossible, he was here. In this very same building, right now. So close. She hated him.
But he couldn’t have raped me. He’s gay. Was it like his test kiss? Would he do it to see if he felt anything? Did
he rape me? Zach was the one who was killed. . . . Whatever happened had happened in Kevin’s house. Kevin wasn’t roofied. Or was he? Do we know that? So what did he do to me?
She’d liked Kevin so much.
Now . . .
Rape. Murder.
So much blood, a lake of it.
Yeah, this feeling in her chest felt like hate, all right. It felt like something sitting on her spleen, smashing her internal organs so that they wouldn’t work anymore.
Had she ever hated a person before? She’d despised some, sure. That girl in third grade who stole her lunch every day for a month. The kid in gym in seventh grade who’d told everyone he’d seen her staring at Harper’s breasts. (He wasn’t wrong—that’s why she’d despised him.)
But hate? This felt new. And painful. Her blood had been replaced by gasoline, and her arteries ached with it. One match and she’d blow.
A homeless man shouted something about needing the bathroom key. Jojo knew that it didn’t take a key, that if it was locked, someone was in there, but she wasn’t going to talk to him. She hoped the desk sergeant would hear and come out and rescue her soon.
Although why was she waiting? She knew the code to get in. She could wait for Mom in the break room as easily as out here.
“I’ma shit my pants!” roared the man.
Jojo punched the code in so fast she got it wrong twice, the red light goading her.
“You know how to get in there, little girl? You spend too much time here, huh? Can I use the bathroom in there?”
The light finally buzzed green. She slipped inside and shoved the heavy door shut behind her.
Usually there were at least a couple of people in records, chatting or getting coffee from the fancy auto-espresso machine, but it was silent, as if everyone were hiding from her.
Just across the hall from records, Jojo’s feet slowed. Her feet made her stop. Just like that.
Right in front of the door to the jail.
She put her hand on the metal door. It was freezing to the touch, almost as cold as her own bones.
Kevin’s gay. He couldn’t have raped me. He was my friend.
Couldn’t have.
What the fuck?
No one was visible in the corridor. In the distance she heard a man laugh, maybe from the traffic office, but otherwise there was only the hum of forced air and the low buzz of the lights overhead.
Her fingers punched the code into the jail keypad. They should really change the codes so that they were different for every door.
The green light glowed at her. An invitation.
She pushed the door open. Sarah would kick her out in five seconds. Maybe less. Or someone in dispatch would see it on their cameras and do an overhead announcement to get her out. Jojo would blame it on the Ambien still being in her system, and she started rehearsing the apology in her head.
But no building announcement came. Sarah wasn’t there. None of the jailers were. Dimly she heard, “Get the mask!” from the sally port. They must be dealing with a spitter.
Which left the way clear to the door that led to the cells.
Jojo’s fingers danced the same pattern, entering the code into the second keypad. Another green light grinned at her.
There was a solid thunk as the door lock released.
She shoved through and into the hallway.
Fuck.
What was she doing? Jojo’s neck was tight, and her fingers trembled. She stuck her hands into her pockets. She peeked into the small window of the first cell.
No one, just a folded gray blanket resting on the cot.
Second cell, also empty.
Third cell.
There.
Kevin lay with his back to the door, face to the wall. He looked enormous on the small cot, a lion resting on a house cat’s bed.
Jojo’s heart beat so hard in her chest she thought it might beat right out and whap its way down the corridor. She sucked in a breath and then rapped on the glass. She felt the hair rise on her arms and raised her chin.
He didn’t turn.
So she spoke through the small speaking hole in the window. “Kevin. It’s me.”
He turned then, flipped over and stood so fast that the cot scooted sideways with a screech. “Jojo?”
Kevin was at the glass then, and Jojo felt her back press against the wall before she was aware that she’d moved.
“Jojo, what the fuck is happening?”
Fear held Jojo’s throat shut. She raised a hand and rubbed at her neck and then forced out air in the shape of the only words she could find. “Did you drug me?”
“What?”
“Did you . . . rape . . . me?”
“No.” His eyes seemed sunken, the skin underneath them a deep, dark olive. “Of course not. You know I didn’t.”
Did she know that?
“Jojo. I wouldn’t ever do something like that.”
He was telling the truth.
She knew it. Jojo never trusted her mother when she talked about her famous gut intuition, but she almost understood it now—sometimes you just knew you were right.
He’d chosen to trust her, to tell her about him and Zach. He’d had the same serious look on his face then.
“So you didn’t do it?” She needed just one more clarification.
He shook his head as his eyes went glassy with tears. “I have no clue what the fuck is happening. Help me.”
Relief sagged through her, and she had to lock her knees to keep herself from sinking to the tile. “I don’t know what to do.”
He shook his head. His voice was thin through the glass and metal, but still audible. “They said Zach is dead.”
Nausea flooded Jojo, sending a sour-salt pang to the back of her throat. “Kevin . . .”
He shook his head again, harder. “But that’s not right. Right? Zach is fine.”
Jojo forgot every word she knew. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“No.” Kevin shook his head. “This isn’t happening. This is a dream.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“I was asleep. I always sleep hard—like, I mean a brass band could come through my room and I wouldn’t wake up.” He paused. “Nah. This is just a bad dream, the worst fucking dream in the world, and I have got to wake the fuck up. I was asleep in my own house when those cops jumped on top of me, and while I was sleeping—what the fuck. You said you were drugged? Was I drugged? I don’t feel like it. But I must be asleep.” He rubbed his cheeks and then his neck. “I have to figure out how to wake up.”
“I’m so sorry.” Stupid words, meaningless words.
“I have to get out of here.” He scrubbed at his eyes. “Jojo, get me out of here. I have to tell his family. It has to be me.”
He was probably the last person who should talk to Zach’s family. Jojo moved closer to the door. “Harper’s missing.”
“Harper? What?”
“Do you know where she is?”
His eyes were huge, the whites wide. “I saw you leave the party together. We went home. I woke up to cops jumping on me. Some asshole clubbed me with a stick and almost broke my arm putting me in handcuffs. They said I raped you, and that my . . . my best friend is dead, and that they think I did it.” He put his hand over his mouth, as if stopping the words could change the facts.
Some asshole. Dad. “I know.”
“They dragged me out of my house and threw me in this cell. They gave me a phone call, and I called the team lawyer, but he hasn’t gotten back to me. They haven’t even questioned me yet. I’ve just been in here. Jojo.” Kevin put his palm against the glass. “You know I didn’t do any of this.”
Three minutes ago she’d been hating him with her whole body.
But he didn’t do this.
She was sure.
>
Okay, she was ninety percent sure.
Maybe eighty-five. Dad always said to take odds that were more than eighty percent.
“Kevin—”
From behind Jojo came a woman’s shout. “What the shitting fuck are you doing, Jojo?”
Kevin’s eyes were panicked.
That was the thing that got Jojo, that struck her to the heart. Kevin was scared.
The look on his face made her ten times more terrified than she’d already been.
Sarah’s hand was like steel around her upper arm. “Your dad is going to kill me.”
Apparently this was how it felt to be her prisoner. “Ow! You’re pulling too hard! Ouch!”
“I can’t believe you just did that.” Sarah continued to drag Jojo until they were through the door and in the main intake area. “Do you even know how you just compromised this investigation?”
It wasn’t compromised. It was aided. Now Jojo knew that Kevin hadn’t done it.
But Sarah didn’t need that information. Once in the main part of the jail, Jojo said, “Sorry.”
“Seriously? That’s all you’ve got? Letting yourself in here? Jesus. You and your goddamn mother.”
Mom? “Huh?”
Sarah opened the main door and pointed. “You’d better tell your dad, because I’m sure as hell not going down for this.”
In the hallway Jojo spoke as the door was falling shut. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell him.”
Then panic settled again into her belly, claws scuttling inside her.
If Kevin hadn’t done this—hadn’t raped her and hadn’t killed Zach—then someone else had.
That someone else wasn’t locked up.
That someone else had Harper.
TWENTY-FOUR
LAURIE PUT HER head on her folded arms on the table. “It’s all related.”
Mark Colson wasn’t listening to her. He was a good lieutenant, just like he’d been a good street cop, but he was known for his bluster, and his bluster got louder the more uncertain he was. When they’d stopped dating because Laurie had been interested in Omid, he’d blustered so hard he’d broken a blood vessel in his eye. Now his voice was raised. “We can’t know that, Laurie! Not yet.”
