The force of his unexpected anger practically hurls me against the passenger-side door. The shock alone might have been enough to cause tears, but that’s coupled with everything else that’s happened, and they burst forth freely after his abrupt rejection. I don’t think he’s ever lost his temper with me before.
He sits with his hands tight on the steering wheel while I wipe away the tears. “But all I can do is say I’m sorry,” I reply with a sniff. “I am, really. I still can’t believe I did it. It’s like I was under some kind of spell.”
“Some other guy’s spell,” he mutters bitterly.
The words strike like a slap. “What?”
“You know.” He doesn’t look at me.
As if I’ve not already faced enough injustice for one night, now this? Indignation billows inside me. “That’s so untrue! Oh my God! Who told you that?”
“Someone.”
“Someone who lied. There was no one else! Ever! Not even for a second. I swear to you. Slade, you have to believe me.”
He’s silent. I wonder if he’s weighing my words against the lie someone told him. But who would have lied to him? And why? “So who was I supposed to be seeing?”
“She didn’t say.”
So it’s a she who told him. “She never said who this other guy was supposed to be?”
Slade’s quiet again. Who do I know who would be capable of telling such a terrible, harmful untruth?
Katherine. Who else?
One of the far-end-of-the-table girls, Kirsten, had a mother who got us tickets to see an off-Broadway matinee called The Children’s Hour, which wasn’t anything like the title implied. Katherine and Dakota were speaking to each other again and it would be them, Zelda, Jodie, Kirsten, and me. We’d take the train to the city. Afterward Zelda’s father would take us someplace to eat.
I assumed everyone was going to get dressed up for the trip. I had money from scooping ice cream and babysitting that I’d been saving for a better phone, but that could wait. I borrowed the car and went to the mall. It’s embarrassing to be seventeen and still shopping for clothes in the children’s department, but I managed to find a pretty green dress and shoes with heels. I used up almost all the money I’d saved.
We met on the train platform and I was shocked. The other girls were wearing jeans, as if going to the city for a show and dinner was no big deal. And I guess for them it wasn’t. For a moment I felt awful. Like a real country hick who thought she had to get all fancied up for the trip to the big city. But Katherine and the other girls all rallied around me, saying how pretty I looked, how jealous they were, and how they now wished that they’d dressed up, too.
By then the train was coming and there was no time for me to go back home and change. And even though I still felt uncomfortable and out of place, I told myself that I’d done nothing wrong and there was no reason I couldn’t still enjoy the outing.
We went to the show and afterward, thanks to Zelda’s dad, there was a long black limo waiting for us. Everyone on the sidewalk stared as the driver held the door and we got in and rode to Whimsy, which was this incredible old-fashioned restaurant that served sliders and little plates of fries, followed by huge ice-cream sundaes with every topping imaginable.
It was one of the best days ever, and all the girls, including Katherine, were super nice. Then, on the train going home, I thought about how hard it would be to go back to my house, back to my depressed mom and broken dad, and to scooping ice cream every day once school ended and babysitting bratty kids most evenings. And how Slade would be going away and the only fun I could imagine having that summer would be with Katherine and her friends. I looked at Katherine, maybe expecting to see her smile and nod as if she knew what I was thinking. But she was talking to Zelda and not even looking at me. And I realized … this time she didn’t have to look at me to know.
Chapter 10
Sunday 1:47 A.M.
IN THE TRUCK I nervously pick at the old duct tape that covers the split in the passenger seat and gaze at the EMS building. Slade’s still staring straight ahead. There’s one thing I have to say. It comes out in a whisper: “There was never, ever, anyone else, Slade. I need you to believe that.”
A long breath rushes out of his lips and he bends forward until his forehead touches the steering wheel. “What are you going to do?”
“I … have to figure out who the real killer is.”
“How?”
I think back to tonight’s events, beginning with the kegger. Mia had called and asked me to go with her. I didn’t want to. I was still a little mad at her for what had happened with the story we had written together for the school newspaper. And I thought I’d be really uncomfortable if I ran into Katherine. But Mia had practically insisted. “Don’t worry. Lots of people like you, Callie. And they’ll be there, too. I don’t even think Katherine is coming.”
But of course Katherine was there.
“Cal?” Slade says, bringing me back from these thoughts.
“I’m just trying to figure it out. I’m wondering if it could have been a setup. If the whole thing could have been planned to make it look like I killed her.”
“Or it just could have been some sicko passing through,” Slade says. “It was in the woods, in the middle of the night. It could have been anyone. Don’t you think that’s a lot more likely than some high-school kids planning a murder?”
“It may have been just one high-school kid.”
“Look, I know a lot of people didn’t like Katherine,” he says. “But why would anyone want to kill her? You’re talking about Soundview. There hasn’t been a murder here in ten years.”
And only one attempted murder … by my brother, I can’t help thinking bitterly.
Slade leans back into the shadows. I can’t see his face clearly, can’t tell what’s on his mind. Maybe he’s thinking I’ll never be able to figure it out. Especially if at the same time the police are looking for me. Maybe he’s regretting that he came to get me. Maybe he’s wishing he never met me in the first place.
“I’m sorry, Slade. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved, and I understand why you don’t want to help me. You’ve already done way more for me than I deserve.”
In the shadows, Slade doesn’t move or speak. I take a deep breath and reach for the door handle.
Slade says, “Wait.”
In early May, Katherine and Dakota weren’t speaking to each other again. I’m not sure anyone at the lunch table gave it much thought. We just assumed they were having another one of their mysterious arguments. They both sat in their usual places at the table, as if neither was about to give up her position, no matter what. Both chatted and gossiped with the other girls. They just didn’t talk or gossip with each other.
In fact, they didn’t even look at each other.
But the next day Dakota didn’t show up. We’d seen her in school that morning, but now it was lunch and she wasn’t in the cafeteria. And that was how everyone knew that this fight was different.
It happened during the final weeks of rehearsal for the spring PACE show. As the days passed, the situation at lunch grew stranger. How long would Dakota stay away? How long would Katherine preside over the table pretending nothing was wrong?
“What’s going on?” Mia asked me one day as we walked down the hall toward gym.
“Not a clue,” I answered.
Mia had a habit of tucking her chin into her neck like a turtle when she looked at you. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I mean, why would I know?”
“You spend more time with them,” Mia said. “They invite you to do more things than the rest of us.”
“Not more than Zelda and Jodie.”
“Those two are in a world of their own,” Mia said with a shrug. “I just wish I knew what was going on. Are you sure you don’t know? Or are you just sworn to secrecy?”
“What?” I asked, surprised.
Even though we were in the hallway, surrounded by moving bodies and
loud chatter from a dozen sources, Mia moved closer and dropped her voice. “The inner circle. Don’t pretend you don’t know. They make you swear an oath, right?”
Chapter 11
Sunday 1:53 A.M.
“You may be my closest friend, but that doesn’t mean you know everything about me.”
“I know you better than you know yourself.”
“I hate you when you say things like that. I’ll never be like you.”
“Too late. You already are.”
“It was Mia who invited me to the kegger,” I tell Slade in the pickup. “But it was Dakota who told me Katherine was missing and that everyone was looking for her. She even told me to check behind the dugout. And it was Dakota who led everyone else to me just moments after I found Katherine’s body. And you know what the first thing she said was? ‘You killed her!’ But how could she have known that? It was too dark to really see. Katherine still could have been alive. I was the only one who’d checked her pulse. Do you know what that means, Slade? Dakota already knew that Katherine was dead. She got Mia to invite me to the kegger and told her to tell me Katherine wouldn’t be there. That’s why she told me to look near the dugout and then led everyone there. So it would look like I did it!”
“You think Dakota killed Katherine?”
“How else could she have known Katherine was dead? How could she know where to tell me to look? Why else would she wait until I’d found the body and then bring a bunch of people as witnesses? She had to have planned it, Slade.”
He’s quiet. It irks me that I don’t know what he’s thinking. There was a time when each of us always knew what the other was thinking. We’d finish each other’s sentences.
Slade looks at the clock in his phone. “I’ve got work in the morning. There’s still a ton to do before the dedication ceremony on Wednesday. Even then we won’t be finished. But at least we’ll make it look good. You know who the guest speaker is?”
There is no reason I would know, and no reason Slade would ask, unless it’s obvious. “Dakota’s mom?”
He nods and goes quiet and I wonder if he’s just had the same thought I’ve had: not only is Dakota’s mother a congresswoman, but her uncle, Samuel Jenkins, is the chief of police and will be in charge of the investigation into the murder of Katherine Remington-Day.
We get out of the truck and walk through the dark to the old EMS building. The air is chillier than before and even quieter now, as if the traffic on the thruway is sparser at this time of night. Slade accidentally steps into a pothole and staggers a few feet, then catches himself and bends over.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s just the knee.” He’d torn his ACL playing football in junior high and had to have major surgery.
“I thought that didn’t happen anymore,” I said. He was supposed to do special exercises to strengthen the muscles around the knee and keep it stable.
“I started feeling a lot of pain toward the end of basic.”
“Basic?”
“Basic training.” Slade straightens up but limps. Near the building he steps off the path, takes something from under a rock, and hands it to me: a key, cold and moist from resting in its hiding place, slightly rusted along the edges. I slide it into the keyhole and turn the knob.
Inside, the air smells musty and stale, as if no one’s been there for a long time. Out of habit, I reach toward the wall for the light switch. Then I feel Slade’s hand close around my arm, and instantly understand. If people saw a light coming from this abandoned place, they’d be suspicious. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a key ring with a small penlight. He aims the light at the floor, careful to keep the tiny beam from hitting the windows.
A few old chairs, a dented file cabinet, and a desk are all that remain. Everything else is gone.
“They took the old pool table?” I ask. It was such a piece of junk. Balls were always getting stuck in the gullies and the guys were constantly removing one end of the table to reach inside to free them. Finally they built a hinge for the end so they could open it whenever they needed to.
“Everyone’s trying to save money,” Slade says. He swivels his head around, a concerned look on his face. “I don’t know about this, Cal. I mean, maybe you can hide here tonight, but what’re you going to do tomorrow?”
“I have to ask you for another favor,” I tell him.
Slade’s face contorts unhappily. In the dim light I pull open one of the desk drawers, find a torn envelope and a pencil, and start writing a list of the things I need: Black hair dye. Scissors. Makeup. Sharpies. Deodorant. Rubbing alcohol. Cotton balls. Black lipstick and nail polish. Wire cutters. An old pair of Slade’s sister’s jeans, sneakers, and a gray hoodie. Even though Alyssa is five years younger than me, I’m so petite that we’re practically the same size.
I give the list to Slade. With a deep frown, he scans it with the penlight, then sighs loudly and slowly shakes his head. “I don’t know, Cal. I’m not sure I can do this.”
“Please, Slade. I’ll never tell anyone you helped me. If I get caught, I’ll lie. What difference will it make?”
We stand, silent, in the dark. I wish he didn’t have to leave. “Promise me you’ll come back?”
“I promise.”
He starts to leave, then hesitates. I’m hoping he’ll change his mind and stay a little longer, but instead, he takes out his keys and works the penlight free, then gives it to me and goes. Without turning on the lights, he drives out of the parking lot.
For a long time I was untouched by all the typical teen angst about popularity. The reason? My best friend, Jeanie. Each of us was the other’s protector and support system. As long as we had each other, we were immune to the new styles of handbags, boots, and all the other name-brand items deemed the must-haves of the moment.
Jeanie was rebellious and daring and had a resourceful style all her own. I’d spend hours at her house helping her streak her hair bright pink, do crazy things with makeup, draw fake tattoos on her skin using colored Sharpies and rubbing alcohol, undo the seams and hems of clothing and resew them tighter or looser or altogether differently. Often she’d want me to change the color of my hair or try a fake tattoo or alter my clothes, and I’d always laugh and say I didn’t have to because I had enough fun helping her.
But the truth was that I didn’t like to call attention to myself. I was happy to be the sidekick and let her have the spotlight. And that was one of the strange things about the day I met Slade—that even though I preferred to be in Jeanie’s shadow, he only had eyes for me.
Chapter 12
Sunday 2:51 A.M.
SITTING ON THE cold floor of the old EMS building, I’m worried about how my mother must be taking the news, but I’m afraid to try to get in touch with her. The police are bound to start watching, listening, tracing. Am I foolish to think I’ll be safe here for the night? This was a place I’d sometimes escape to when the shouting and violent clashes at home between my brother and dad got to be too much. But that was then.
And now?
The old police scanner sits on top of the file cabinet. I push myself up and go over to it, fiddle with the knobs and switches, but the thing is lifeless. I turn away, then have a thought. Reaching behind the cabinet, I feel for the power cord and pull gently. It comes without resistance.
Easing the file cabinet out slightly, I feel along the wall for an outlet and plug the power cord in. It’s only been a few weeks since the EMTs moved out, and maybe the electricity’s still on. The scanner crackles loudly with static and I jump back in fright at the sudden noise. I must have accidentally turned up the volume. I quickly turn it down and look outside, as if the brief burst of sound might bring the police running.
After taking deep breaths and waiting for my heart to stop drumming, I place the scanner on the floor, where the small yellow LCD is less likely to be seen from outside. From the years of hanging around this place, I know most of the police codes and lingo and used to be able to tel
l—if I listened carefully enough—where every cruiser and bike cop in town was. Now voices crackle on.
Female voice: “Bravo five-eleven, what’s your ten-twenty?”
Male voice: “Bravo five-eleven. Over here on Maple Hill by the house. No sign of suspect.”
Female voice: “Ten-four. Bravo five-thirteen, your ten-twenty?”
Different male voice: “Bravo five-thirteen. On the Post Road, just passing Dunkin’ Donuts.”
Female voice: “Ten-four.”
Third male voice: “Bravo five-seventeen.”
Female voice: “Go ahead, Bravo five-seventeen.”
Third male voice: “I’ve checked around the railroad station. Nothing here.”
Female voice: “Ten-four, Bravo five-seventeen. Chief wants you to go over to the middle school. Look around the back.”
Third male voice: “Ten-four.”
The bravos are patrol cars. Maple Hill is my street. I assume Bravo 511 has been assigned to watch my house. Bravo 513 is patrolling the main street through town, the Post Road. Bravo 517 is now going to look for me behind the middle school.
None of them is anywhere near the EMS building, so that’s good news for now. A yawn reaches up through me. I cover my mouth with my hand and, despite everything that’s happened tonight, I’m tired enough to sleep.
Slade and his dad loved to fish and kept a boat in the harbor. Slade took me fishing a few times, but I didn’t like handling the smelly chunks of bait or the slimy fish we caught. And I especially disliked the way the fish frantically flopped and squirmed before dying in a bucket.
My birthday is June 27, and the day before I turned sixteen, Slade called and told me he’d pick me up the next night and take me out to celebrate. So the next evening I put on makeup and a dress and waited. Slade showed up right on time … wearing old sneakers, stained jeans, and a threadbare shirt with a tear in one elbow.
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