My mom speaks up. “Sir, there’s no reason to question my daughter’s honesty.” I can practically hear her gritting her teeth. “The photos speak for themselves. Our kids cared a great deal about each other.”
Detective Kimble reappears, holding a tray laden with three steaming mugs of coffee. After she sets them down in front of the Porters and my mom, the congressman leans forward, his head bowed.
“I’m asking because there’s a theory out there. I’m hoping it’s not true. It’s that you and my son never had any relationship, that you Photoshopped those pictures. And when he refused you—”
“Stop!” I leap to my feet, incredulous at what I’m hearing. “Whatever you heard, it’s all lies. If you need more proof, there’s plenty of it. Chace kept all the letters we wrote to each other, they’re in his dorm.” I turn to Detective Kimble. “And aren’t you checking phone records or something? It’s all there!”
Detective Kimble eyes me carefully.
“The search of his room hasn’t turned up anything about you yet. And there’s no correspondence between the two of you from this week.”
“This week? It was last spring that we were together.”
Mom stands up, wrapping a protective arm around my shoulder.
“I’m sure the two of you are hurting in ways I can’t possibly understand,” she says quietly. “But that doesn’t give you any right to accuse my daughter.”
“Talk to Chace’s roommate, Ryan,” I burst out, the idea coming to me like a beacon of hope. “He knows everything. He’ll tell you it’s all true, that whatever he had with Lana, Chace loved me.” A tear rolls down my cheek, and I roughly wipe it away. “And I love him.”
Mrs. Porter, who still hasn’t spoken a word, reaches across the space between us and touches my hand. Is she trying to comfort me?
“Can we trust you?” she asks softly.
There’s something about her voice. I can’t seem to place it, but it reminds me of something—a certain feeling of dread.
Or maybe I’m going crazy.
“Of course you can trust me,” I answer. “I’m telling you the truth.”
“Do you need anything else?” Mom asks curtly.
Congressman Porter opens his mouth to say more, but then glances at his wife and shakes his head. “That’s enough for now.”
“Good. Once again, we’re sorry for your loss.”
“I’ll show you out,” Detective Kimble says, her eyes flicking between me and the Porters.
Mom and I follow her to the door. Just before we reach it, I turn around.
“Chace would want me to play at the funeral.” My voice wobbles, but I don’t back down, looking straight into his parents’ eyes. “He loved my music, maybe more than anyone else. I have to give him one last song.”
Without waiting for an answer, I turn and follow my mom and the detective through the door.
I can’t bear to hear a no.
Mom drops me off at my dorm, hugging me good night before departing for her hotel a few miles from campus.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I sleep here tonight?” she asks for the third time.
I force a smile.
“That’s sweet of you, but there’s barely any room for both of us. I’ll just see you tomorrow. I love you.”
She kisses my forehead.
“I love you, too, honey. We’ll get through this together. I promise.”
After she closes the door behind her, I throw open my desk drawer. If Detective Kimble didn’t find the letters in Chace’s room, is there any chance he could have returned them to me, without my knowing—?
A scream rings in my ears, ice flooding my veins.
I’m shivering, shaking. I can’t be seeing this.
It can’t be real.
I hear the footsteps of the security guard from down the hall, and I lunge toward the door, heart in my throat as I turn the lock.
“Everything all right in there, miss?” The guard raps on the door twice. It dawns on me that I must have screamed out loud.
“F-fine!” I call out, my voice shrill with panic. “I just—it was just a spider, but I, um, took care of it.”
I wait until his footsteps retreat, and then I dive back to the desk. Please let it be gone now. Please let it have been just a hallucination, I pray silently.
But there it is, unmistakable in the middle of my desk drawer: a thick kitchen knife, covered with crusted blood.
The thought of that blade plunging into the skin and soul I loved makes me want to rip this entire room to shreds. My arms and legs begin to tingle, my vision turning hazy, and I know from past experience that this is the start of a panic attack. But I can’t afford to give in to it now. I need to think straight.
Someone clearly planted the weapon in my room. But they were a day late. If they’d done it yesterday, when Detective Kimble searched my things, I would have been arrested on the spot. I shudder in horror.
My mind races as I stare at the weapon. If I turn it in and explain that I’m being set up, maybe the cops will be able to use DNA on the knife to find out who did this to Chace.
Or…No one will believe that I was being set up. I could be arrested the second I make the call to Detective Kimble.
I grab my phone to dial Mom, but hang up as soon as it occurs to me that this is not a conversation I can afford anyone lingering outside my door to hear.
“Chace,” I whisper into the air, my throat thick with tears. “I need you so much right now. I don’t know what to do.”
But of course, there’s no answer. Why do I keep thinking Chace’s spirit will help me? I can’t get lost in these hopeful delusions; I need to figure out a plan. Now. I pace my room, hands trembling as I eye the sickening weapon in my desk. What am I going to do, what am I going to do?
Whoever planted it in my room clearly intends for me to be caught with it—and if they grow impatient waiting, all they need to do is call in a tip to Detective Kimble. I have to get it out of my room, that’s the only way to save myself from being framed. But then…isn’t moving the evidence a crime in and of itself ?
I slump onto the bed, head in my hands. There’s no good solution, only one choice. I have to get the knife out of my room—but I’ll leave it someplace where the cops can find it and trace it back to the real killer. I hope.
The thought of touching the evil object turns my stomach. I need music—I need to pretend this is a performance, that it isn’t real.
I plug my earbuds into my phone and cue up a playlist. Dario Marianelli’s Atonement score couldn’t be more fitting. I exhale as the piano begins with a staccato pulse, like notes of warning, and then the frenetic strings color in the melody. I close my eyes. Yes, I’m just playing a part. This isn’t real.
I grab my winter gloves from my dresser drawer and slip them onto my hands. Just as I’m reaching for the knife, looking away so I don’t have to see myself touch it, the music in my earbuds comes to a halt—replaced with the sound of a muffled yet familiar voice.
“Find me at our spot.”
My heart leaps, daring my mind to believe.
“Chace? Is that you?”
The pulsating piano and strings of Atonement resume playing, but all I hear is the echo of his last words. “…our spot…” I want so much to trust this, but can I? Or have I entered full-blown hallucination territory? I’m all out of options.
I glance from the door to the window, but it’s not like I have a choice. The window is my only way out unseen. Thankfully, I’m only on the fourth floor.
Holding my breath, I take the knife into my gloved hands. Even through the fabric, I can feel the cruel blade burning against my palm. I drop it as fast as I can into a ziplock bag and stuff it into my backpack. Then, lifting my backpack onto my shoulders, I unlatch the window.
Cold air rushes to greet me. With a silent prayer, I squeeze my body through the opening and crawl out to the other side of the windowsill, latching onto the narrow railing that lines the
building’s exterior. It’s a balancing act, and as I climb down, it occurs to me at the worst possible moment that if someone else’s window is open on this side of the building—it’ll all be over. I quicken my pace, pushing my body down the railing until I pass the third floor, then the second and the first, finally landing on my knees in the grass. As far as I can tell, no one saw me. Thank God.
I forgot to bring a flashlight in my haste, so I move through the grounds in the dark, letting the stars guide my way, and ducking behind a tree anytime I think I hear a security guard’s footsteps. Luckily, it seems Headmaster Higgins has them stationed primarily outside the campus gates and within the buildings—so the grounds are free.
The gurgle of water beneath the wooden bridge lets me know that I’m close. My pulse quickens, my mind racing, as I wonder what I’m about to find. Will it be Chace’s spirit, responding to my plea for help? Will it be another vision like the other night? Or…could it be something else entirely?
“Nicole.”
And with a gasp, I turn around.
I hear they’re going to arrest her soon. That’s what my mom says, anyway. She says the cops on the case are getting all their ducks in a row, but Nicole is the lead suspect. “No one’s even thinking about you, mija,” Mom said last night, running her cool palm across my forehead.
If I did do it, no one would know. Not with Nicole as the distraction. It’s gratifying to go on TMZ and the other gossip sites and see what people really think of her. When the pictures leaked, I have to admit, my first instinct was fear. What if people saw the photos and assumed it was true love between the two of them (ew) and that I was the bad guy keeping the star-crossed lovers apart? But it’s amazing what a well-placed rumor can do. I never should have worried, not with Congresswoman Diana Rivera as my mother. She’s already whipped the votes. Everyone’s on my side. They all believe Nicole faked the pictures or blackmailed him, or something else equally twisted. They even have nicknames for her in the press: “The Girl in the Picture” and “The Phantom of the Philharmonic.” That last one’s my favorite.
I actually ran into her yesterday in the halls. She was walking with that boring orchestra friend of hers and Ryan Wyatt, of all people—I knew I never liked him—and when our eyes met, I swear I thought I might kill her. I wanted to take my manicured fingernails and claw them into that scar of hers. To think I used to consider her a friend—that I let a nerd like her into my world, into my parties and my family and my childhood home. And then she went and betrayed me.
No one ever betrayed me until those two.
The truth is, hating Nicole is just what I need right now. It keeps my mind trained on anger, instead of sadness and grief. Because if I really let myself stop and think about what happened to Chace, that he’s gone forever…well, I just might not recover from that. And a Rivera always recovers.
My alarm clock buzzes, and I slam it off with my fist. I’ve been up for hours, anyway. Today is Chace’s funeral, and I’m giving a speech. An unpleasant memory pushes forward, clamoring for my attention. The congressman called last night, telling me Nicole asked if she could play the violin at the service. She actually had the nerve.
“I wonder if we should let her,” Congressman Porter said over the phone, his voice sounding ragged. “She was quite insistent that it’s what Chace would have wanted.”
Yes, I know he was obsessed with the girl’s talent. But there was no way I was about to let Nicole take over Chace’s funeral.
“She’s just pushing in,” I told the congressman. “I think it would be wrong to include her.”
So it’ll be just five of us taking the podium today: Chace’s dad, his little brother, Teddy, me, Headmaster Higgins, and Ryan, who somehow snuck onto the program. Mrs. Porter is too distraught to speak, so the congressman will be giving the eulogy on behalf of both of them.
I hear stirring from the bed on the other side of the room. Stephanie rolls over, rubbing her eyes.
“You awake, Lan?”
“Obviously.”
She props herself up on her elbow.
“I know how hard this day is going to be. I’m so sorry.”
I nod.
“I should start getting ready.”
Mom bought me a new black dress for today, thinking Chanel might cheer me up. I wonder what Chace would think if he saw me in it.
I wonder if he still thought I was as beautiful at the end as he did in the beginning.
My dad took the train from DC to join Mom and me at the funeral, and the sight of his stalwart figure beside us, those warm brown eyes looking down on me with concern, gives me a sense of relief. Mom is the one who gets things done, who protects me like the mama bear she is, but you don’t go crying on her shoulder. My dad is the one who allows me to let my guard down. He’s the parent who sees my fractured heart and tries to put it back together. If only he could.
We get to the church early, giving us a few moments alone with the Porters before the public enters. The sight of Teddy’s tearstained cheeks and Mrs. Porter’s hollow expression is a stark reminder of everything I’ve been burying down deep. He’s gone. And there’s no going back in time to make things right.
My eyes fly to the altar, stomach clenching as I brace myself for a casket, until I remember. There’s no body anymore. Only ashes. A large canvas photo of Chace stands at the altar in place of a casket, surrounded by white carnations. I drop my gaze to the ground, blinking back the fire behind my eyes.
The Porters greet my parents with dazed handshakes, while I hug all three of them tightly, flashing back to the first time I met Chace’s parents. It hurts to remember how happy I was that night at the restaurant, flush in the glow of new romance. I never could have imagined how it would all unravel. If I had, I’d have marched straight into Headmaster Higgins’s office and demanded a different roommate, any roommate but her. Because one thing’s for sure: if it weren’t for our friendship, Nicole would never have gotten within spitting distance of a guy like Chace.
My parents and I lower into the seats in our reserved pew behind the Porters, watching the rest of the mourners file in. Stephanie and Kara arrive soon after us, and they sit right behind me, Steph squeezing my shoulder in solidarity. The guys from Chace’s soccer team are part of the next batch of arrivals, taking up a whole pew on the other side of the aisle. I feel someone slide into the seat beside me, and I stiffen. It’s Ryan, of course. One of Nicole’s last defenders. Why does he have to sit here?
As if he can read my mind, he says, “The reverend asked me to sit up front, since I’m one of the speakers….How are you doing?”
“How do you think?” I ask, my tone coming out even frostier than I intended.
He winces.
“I know. I feel the same.” He glances at my mom and dad, who are deep in conversation with someone from Congress who’s just joined our pew. “You’re lucky you have your parents here.”
“Yeah. Are yours coming?”
Ryan lowers his eyes.
“They couldn’t get off work. Plus there was no one to watch my brother.”
Our conversation, if you can call it that, ends there. The church is soon filled to standing room only, and the heavy doors swing shut. I turn around in my seat and scan the crowd, breathing a sigh of relief when I find no trace of Nicole, not even sitting with Brianne and the other orchestra geeks in the back pew. I warned the Porters that she would be a distraction. Thankfully, they must have listened to me.
The service begins with the reverend asking us to open our prayer books, and he speaks of how all death has a purpose. What purpose is there in this? I want to scream, but of course I don’t. I sit like the polite, well-bred girl I’m expected to be, prayer book open in my lap.
Headmaster Higgins takes the podium next, and after extolling Chace’s virtues on and off the school soccer field, she reads a letter of condolence from the president of the United States. I wonder what Chace would make of that. He loved to poke fun at our parents’ high and
mighty jobs, but I wonder if he’d be proud now, hearing the president acknowledging his too-short life.
The headmaster returns to her seat, and all too soon it’s my turn. My legs feel oddly jellylike as I stand up. Dad gives my hand a squeeze before I make my way out of our pew and walk up the aisle to the podium.
“I used to imagine being in a church like this one day with Chace,” I begin. “Maybe it was silly to think that of a high-school love. But that’s how I felt.”
And it’s true, that’s exactly what I envisioned, until she came and shattered the fantasy. My throat tightens, but I continue.
“Many of you knew Chace as the star athlete of our school, or as the congressman’s handsome son, but to me he was something else entirely. He was the guy who gave me constant butterflies, who made me feel like each day was a gift.” I close my eyes. “Until one day it wasn’t.”
For a moment it feels like I’m watching a scene in a movie, that these words are coming from an actress’s mouth—because it can’t be real, he can’t be dead. I blink, finding my parents’ faces in the crowd, and they nod their encouragement.
“I’ll miss Chace Porter every day, but I’d like to believe a part of him will stay with me, in my heart, forever.”
I climb down the stairs, swallowing the lump in my throat. What would he think of my eulogy from up there in heaven? Would he laugh at my so-called desire for him to stay with me, in my heart? “Even a spirit can’t split itself in two, Lana,” he might say. “You know whom I’d choose to be with, even in death.” My hands tighten into fists at the thought.
As I slip back into my seat, Ryan gets up, taking my place at the podium. He has a typewritten sheet of paper in his grasp.
“One of the luckiest things to ever happen to me was getting Chace Porter for a roommate,” he says, looking out at the crowd. “He made the past year one that was full of adventure, fun, and friendship, and I’ll never forget him….”
My mind drifts as Ryan speaks. I don’t care what he has to say, anyway. Instead, I replay my memories of Chace on a loop, while staring at the giant photo of his beautiful face. And then a change in Ryan’s tone gets my attention.
The Girl in the Picture Page 10
