“On the contrary, I’m here to speed this along so Austin and I can get back to our date,” I said.
“Ah, it’s working? The Old Spice is getting you in the mood?” he said.
“So he got dressed up. It’s sweet when people make an effort to look nice.” I pointed at Digby’s rumpled suit and untucked shirt.
“This old thing? I woke up like this,” he said.
“Rolled right out of bed in it, it looks like,” I said.
“Well? Are you ready for the Austin Shaeffer experience?” Digby said. “Although . . . would you be rooting around in the trash with me if you were?”
“Can we just focus on whatever we’re doing here?” I said. “What are we doing here?”
“This is Bullet Time’s place,” Digby said. “I found it.”
“I knew you were railroading us into one of your missions. Wait. This is the crack house that the guys in suits supposedly rented out to stash Sally? It’s weird.” I looked around. “I’m not getting much of a danger vibe here . . .”
“Look at you,” Digby said. “Nothing scares you, huh?”
“Unless . . . do you think I have some kind of post-traumatic thing? Where I’m like, numb to danger or something? Should I be worried?” I said.
“We’re millennials, Princeton. We’re all post-traumatic. Besides, you’re right. It used to be a lot scarier here . . . drive-bys and turf wars. Much more impressive,” he said. “But they’ve been cleaning up. I’m sure if we come back a year from now, it’ll be all plaid shirts and fixed-gear bike hipsters.”
“Are you going in to talk to Bullet Time?” I said.
“Can’t. Turns out he’s dead.”
“Then why go through the trash?” I said.
“Recon. I want to see what kind of people live here now.” Digby lifted a garbage can. “Here, help me empty this one out.” When I groaned, Digby said, “Oh, come on, you know you’ve missed this.”
A slice of garbage pizza plopped onto my shoe. “Oh sure. I mean, how could I not?” I said. I kicked around at the pile at my feet. “Can you tell me what we’re looking for? Just so I don’t accidentally mistake it for trash. Oh, wait. It’s all trash.”
“What are you talking about? This is an information jackpot.” Digby pointed at the empty packages of cornmeal and sugar. “I mean, they’re bakers. Bakers don’t get violent during a break-in.” Digby kicked the packages and thought again. “Of course, these are also ingredients for manufacturing explosives . . .”
“In which case, they’d be exactly the kind of people who get violent during a break-in.” And then I heard myself. “Wait. Did I just say ‘break-in’?”
“You know what? You were right the first time. What are we doing digging around in trash?” Digby said. “Let’s just go see if anyone’s home. We might not even need to break in.”
I followed him out of the alley and around to the front. “What are you going to tell them when they come to the door?”
Digby rang the bell. “Actually, I don’t know.” No one answered. “But luckily, we don’t have to find that out.”
My heart dropped when I saw his lock-picking kit come out. “Oh, no . . .”
Once he had the door open, I peered in and saw that the warehouse was packed full of haphazardly piled stuff well on its way to being garbage. In the center of the floor space, though, was an island of order: an elaborate structure of copper tubes and glass jars. Digby said, “You coming?” and walked in.
“No.” And I meant it too, until I heard a huge crash of glass breaking. That was followed by another. And then a series of smaller ones. I ran in and found him standing in the middle of a mess of broken glass and spilled liquid. “What is all this?” An acrid smell set me off on a coughing fit. “It smells like . . .”
“Farts and alcohol? Yeah . . .” he said. “I’m pretty sure this is moonshine.”
“People drink this for fun?” I said. “It smells disgusting—”
And then we heard the voices of two people at the front door, one male and one female.
“Hey, Mary, you left the front door open again,” Male Voice said.
“Why would you just assume that?” Female Voice— presumably Mary—said.
Digby and I didn’t have too many options, so we shut ourselves into a coat closet by the front door just as the man and woman walked past us into the warehouse.
“You make an ass of yourself when you assume stuff,” Mary said.
“You’re not telling that joke right,” Al said.
“Who’s joking?” she said.
Then she gasped. “Al! Look! Someone’s been in here.”
“Not again,” Al said.
“Footprints . . .” Mary said. “They’re in the closet. Better get the bat.”
The closet door opened to reveal that Al was an angry dude in disheveled nightclothes and house slippers that were filthy from being worn outside. Mary was an equally disheveled woman wearing an umbrella hat carrying a sack of groceries. The deranged goofiness of their outfits reminded me of murder clowns and killer dolls.
“We don’t keep cash in the house and we don’t own anything nice you could hock,” Al said to us. He raised the bat he was holding so Digby and I could take note that it had nails sticking out of it.
Mary watched me cowering and said, “Oh, they’re just kids, Al . . .” She offered me her hand and led me out of the closet. “This one can’t have been using for that long . . . she isn’t sick-skinny like her boyfriend here.” She frowned at Digby. “Are you her pusher? I bet you are. You look like a pusher.” She dug out a five-dollar bill and put it in my hand. “Here. Go get a sandwich.”
“Oh, now, that’s just going to make ’em keep on coming back,” Al said.
“This is for a sandwich. Not drugs,” Mary said.
“Yes, yes . . . sandwich. Not drugs.” I grabbed Digby and backed out toward the door.
“Actually, I’m her sponsor and we’re here making amends,” Digby said.
“Oh?” Mary said.
“Nine years ago, she was living near here and she took something she wanted to replace,” Digby said. “Were you the folks living here nine years ago?” When Mary and Al shook their heads, Digby said, “Do you know who was? Also, do you rent or own this place?”
“You know what? You sound like one of those real estate people who’ve been coming by trying to evict us. Is that what you’re doing here?” Al started advancing toward us.
“No, no,” Digby said. “But, really, how long have you been in this place?” Digby and I continued backing up and then, as Digby passed over the threshold, something in his pocket thunked against the jamb.
“What was that?” Al said. He reached into Digby’s jacket pocket and pulled out a bottle of their moonshine.
Digby laughed, looking like he was going to talk his way out of it, when he suddenly snatched the moonshine back from Al and yelled, “Go!”
We took off running down the street and back around the corner, yelling for Austin to start the car, but he didn’t hear us because he was bent over the screen of his phone. Digby dove into the backseat and I jumped into the front, screaming and incoherent, which was all right because at this point, we didn’t need to do much explaining. Looking in the rearview mirror and seeing Al rushing toward the car with his spiked baseball bat pretty much said it all.
Al landed a hit on the trunk before Austin managed to peel out, swearing. “What was that?”
He was annoyed that Digby and I had already progressed to the hysterical-laughing-with-relief phase. “What’s so funny? It’s going to cost so much money to repair that dent.”
Digby passed him the bottle of pilfered moonshine and said, “Here. Maybe it’ll ease the blow.”
“What is it?” Austin sniffed the closed bottle, winced, and then smiled. “Nice.”
“I don’t even understand why we ran. It’s not like they had a gun.”
“Whoa. Maybe you do have PTSD,” Digby said. “Didn’t you see that guy? He looked like an ogre.”
“Why was he so mad?” Austin said.
Digby took out a stack of envelopes he’d stuffed in his pocket. “He probably thought we were in there to steal their booze.” He ripped open one of the envelopes.
“When, really, you were there to steal their mail?” I said. “What is it?”
“They are behind on rent . . .” Digby said. “Well, I’m disappointed we didn’t get to look around. Maybe next time—”
“Next time?” I said.
“The checks get sent to a P.O. box,” Digby said.
“So, you figure out who gets these checks and you figure out who owns the building. And then what?” I said.
“And then we deal with whatever we find then, Princeton . . .” Digby said. “Meanwhile, Felix and I will work the other angle. We’ll be in the computer lab at school tomorrow if you’re interested . . .”
“This is what you do together? I don’t get it. Why’s this fun?” Austin said.
“It isn’t fun,” I said.
“So, what kind of pasta are we having?” Digby said. “I vote penne.”
“Nice try,” I said. “You’re going home.”
“Bummer. I was looking forward to that penne,” Digby said.
“Austin, could we swing back to my house and drop Digby before we go to your place?” I said.
“Actually, babe, some guys are getting together and I was thinking . . . it’s pretty late and I haven’t even started cooking yet . . .” Austin said. “Maybe rain check? Tuesday?”
I couldn’t blame him. The night was already ruined. But while it made sense, I think Digby accurately summarized my feelings about the moment when he silently mouthed to me, BURN.
• • •
We walked back to the house. Austin’s car was barely around the corner when Digby started up.
“You’re welcome,” Digby said.
“Shut up. I don’t want to hear it,” I said.
“No, really, you weren’t feeling it, I could tell,” Digby said. “Remember . . . he’s just a boy, standing in front of a girl, asking her to take her shirt off.”
“You’re an ass,” I said.
“But seriously, I don’t understand why you’re, like, offended that Austin wants to break himself off a piece. That’s the whole point of dating, isn’t it? It’s a mating ritual,” Digby said.
“Excuse me? So you’re saying that when I started dating him, I somehow got on a schedule that automatically ends with sex?” I said.
“Whoa whoa whoa. That’s not even remotely close to what I’m saying. All I meant is that it makes sense that he wants to,” Digby said.
Mom and Cooper had already left and even though Digby was being annoying, I was glad I didn’t have to sit home alone that night. We went straight into the kitchen and without consultation, started preparing our dinner. I got the water boiling and he assembled the ingredients for a pasta dinner.
“You know what doesn’t make sense is that your dad didn’t notice you were gone for three months,” I said. “I mean, he knew, right?”
Digby shook his head.
“There’s no way. I bet he did,” I said.
Digby shrugged. “All I know is, when I got home, he didn’t say anything. When I showed him my emancipation papers, he didn’t say anything. And when I told him I was coming back here, he didn’t say anything then either,” Digby said.
“You just lived in the same house? In silence?”
“Well, we talked about stuff like what’s for dinner or chores or whatever. What I meant is that he and I don’t talk about anything real, and when I skipped three months of talking about dinner or chores, he didn’t care enough to notice.” Digby saw I looked sad about that and said, “And I don’t need him to care . . . I don’t have parents like you have parents.”
“Honestly? Both of my parents have been such pills lately, I could handle a little distance,” I said.
“Meh. You’ve got another year and you’ll be out of here,” he said.
“What about you? What are you going to do after next year?” I said. “Actually, what are you even doing back here now? Aren’t you technically done with your high school coursework?”
“Yeah . . . but I don’t think I’m into the whole college thing yet.”
“So, you’re just going to . . . what? Hang out?” I said. “Isn’t that a waste?”
He was quiet for a bit before he answered. “Look, you know how you think of leaving to go to college like it’s going to reset your life and kick off something new? It’s the same deal with me. I want to get on my college campus and worry about midterms and stay up all night writing papers . . . maybe start wearing clothes with colors or even pledge a frat.”
I cracked up. “Too far.”
“Okay, maybe not the last thing, but you know what I mean.”
“Sure. You want to be a normal person.”
“And I can’t be that until I figure out what happened to my sister.”
“Are you kidding? You’re saying you won’t move on with your life until you solve a mystery that the police and the FBI haven’t been able to make sense of for nine years?” I said. “You’re like a kid holding his breath until he gets his way.”
“I’m not saying I have to solve it or put the bastards in jail or anything. I just need to know . . . That’ll be enough,” he said.
I laughed at that. “Yeah, right. As if that would ever be enough. This might be one of those things where you have to learn to let it go.”
“You mean, I don’t need closure for me to start healing? You sound like my therapist. That was the one insight she bothered coming up with before she sent me to a psychopharmacologist . . . which reminds me. I have an appointment with her tomorrow.”
“You’re seeing someone here?” I said.
“Sure. Medicare. I figure I should get it while it’s free,” he said.
“Can’t believe you found someone so fast,” I said.
“Actually, I’m just going to my old doctor,” he said.
Now I remembered that Henry had told me that it was this River Heights therapist who’d given the police information that she’d gotten in session with Digby that misdirected the investigation and, in Henry’s words, tore the Digby family apart. But I also remembered that Henry hadn’t wanted Digby to know this about his doctor.
Seeing the torn expression on my face, Digby said, “Yeah, she’s not the best, but like they say . . . better the devil you know . . .”
“Um . . . but you know so many devils. Why not pick someone new . . .” I could feel myself coming off as shifty, but I couldn’t stop.
Digby stared at me.
“It’s okay, Princeton. I know,” he said. “I know what she did. I know she told the police about my father’s drinking. His gambling. My mother’s psychotic episodes . . . I know she’s why the police stopped looking for suspects and just built a case against us.”
“You do? Then why are you going back to her?” I said.
“Because I just don’t need to sit in therapy for another three months re-explaining how I didn’t get to have a childhood because after a horrible tragedy happened to my family, our entire town turned against us and to this day, still think we murdered my sister,” he said. His eyes had filled up with tears and when he blinked, a big fat one rolled down. “Understand?”
“Uh . . . I . . .” I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to hug him, but I knew he hated being pitied. I felt myself start to cry when, inexplicably, Digby started to laugh at me.
“Oh, no, Princeton, I’m just kidding. You’re not actually crying, are you?” He leaned down closer to the chopping board full of onions he was
dicing for our pasta and said, “Oh sob, sob, my lost childhood . . .”
“You’re such an ass.”
“But, seriously, I think I would rather stick my hand in a meat grinder than go through having to tell some new person about Sally.” He noticed the water had come to a boil and poured in the penne. “I need this to be over.”
NINE
I woke up late the next day still exhausted and I’d zombied my way through my morning coffee and cereal when Cooper walked in through the front door.
“You’re up already,” he said.
“What do you mean? I’m late, in fact. But I’d rather take a tardy than rush. My head is killing me,” I said.
“Did you forget? School’s out today and tomorrow. All of them are,” Cooper said.
I think Cooper misunderstood my stunned expression to mean I didn’t believe him.
“I should know because there’s always a mini-crime wave whenever there’s one of these Chancellor’s Conference Days,” he said.
“Oh, right. Well, that’s it. I’m going back to bed,” I said.
But I was so excited about getting a bonus day that I had trouble getting back to sleep. I got up and started studying again. I was so focused, in fact, that I was late getting to my after-school shift at the bookstore.
• • •
Later that afternoon, I found myself alone in the store and decided to do an SAT practice logic question, but my exhausted brain was skipping around too much, so I gave up. For the second night in a row, Digby had kept me up talking. During our entire conversation, I was hyperaware we were still avoiding anything even peripheral to the topic of our kiss.
I wondered when it would come up. And then I wondered if I owed it to Austin to tell him. And then I realized that at some point, “not telling” Austin was going to turn into lying. “What am I supposed to do?” I said out loud.
“SAT logic problem set? Forget it.”
I hadn’t seen Bill come into the bookstore.
“The originality of the essay counts more for admissions committees these days. Of course, in your case . . . you’re a legacy at Princeton, so you super don’t have to worry. You’re guaranteed to get in.” She noted my frown and said, “I have nothing against that. Keep it in the family—I get it. In fact, tell your dad I’m available if he’s looking to adopt . . . Anyone who pretends they wouldn’t trade places with you is a dirty hater.”
Trouble Makes a Comeback Page 7
