by Lamar Giles
“You think the cops lied to me.”
He shakes his head. “I doubt it. Don’t see a reason in it. I’m just saying, since your connection to all this became apparent, I’ve paid close attention to our coverage as well as to the other news outlets. This is my first time seeing this photo. Your guy didn’t sell it to anyone around here.”
“Just for me then.”
“I guess. He must be a real romantic.” Beck pauses, says, “Did you get the sarcasm that time?”
“I did.”
We’re sitting side by side. Beck grabs his chair, does this weird lift-turn thing so he’s facing me. I think he expects me to do the same. I don’t comply, because I recognize this as the heart-to-heart position. He’s about to talk some sense into me.
“Lauren, look, this stuff is compelling—”
“Don’t do it, Beck. I’m not crazy.”
“That’s not for me to determine. Whoever this Admirer is, he’s screwing with you. There’s a reason the police look at husbands, wives, and lovers when someone gets killed. Those people tend to be the killers. Bottin’s had a bad go the last few months. His career was done. He was facing possible prosecution as a sex offender. Wasn’t like his life was great before that. He’d lost almost everything in a house fire and was living in an apartment he could barely afford. I’m surprised he didn’t snap sooner.”
“What did you say?”
“I’m surprised he didn’t snap sooner.”
“No”—I switch to a different photo on my Mac—“Coach Bottin’s house burned down?”
“Yeah. I read about it in the story notes at work.”
I maximize the photo of a burning room. Dante. “Is this his house?”
Beck shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know. I only saw notes. No pictures.” Then, like he’s breaking bad news, “This doesn’t mean there’s a connection.”
“There’s a chance, though.” More than a chance. “When I asked my Admirer how he got this photo, he said he ‘lit a match.’”
“Your criminal mastermind murderer-hacker is also an arsonist?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe not.” He navigates to a secure site for channel 9, logs in, and brings up some bookmarked files. “The notes also said Bottin admitted to leaving candles burning near some drapes. The fire was his fault.”
That stumps me. My hot connection fizzles. “Is there any way I can get a copy of those notes?”
“Absolutely not. I could get fired for passing you internal documents. Since I’m an intern, you can appreciate the psychological damage I’d suffer if I lost a job that doesn’t actually pay me.” He’s giving me the judgment stare.
“I’m not crazy.”
“You keep saying. Really, I don’t think you are.”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re looking for some way to not have to shoulder the load of all this.”
“A way for it to not all be my fault?” I say.
“That’s not what I mean.”
It’s what I mean.
He’s gathering his things, like he’s the one with the midafternoon curfew.
“Beck, wait. I need to ask another question.”
“Here I thought I’d be doing the interview today. Go on.”
“Do your notes say where Coach Bottin’s new apartment is?”
He drums his fingers on the tabletop. Then, he opens his laptop again, bringing up another internal document. He makes a show of looking in another direction. “You didn’t get this from me.”
Bottin’s address is on the screen. I note it in my phone. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. The next favor comes from you, though. Don’t text me again unless you’re willing to go on the record. The cyberbully angle is timely and with you as a source, I can pitch it to my boss.”
“In other words, you want to build your career on my personal misery.”
“You wanted to be my friend. There’s a reason I don’t have many. Good day, Lauren.”
In the hour before I’m due home, I forgo the mall and Google Map Bottin’s apartment. His complex is in a cropping of recently built “luxury apartment communities,” each having a unique visual flair. Cobblestone facades, or shale, or wrought-iron railings on the stairs and balconies.
The complex I’m interested in is called Preserve, and has a tagline on a plaque below its cedar plank signage that reads: “Nature’s Home.” As if the geometric sections of warm autumn colors—orange, and brown, and burgundy—like a Lego tree house set, didn’t sell the theme already.
I bet Keachin loved coming here. The newness of the complex makes it look more ritzy than it probably is, enough to impress a shallow girl.
It’s not real luxury, though. Actual rich people would’ve put a wall around this place to protect it from prying eyes and potential intruders.
Like me.
Twisting in my seat, I lean back so my gearshift pokes my kidney. It’s enough to keep my camera lens from protruding beyond my open car window as I shoot.
There are about a dozen blocky buildings, some containing maybe six apartments, with a few taller buildings housing eight. Each building has its own number for postal purposes. Bottin’s is the third I zoom in on. I note the security door, and the digital keypad/intercom next to it.
My phone rattles in my cup holder. I glance around the street for any occupied cars, anyone who might be watching me.
Taylor: I heard about Mei. Do u know anything? Is she all right?
I’ve got enough shots for my next steps. Holstering my camera in its case, I send a quick text back to him before driving home.
Me: She’ll b fine.
More texts follow, but I don’t answer. I have research to do. Plans to make. I have a game to win.
Taylor’s concern can wait.
CHAPTER 33
THE NEXT MORNING CHIMES PIERCE THE darkness. An unfamiliar sound that calls me from a thick, lead-limbed slumber. I manage a one-eyed glimpse at the phone glowing, shaking, and tolling on my pillow, inches from my face and a drool puddle. It’s sloppy, leaving it out like that. If Dad saw or heard it, I’d lose it. He hasn’t been in my room since the Aunt Victoria fight, so thankfully the risk is low.
My mouth is dank with the aftertaste of coffee and cola, the fuel from last night’s marathon dissection of the Gray Beard’s FB page. Based on what I know about the Admirer, I was able to cross off eighty-four of the Gray Beards as potential suspects. I’m almost certain I can knock off another fifty today. If I don’t eat, or bathe, or blink.
First, I swipe through notifications on my phone, trying to figure what that sound is about. A red “1” is plopped on top of the voice mail icon.
Nobody I know bothers with voice mails when a text will do. Is my Admirer frustrated with me ignoring him? Maybe he’s left some salacious message, which excites me. His voice is another clue for my growing file. I hit PLAY.
“Lauren, this is Mr. Horton. Wanted to let you know that Mei said it was okay for you to come by this afternoon, if you like. Take care.”
Hmph.
I replay the message.
Mei said it was okay for you to come by this afternoon, if you like.
Of course I’d like to come by. Why wouldn’t I?
Something in his tone, the words, feels off. Or I’m just tired, reading into things that aren’t there. That’s all.
Right?
The middle of the day is spent eliminating more Gray Beards, while simultaneously bumping a few higher on my list. Like Lance Winslow, whose brother, Logan, I once exposed. Strange that he’d be part of my fan club. He also has a photo in “The Game” album. It’s a photo of his butt. Still.
Then there’s Durrell Pierce. I never dealt with him in my Gray persona, but he’s shown a certain amount of bitterness because I turned down his invitation to prom last year when I was a sophomore and he was a junior. He noticed me despite my best Hall Ghost efforts, and acted like his attentiveness somehow indebted me
to him.
“You should be happy someone sees you for how beautiful you really are,” he said when I declined his invite. Because that’s not creepy. I don’t know if he has talents that fit my criteria. He’s worth looking into.
In the afternoon I give Mom a call and make a case for another exemption on my grounding to go to the hospital. She agrees, making it clear it’s for Ocie’s sake, not mine. Okay. Fair enough.
I pull away from my monitor and get dressed to visit my friend. Unexpected butterflies flutter among the sloshing caffeine and junk food in my belly.
I’m at the hospital in time to see some band kids exiting the main entrance, their arms linked, their vibe a mix of joy and solemn concern. I watch them from my parked car, where I’m ducked down, huge sunglasses concealing my bruised eyes while I peer over the dashboard.
They’re Ocie’s tribe, and they’re leaving. Visit over.
They pile into a vehicle and drive away. Coast clear. I enter the hospital wondering how I—Ocie’s best friend—am so late to the party.
On Ocie’s floor, I’m moving on the balls of my feet, quick and silent. My intent is to stroll right past her room, sparing a sideways glance to see who’s present. If anyone else from school is there, I’ll come back later. There’s a lot of traffic in a hospital corridor to conceal me. It’s a technique I’ve used many times when chasing Gray targets.
I speed up to do the pass. Doorways sail by, I’m reading the placards by each door with sidelong glances until I spot M. Horton.
Glimpsing a boy from school at the foot of Ocie’s bed, I keep moving, ready to leave and come back. I’m a few yards beyond her room when his face registers.
Spinning on my heels I fast step into the room, hoping I’m doing a good job of concealing the edge in my voice. “Taylor?”
He turns to me, casual. “Hey, Lauren.”
Hey, Lauren?! “Why are you here?”
“To see me, probably. That’s just a guess.” Ocie’s voice is gruff, drawing my attention to her bed. I suck in a sharp breath. I should thank Taylor for the initial distraction.
Both of her legs are in casts, and one has the addition of a metal halo, secured with long silver screws drilled into the plaster. Her arm isn’t much better in its shell and sling. Bandages circle her scalp, but her face is, remarkably, unaffected. Aside from heavy bags under her eyes, she looks just like she did the last time I saw her.
A gasp slips past my lips.
Taylor rises from the chair, offers it to me. Out of habit I wave off the gesture even though there’s nowhere else to sit. He says, “Mei, I’m going to go.”
“No. Stay.”
I shoot her a look, but she’s focused on him, communicating silent eye messages the way my parents do. Like she’s telling him not to leave her alone with me. I don’t react, not visibly.
Taylor glances at me, says, “We can talk later.”
At her bedside he touches her bare arm, a reassurance. For an insanely possessive moment I want to smack his hand away.
He gives me a respectful nod that I don’t return, and he’s gone. I feel comfortable taking his seat now. “So . . . ,” I say. I’ve got nothing else.
She says, “I totally understand why people get addicted to drugs. These painkillers they’ve got me on are awesome. I’m going to be a junkie when I grow up.”
I laugh. It’s forced.
My eyes bounce around the room, land on the massive bouquets of balloons and flowers that crowd the narrow space between her bed and the window. I didn’t bring anything. We both notice my lack of decorum.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I think there’s, like, a limit. Too much stuff gets in the way of the nurses doing their jobs. Or something.”
It’s nice of her to give me a pass, because I’m sensing she’s having difficulty with graciousness at the moment. Difficulty that wasn’t a problem when it was just her and Taylor, I’m sure.
“How’s your head?” I ask.
“It’s getting there. Still hurts. I don’t remember much after Friday night.”
“Nothing about the accident?” Does she remember hearing my trademark honk? I hope not. I don’t want her connecting the accident to me.
She shakes her head, stares toward the window.
Screw this. “Are you mad at me?”
She doesn’t say anything for a long time. When she speaks, all pleasantries are gone. “You mean still.”
“What?”
“Am I still mad at you for having a whole secret life for, like, years? Yes. I am.”
Okay. I asked. We can deal with this. “I’m glad you told me. When you’re feeling better, we can talk about it. You probably shouldn’t get worked up—”
“You are being so other right now.”
Me? I’m so other? How is it your band friends, and Taylor, and whoever else has been here knew you could have visitors before I did? Because there are a bunch of squiggly, colorful signatures on your cast, and so many bouquets. Too many to have all come today. That is other. So, so other.
I don’t believe that Mr. Horton was fudging the truth when he said he appreciated me being Ocie’s friend, or that he would call me as soon as she was up for visitors. I do believe he would delay notification at his daughter’s request.
Mei said it was okay for you to come by this afternoon.
Those things, I think. All I say is “I know a lot of stuff has come to light recently. Stuff I should’ve told you myself. I can’t change that, but I think we’ll be better friends for this going forward. I do.”
“You think we’ll be better friends?” Her face scrunches. “God, you just don’t get it. I shouldn’t have told Daddy to let you come here.”
“You shouldn’t have—” It’s coming, a tidal wave of all the blame and accusations and attacks I’ve endured from everyone. The cops, my parents, the school, the media. Now Ocie? My friend? Who’s supposed to have my back? Some dam in me breaks, the verbal flood comes to crush a person I care so much for, who I thought cared for me.
I say, “You’re going to act like this over my stupid website? You’ve been my freaking number one fan since I started. You couldn’t get enough of the gossip, and the guessing who Gray might be, and saying how cool it is that we’ve got some secret agent spy-type at the school. You’re mad? You should be happy. You’re friends with a local celebrity. It’s your dream come true, so stop being a hypocrite.”
I’m panting, the exertion of going too far.
“Wow,” she says, blinking tears, “say what you really mean.”
“I’m sorry, Ocie,” I say, but in the way that’s about hard truths instead of apologies, “I—”
“No, you’re not. And stop calling me that. I hate that shit.”
At first I’m confused. Stop calling her what?
She rolls her eyes, face pinched like the painkillers wore off. “That’s not my name. Yours isn’t Panda. Since we’re going for absolute honesty today—that’s what you want, right?—let’s talk about these stupid nicknames that you won’t let go. I’m not an obsessive compulsive. I’m just neat and care about my clothes. There’s nothing wrong with that, and I’m sick of you making a big deal of it because you’ve embraced constant frumpiness. Though, the more I think about it, I see what you were doing. It was like camouflage so no one would think you could be Gray.”
I don’t tell her she’s right because she might confuse it for being right about all the other things she’s saying. She’s clearly not.
She goes on: “Here’s the thing—you trashing me didn’t have to be part of your cover. You just like doing it.”
“I don’t trash you.”
“Avatar when I do blue. Leprechaun when it’s green. Little Shoulder Devil when I do red. You’ve always got a joke. You’re always a little mean.”
“Ocie—Mei, that’s just our thing. Our black.”
“No, it’s not!”
How loud is she? I can’t tell, but I’m afraid that a nurse, or a security guard,
will be here any second. I keep my eyes on the door because it’s easier than looking at her.
I can fix this. Of all the things that have gone wrong, this—her—I can handle. I say, “Do you hate me?”
“No. I don’t hate you. I don’t really know you either.”
Smile. Keep voice light. Don’t show the pain.
It’s so hard to do. “I think we have a misunderstanding to work through.”
“We broke into a skyscraper!” she says. “I still don’t know what that’s really about because your cute-photographer-boy story seems like more of your Gray BS. You want to fill me in on what we were really doing there, and at the beach during that storm?”
Instead of answering her question, I pick up a red Sharpie resting by her toes. “Can I sign your cast?”
She shakes her head. Hesitates. Are things that bad between us that she doesn’t want evidence of our friendship mixed in with all the signatures of people she likes better than me right now?
I put the Sharpie down, still capped. “You’re in pain. You should rest. We’ll talk when you get out of here.”
I’m not sure we will.
As I exit, I nearly collide with Ocie’s mom and dad. Mrs. Horton swishes hot tea from her paper cup, burning her hand.
I’m sorry. It’s what I intend to say. I’m crying too hard. Wedging myself between the Hortons, I move as quickly as I can without running because there are nurses and other visitors in the corridor. More damned band kids—how many are there?
When I turn the corner toward the elevator lobby tears are drizzling off my chin. It’s only fitting that Taylor is there, leaning on the wall by the up and down buttons, playing some game on his phone.
“You play Candy Crush?” He doesn’t look up. “Level eighty-eight is hard as hell.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Slow elevators.”
Not that slow. He left Ocie’s room ten minutes ago.
“Did that list Roz sent you help?” he says. “Do you know who your Admirer is now?”
With the back of my hand, I attempt to mop up the crying mess that is my face. “That’s really what you want to ask me about right now?”
