“Shaley?” Mom scooted to the edge of her chair and leaned forward to touch my knee.
I shook my head and whispered, “I didn’t know.”
My arms folded. I looked down at my lap, my head spinning. It was too much to take in. I hated to admit it, but Tom had been right not to tell me. I never cared for him that way. If he’d said something, our friendship would never have been the same.
Mom sat back, her movements pulsing with protectiveness for me. I could have hugged her for that.
“All right, Detective.” Her tone turned matter-of-fact. “This clearly isn’t what you’d thought. So … does it now have any relevance to the case?”
Fleetingly, I wondered what difference it would have made even if I had been dating Tom.
Detective Furlow rubbed his jaw. “Don’t know.” He pulled in a long breath, let it out. “Tell me, does a white rose have any significance for either of you?”
23
Anger boiled inside him.
All afternoon TV reporters were talking about the murder. Flip the channel to a different news station, and there it was again.
It wasn’t really the murder they cared about. What impact had Tom Hutchens’s life had on greater society? What all the reporters and viewers alike wanted — all those intrusive, gawking people — was information on Rayne and Shaley O’Connor. How were they handling the murder? Were they close to the victim? Had they been spotted today?
When the reporters ran out of knowledgeable answers, they started speculating. Worse, they delved into Rayne’s and Shaley’s pasts. The fact that Rayne had remained single, had raised Shaley alone. The unknown factor of Shaley’s father. Yes, they dared talk about such private things.
And now — see what they’d done. They accosted the Special One in public. Paparazzi hounded her, crowding around and scaring her to death.
Scum.
He wanted to kill every one of them.
That treatment of her was just as bad as Tom’s lack of boundaries. Both sins threatened her. Neither could be tolerated.
Wincing, he rubbed between his eyes against a piercing headache, trying to calm himself. Now was not the time to let his guard down. Now … was not … the time.
But his hands itched, and his head throbbed.
This wasn’t turning out as planned.
And the Special One herself — how deeply disappointing were her actions. What gratitude had she displayed for what he’d done? There she was, going on with her normal life. Going shopping! As if he hadn’t sacrificed a thing for her. As if he hadn’t put his own life on the line.
No, indeed. This wasn’t turning out well.
It made him want to strangle somebody.
24
At Detective Furlow’s question, I froze.
Mom stiffened. “Yes, a white rose has significance.” She locked eyes with the detective, eyebrows raised, obviously waiting for an explanation before she gave hers. The white rose held too much symbolism and pain for her. She wasn’t about to spill her story to just anyone — including the detective.
My eyes traveled to the box on the floor by Mom’s chair.
Detective Furlow withdrew another photo from his binder and gave it to my mom. “This is the opposite wall in Tom’s room.”
Mom scooted forward in her chair and held it out so we could look together. I leaned toward her, afraid to look.
Dried white roses hung on Tom’s wall, surrounding another, smaller mural made from pictures of me. Three roses in all. Each wrapped in green cellophane and tied with a red ribbon.
I shoved the photo away, violation spinning through my gut. This was going way too far. The very symbol that represented my father’s love for Mom. How dare Tom use it! How dare he put white roses on the wall of his apartment — for me! He couldn’t possibly have felt for me what my father felt for my mom. No way. The union of the white rose had created me.
Mom placed the photo on the table, her jaw tight.
The detective looked from me to Mom. “What does it mean?”
Mom looked at the floor. “The first time I saw a white rose wrapped that way, it was on my doorstep with a note. It was from Shaley’s father. We were in high school. I was fifteen; he was seventeen. As we dated, I’d find similar white roses, always with the same note about how special I was to him …”
Her words drifted away.
I drew in my shoulders. It felt so wrong hearing my mom tell the detective this. It was too private, the cause of too many arguments between her and me.
Abruptly, Mom picked the boxed rose off the floor and set it on the table before the detective. Took off the lid. “This was delivered to Shaley this morning.”
The detective surveyed the rose, no hint of surprise on his face.
I reached into my purse and pulled out the “always watching” photo. “I have something too. I didn’t get a chance to show you this yet, Mom. I just found it this afternoon.” I laid it beside the boxed rose. “The message on the back is kind of the same.”
“What is it?” Mom pushed forward in her chair, ready to snatch it up.
“Wait.” The detective held his hand protectively over the picture. “Don’t touch it.”
He stood up and fished in his front pants pocket. Pulled out a pair of latex gloves and put them on. I sat woodenly, feeling like I’d fallen into some TV crime drama. Bruce, Brittany, and I would have fingerprints all over that photo, maybe obliterating the ones that counted. Mom leaned toward the table, trying to decipher the photo upside down.
Detective Furlow sat again. Straightening the picture with one gloved finger, he bent low and frowned at it. He glanced up at me, then turned it around for Mom to see.
Her jaw slackened.
“Where was this taken?” He looked from her to me.
Mom stared at the photo. “Last night, right here in the parking lot as we arrived. But I didn’t see anyone. Did you, Shaley?”
I shook my head.
The detective narrowed his eyes. “Looks dark, like it was taken without a flash.” With his index finger, he flipped it over.
“Always watching.” Mom read the words aloud. She snapped her head toward me, cheeks flushed. “Where’d you get this?”
“When all the paparazzi and reporters crowded me at the mall, somebody put it in my bag.”
Detective Furlow focused on the boxed rose. With his gloved hands, he examined the envelope and card. Finished, he replaced everything as he’d found it.
He opened his notebook and slid a pen from his binder.
“You said you recognized some of the photographers at the mall, Shaley?”
“Yes, some of them, but I don’t know all their real names.” I related Mom’s and my nicknames for them, and the tabloids they worked for.
Mom’s expression hardened. “I can’t stand those people. Any one of them could have put that picture in Shaley’s bag. They’re that low.”
“Why do you think they would do that?” the detective asked.
“Because all they care about is getting ‘the picture.’ Something no one else has. Or finding some personal information about us that no one else knows. It’s all about the money. They find that stuff, and they get paid a lot for it.” She shook her head. “I’m telling you, they don’t even think of us — or anyone else famous — as people. We’re just photo ops for them. Especially Vulture.”
“What happened with him?”
Mom told the detective about the stakeouts at our house, and the lies Vulture’s tabloid had told.
When she finished, the three of us fell silent. Detective Furlow sat on the edge of the cushions, one huge hand cupping his jaw. His gaze traveled from the rose … to the photo of Tom’s wall … to the “always watching” picture of me. Then around the circle again.
Mom and I exchanged uneasy glances.
The detective scratched his cheek and frowned.
“What are you thinking?” Mom demanded.
The detective looked up, his gaze traveli
ng past Mom, over her shoulder, as if he read writing on the wall. “We’ll try to trace who sent the flower. The florist’s name is on the card. Someone had to order the rose and pay for it. Let’s hope it was paid for with a credit card, not by cash in person.”
“I already called the florist. It was paid for by credit card, but the stupid lady wouldn’t tell me the buyer’s name.”
Detective Furlow’s eyebrows rose. “You thought to do that? Good work.”
I made a face. “Didn’t lead to anything. No matter how I begged, she wouldn’t tell me.” I managed a vengeful smile. “Guess it’ll be a little different when a detective asks.”
Righteous indignation creased Mom’s forehead. She stared at the detective. “You’re thinking the same person sent both of those, aren’t you?” She pointed to the rose and photo. “One of those detestable paparazzi is stalking my daughter.”
He hesitated. “I would guess that the rose and photo are connected. But those two things so close to Tom Hutchens’s murder …” He gestured to the picture of Tom’s wall with the white roses. “I’m wondering if the same person is behind all three.”
I’d wondered the same thing. But how? Why?
Mom shook her head. “There were no paparazzi backstage last night. They never could have gotten through security.”
“True,” he said.
“And it’s unlikely that any local union worker who would have been backstage could have followed us to the hotel to take Shaley’s picture. Even though we left late, all the hired workers had been delayed by everything that happened. They still would have been packing up our equipment.”
“Yes.”
Mom focused across the room. When she spoke again, her voice was grim. “Which means you’re thinking it’s someone who’s part of our tour.”
25
Someone on the tour? The mere idea was horrifying.
“I don’t believe it,” I declared.
Detective Furlow inclined his head. “I know that’s hard to think about. But for the sake of your safety” — he gestured from Mom to me — “you need to know that’s where my suspicions lie.”
“You mean someone here — with us at the hotel?” Mom pressed. “Because all the people on the bus are long gone on their way to Denver.”
“Not necessarily someone here. Also we can’t assume only one person is involved. One person could have killed Tom — and maybe ordered that white rose ahead of time to be sent to Shaley. But someone else could have put the photo in her shopping bag this afternoon.”
Mom frowned. “But then Shaley would have recognized the person.” She turned to me. “Did you see anyone from the tour at the mall?”
“No. Well, only Bruce, of course.”
“Your bodyguard?” the detective asked.
“Yes.”
He mulled over the information. “Is it possible you could have missed someone in the crowd? Maybe someone who could have sneaked up behind you, dropped that picture in the bag, and faded away?”
I bit my cheek, remembering the crush of people. All the flashes and questions and yelling. “I guess that could have happened. But again, Bruce was there. He didn’t see anyone from the tour either.”
At least not that he told me about.
The thought punched me in the gut. Bruce. He’d waited outside the dressing room all that time. Had he made phone calls that brought the paparazzi? Had he staged a crowd around me so he could slip something into my bag unnoticed?
No. I couldn’t believe that. Not Bruce. Not someone that close to me and Mom.
Detective Furlow watched the emotions play across my face as if reading my every thought.
I raised my chin. “It couldn’t be Bruce, if that’s what you’re thinking.” My voice wavered, and that ticked me off. My brain sped through the timeline of Tom’s murder, seeking proof.
No, wait.
“Bruce was right there when we got out of the limo last night,” I said. “So there’s no way he could have taken that picture of me.”
“That’s true — he was with us.” Mom spoke the words slowly, with an edge. The idea that Tom’s murderer could be someone she knew, someone she worked with every day, clearly petrified her.
The detective spread his hands. “These are just theories. I don’t want to rule out anything. Maybe these three things are connected, maybe they aren’t. Maybe two people are working together, which obviously means one person wouldn’t have to be in all the places. Again, I’m only telling you this to say, be careful. Don’t assume when you fly on to your next concert tomorrow that you’re leaving the perpetrator behind in San Jose.”
His words hung in the air.
You’re wrong, I told him in my head. You are wrong. “You’re not going to say this to any reporters, are you — that you think it’s someone on tour?” One opinion like that on the news, and Brittany’s mom would have her on the next plane home.
“No, no. I don’t divulge details of an ongoing investigation.”
Still, what if TV news people started saying that? They were already throwing out all kinds of opinions about the crime.
Mom shifted in her chair. “But why the photo of Shaley, anyway? What would that have to do with Tom’s murder?”
Detective Furlow drummed his huge fingers on the coffee table, as if deciding how much to say.
He focused on Mom. “If we look at the murder and these ‘watching’ messages together, they could hint at a motive.”
Cold prickles crept across the back of my neck. “What kind of motive?”
The detective lifted a hand. “Now that we know how Tom felt about you, if someone else found that out, maybe a jealous someone …”
My jaw hinged open, and my whole body numbed. Was he saying it was my fault Tom was dead? Someone killed him … because of me?
No way. I couldn’t live with that knowledge. Ever.
I shoved to my feet. “You’re wrong!” I hurled the words at Detective Furlow, my body stiff and shoulders cocked back. “You’re wrong, and I’ll never believe it!”
Nausea rolled up my throat. I pressed a hand to my mouth.
“Shaley —” Mom reached for me.
I shook my head hard, stepped out of her reach. My stomach rolled.
Swiveling on one foot, I stumbled toward the connecting door to my room. I hit it hard and bounced off. Then I grabbed the knob and twisted. Leaping into my room, I slammed the door behind me.
“Shaley!” Brittany jumped off her bed. “What happened?”
I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t even look at her. My feet moved under me, weaving, headed for the bathroom. Falling on my knees before the toilet, I slammed up its seat … and threw up.
26
Out of the bathroom, flat on my back on the bed, I felt weak and depleted. My tears wouldn’t stop. Once I started crying, I cried for everything wrong in my life — past and present. Missing Tom, the nightmare of seeing his dead face, the horrible afternoon, my sadness that Mom didn’t have the time for me she used to have, and my years-long wish to know my dad. Even with Brittany to console me, the emptiness was too much all at once.
When a break in my tears finally came, I longed to talk to Mom like we used to do when I was younger. But she was probably still with Detective Furlow. Besides, the gap between us had grown. I didn’t know how to go to her with my biggest heartaches anymore.
Carly. That’s who I could call.
I looked up the number to the room she shared with Lois and Melissa and phoned, hoping she hadn’t gone out to dinner. My heart flip-flopped when Carly answered.
“Hi,” I choked, “it’s Shaley. Can you come to my room for a minute?” I didn’t want to go to hers in case her roommates were there.
“Sure, baby. I’ll be right over.”
When a knock sounded on the door, Brittany checked through the peephole before opening up. From my slumped position on my bed, I watched Carly hustle inside, all open arms and compassion. She was dressed in jeans and an old red T-shirt with
gold letters on the front spelling TRUTH. No makeup. She headed straight for me, sat down, put her arm around my shoulders, and pulled me close. I leaned against her, fresh tears biting my eyes. She smelled faintly of the jasmine-scented body lotion she always wore. Brittany sat on her own bed, facing us.
Even then, Carly asked no questions. She simply let me cry, her right hand rubbing my upper arm. “Jesus, Jesus,” she whispered, “please comfort this dear child.”
I wasn’t sure how Jesus could comfort me. He was in heaven; I was stuck here on earth. And at that moment it was a lousy place to be.
My hand rose to flick away tears. Brittany fetched me a tissue. As I took it from her, a thought pierced me. Maybe Jesus used other people to comfort. Carly and Brittany were doing a good job of it.
I cried myself out, then straightened, shuddering a breath. My head hurt. The wet tissue balled in my fingers. Carly scooted away a little and shifted to face me. Her dark eyes glistened. “Ready to tell me about it?”
It spilled from me in a torrent, Brittany filling in details. The white rose. Paparazzi and reporters in the mall. The photo in my shopping bag. Tom’s apartment wall, full of pictures. Detective Furlow’s thought that Tom could have been killed because of me.
“Because of you?” Carly’s head drew back. “Surely he didn’t put it like that.”
“Might as well have. He said maybe someone found out how Tom felt about me and was jealous.”
“Shaley.” Carly put her finger under my chin, nudging me to look her in the eye. “If someone killed Tom for that reason — and we don’t even know if that’s the case — that person is crazy. He’s misguided and evil. You cannot take responsibility for such a person’s actions. It wasn’t your fault. And it wasn’t Tom’s fault for caring about you.” She smiled. “There’s got to be hundreds of guys out there who feel the same way about you, just by looking at your picture.”
I sniffed. “But it was more than that. Tom … loved me. At least that’s what he put on his wall. How could I not know?”
“Because he didn’t want you to. Maybe he would have told you someday. Maybe not.”
Always Watching Page 8
