“Maybe.”
“If that’s the case, Emma, then why didn’t they stick around to finish the job? You were all alone, right?”
“Maybe they got spooked. Maybe they didn’t know I was alone. Maybe—”
“You want to know what I think?” she asks, even though it’s not really a question. “I think after you walked home, alone, you came in and did this yourself.” Her eyes fix on me, examining my reaction.
I try to keep a straight face, but I’m panicking. Did she say I walked home? Could they be watching me?
I try to focus on what she didn’t say. She didn’t say Jackson dropped me off.
“How do you know I walked home?” I ask.
“That’s not important right now.”
They must be watching me. They must. But she isn’t saying anything about Jackson. Does she know? Or did they only see me once I got home? Maybe they’ve only been watching the house.
It must be that. It has to be. If she knew about Jackson, she’d definitely be asking about him. No question.
“Why would I mess up my own room? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I think you like attention, Emma. I saw that clip of you on the news tonight, singing your pretty little song at the vigil. You’re real sweet when the cameras are on, aren’t you?”
“That was—I was just trying to help.”
“I also think you’re scared. Scared people do stupid things, and at some point those stupid things put them behind bars. I always find the evidence, Emma. Always.”
It’s the closest thing to a threat I’ve heard her say out loud. But it’s refreshing in a way. At least I know now she has her mind made up about me.
“Get out of my house,” my mom says.
I don’t know how long she’s been in hearing distance, but she looks mad. Boyer gets up to leave just as my dad, Detective Simms, and Officer Handler come back downstairs. Mom turns to Dad.
“This woman is harassing our daughter,” she says.
“I think we’re done here, gentlemen,” Boyer says, then turns to my mother, “But you might want to ask your daughter why she was lying to you about getting dropped off by her boyfriend tonight.”
“What is she talking about?” Mom asks.
I stay silent. Boyer’s got a cocky smile on now. Her words are directed at my mother, but her eyes are on me.
“We had an officer driving by the house who saw her walking up the block alone. I had a daughter, I wouldn’t want her walking around alone at night.”
“Emma?” my mom’s face has gone white.
“Have a good night, folks.” Boyer says, and leaves. Detective Simms and Officer Handler follow her out. The door shuts behind them.
“What was she talking about?” Mom asks.
“I walked home.”
“From the diner?” She asks.
“From church. Mike and I got in a fight. I didn’t want you to worry.”
My mom looks at me hard and long. She can feel it, that there’s something off in my story. “You can’t do that, Emma. It’s too dangerous. Especially after what’s happened. We have no idea who’s responsible or where they are or anything.”
“Your mother is right,” my dad says. “If you need a ride, you call us. Period.”
“Okay, I’m sorry.”
“But what I’m more concerned about is how that Boyer woman keeps turning the littlest thing into some major strike against Emma.“ My dad shakes his head. “This whole thing is getting ridiculous. I’m calling Terry.”
He heads out of the room, down the hall toward his study.
My mom is staring at me again. “Are you telling me everything, Emma? Because it feels like I’m missing something here. Why not call Paige for a ride? Or Katie? Or any of the other kids?”
“I just needed time to think, okay?” I say, irritated.
“This is very serious, Emma. If I find out you’re lying to me, there will be consequences.”
“I’m not.” I practically spit the words out at her as I race up to my room, feeling just as crappy about lying to her as I do that she’s doubting me.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I CLOSE THE DOOR to my bedroom, half relieved that the police are gone, and half terrified.
There’s no question about where the gun came from. It can’t be random. My earring near June’s dead body could have been a coincidence. But hiding the gun in my bedroom, trashing the place so I’d call the police and they’d find it? That was deliberate. Why would someone do this to me?
There’s only one answer: whoever killed June wants me to take the blame.
I’m scared. Scared and angry. Fist-through-a-wall, kick-you-in-the-face, scream-’til-my-throat-rips-open angry. Some asshole wants to have friends, fall in love, make their own plans while all my hopes fly away. No. I won’t let that happen.
I start to clean up, throwing stuff back in my closet, shoving things back into drawers.
I have to do something about all this, but what? First things first, I have to get rid of that gun. I consider the options.
I could keep the gun here, but that’s asking for trouble. Who knows how long I have until there’s an anonymous call to the police and they search the whole house? I got really lucky, finding it so fast. I don’t think the murderer wanted me to find it. Why would he? Unless he wanted me to touch it, transfer my fingerprints, but then why would he have put it inside the box? No, I wasn’t meant to know it was in my bedroom until the police found it there. I’m lucky they didn’t use the burglary as an excuse to search the whole house. Every moment that passes is one moment closer to the police banging my door down. I have to get rid of it soon. Tomorrow.
There’s the police, but that option seems even more ridiculous. I try to imagine how the scene would play out. Hey, officers, funny thing, but I found the murder weapon in my room. Wasn’t there before, I swear! If Detective Boyer thinks I’m guilty with no concrete evidence, if she thinks that I faked an intruder to get attention, then she’d be downright orgasmic if I told her about the gun. There’s no way.
I could bring it to my parents, but my stomach clenches at the thought. I imagine their eyes broken immediately by my guilt. Maybe they’d believe me. But then what would they do? They’d make me take it to the police.
Which leaves only one option. I have to get rid of it. But how? That car driving by the house when I came home couldn’t have been the coincidence they made it out to be. They must be watching, probably closer after tonight.
I’ve seen police officers go through a suspect’s trash on TV. That has to be based on something real, right? They’re probably monitoring everything that comes out of our house, looking for something just like this. They’d definitely notice if I just happened to stop by a dumpster on the way to school.
I can’t give it to a friend either, or it would put them in just as much danger as I’m in right now. I can’t even tell anyone. All my friends would just tell me to go to my parents or the police. And if I didn’t? They’d tell my parents themselves, even if they thought I was totally innocent, just to protect me. I would if I were them.
And then it hits me. I know exactly what I’ll do.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE NEXT DAY, AFTER my parents leave for work, I dig the shoebox out of the toy chest and open it up. Gingerly, using a towel to avoid leaving fingerprints, I lift the gun out and put it inside the backpack. Every twist and jostle of it makes my nerves twitch. I’ve never held a gun before, not once, and don’t know much about them. Is there a safety? Is it on? I can’t tell. If I drop it, will it fire? I’m extra careful just in case.
I take my loaded backpack and drive straight to the church, slowing at every bump and stoplight. What better place to find the murder weapon than in the church itself?
The main entrance is still closed, so I go through the administrative entrance. Mindy, the receptionist, greets me with a concerned smile.
“How are you holding up, sweetie?”<
br />
“Fine,” I say. It feels like there’s a sign on my forehead that says GUN! GUN! GUN!
“Well, me and Tom have been praying for you and your family every night.”
“Thanks,” I say. I shift my backpack nervously, trying not to fidget more than normal, but not remembering what normal is, like when you stare at a set of letters so long it stops being a word.
“It’s such a tough time for everyone, but especially your dad. The burden on those shoulders, I can’t even imagine. We are so lucky to have a strong man of God leading us, especially at a time like this.”
“Yeah,” I say. I know my dad has a lot on his plate right now, but the hero-worship stuff gets old fast. I’ve seen my dad, grouchy every day before he gets his coffee. I’ve smelled his disgusting morning breath from across the room and heard him fart just like everybody else.
“I hope you’re taking special care of your daddy right now. He needs it.”
I paste on my good-girl smile and say, “I sure am. In fact, I better go check on him right now. Nice to see you.”
I walk past her into the stairwell. The backpack jiggles on my shoulder with every step, making me feel like it could explode any minute.
I don’t go all the way up to the staff offices, where my parents are. Instead I walk straight through the administrative hall, stealing glances at all the people working in their offices. I’ll have to stop in to see my parents later, just in case anyone mentions they’ve seen me.
I make my way to the stairwell at the other end of the wing, then downstairs again, through the building, walking by the police tape in the lobby, and down toward the Youth Center. I expect it to be empty, but there are people in here—the Cleaning Ministry, a group of volunteers who cleans the church regularly. Today the group is bigger than usual. I guess there’s a lot of work to be done after everything that happened. A glance around shows there are still sleeping bags laid out, still backpacks everywhere and abandoned plates of pizza and cans of soda. I haven’t been in here since running out and seeing June’s body. Apparently, no one else has been back either.
“Hey, Emma, whatcha doin’ here?” The voice is from Rick Rasmussen, the church’s only staffed janitor and the leader of the Cleaning Ministry. “This part of the building isn’t really open yet.”
My heart stops for a nanosecond. But then he smiles, and I relax a little. He’s got a smile so wide that the skin around his eyes is permanently crinkled.
“Nothing. Just wandering around,” I say.
He fishes a hard candy out of his pocket for me, something he always does, which makes all the kids love him. “Well don’t you work too hard now,” he says, then grows somber. “Life’s too short.”
“You’re right. Thanks.”
I leave the Youth Center and decide the next best place to hide it is in one of the adult Sunday school rooms. I find the biggest one, the one lined with couches and armchairs. Carefully, making sure to only touch the parts that are still wrapped in the towel, I pull the gun out and slide it underneath a couch, snatching the towel back at the last second and letting the gun land with a soft thud on the floor.
My heart races my hands to shaking. I’ve done it.
There are still major problems to deal with. But this one, this neon sign of danger, is solved. I feel lighter as I walk up the stairs to check in with my parents. So light I could float balloon-high.
It’s gone. The gun is gone.
The downside is that it might not be discovered for a long time. How often are those couches moved? At least whoever finds it will probably be an adult who wasn’t even there that night. No one will be hurt by this action, especially not me.
The best part is that it will be found eventually, and maybe there’s a clue with it. Probably not fingerprints; the killer has been too careful. But maybe DNA, or fibers from their shirt, or a tiny hair from their dog—something that will tell the police who actually did it. Something that will tell the police it wasn’t me. I have half a mind to phone in an anonymous tip, but it’s too risky.
As I walk out onto the top floor, someone calls my name.
“Emma!”
It’s Pastor Pete. His face lights up to see me. That’s one of the best things about him. And it’s not just me, it would be the same reaction for anyone. He’s genuinely happy to see people, especially teenagers.
He waves me over from his door. Well, one of his doors. Pastor Pete has two sides of his office. The office side, where his desk is, and a lounge side, with beanbag chairs and games and toys and stuff so students can hang out and talk to him.
“So, what’re you doing here today?”
“Nothing,” I say, which is universal teenager language for something.
“Wanna hang out for a minute?” he asks. “I could use a little break”
“Sure,” I say. Visiting Pastor Pete is as good a reason as any for being here.
“Awesome sauce,” he says. It’s an expression he uses a lot. I think he thinks it makes him sound cool.
He opens the door to the lounge side, and we go in. He goes to the mini-fridge. “Want something to drink?”
“Water?”
“Coming up.”
He hands me a water, and we settle into beanbag chairs.
“I really appreciate what you did at the vigil the other night. Several people mentioned how special that was.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“So how have you been holding up with all this?” he asks. He’s the first person who seems genuinely concerned about me, and it feels nice. I wish I could tell him everything. Or maybe I wish telling him everything would lead to a solution.
“I don’t know. It’s been hard, I guess,” I say.
“It’s rough to lose a friend.”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“But?”
I sit there for a moment, thinking. Maybe there’s a part of this, a small part, that I can talk to him about.
“I don’t know how great a friend I really was to her. It feels like I could have done something to save her. Like I should have been there for her more.”
“I think we all feel that way. I know I do,” he says. “It’s natural when something like this happens, but I don’t think it’s actually the truth. It’s just our minds trying to make sense of something really hard.”
I look up at him.
“I saw how great you were to June. You invited her to really be a part of things around here. And she was.” He looks at me with a keep-this-between-you-and-me sort of look. “You and I both know that she needed a little extra love and patience sometimes. You gave that to her. That’s an amazing gift.”
“But I should have been with her. And I wasn’t.”
“I know it’s tough to hear, but God has His own plans that we don’t always understand. And that night those plans didn’t include you getting hurt too.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I really don’t.”
“What do you mean?”
I hear the truth coming out of my mouth before I can stop myself from saying it. “It sounds like something we say to make ourselves feel better. If it’s part of a plan that’s bigger than us, then it’s a lot easier to deal with. But I just don’t get how this can be something God wanted to happen.”
He sighs. “I get it. I really do.” He leans back in his beanbag, propping his feet on a puffy footstool and folding his hands over his stomach. “Those are some tough questions, and I won’t try to bullshit you with simple answers.” Every now and then, Pastor Pete swears. He’s careful about it, though. He never does it around adults, or kids prone to tattle. What I can’t decide is if it’s an old habit he can’t break, or a new one he’s using to relate to us.
“You want to know a little secret, though? You wouldn’t be a real Christian if you didn’t struggle with those questions sometimes. I think God likes us to ask tough questions. I don’t think He wants a blind follower. I think He appreciates someone who comes to Him after they’ve been
through the desert of their doubts. I think asking makes you a stronger believer in the end.”
I want to spout off a hundred verses that disagree with that particular idea, but I don’t.
He scoots forward, and the awkwardness of it, his navigating upright in a beanbag chair that wants to suck him under, helps me quell my desire to argue. The action is nearly as useless a fight as my arguments would be.
“The important thing, though, when you’re asking, is to make sure you listen too. As long as you do that, He will show you the answers, or at least give you enough peace to handle the uncertainty. Can you promise to do that for me? Just keep listening?”
“Of course,” I say. Of course it’s my fault if I don’t hear something that doesn’t exist.
“Let me pray with you?” he asks.
I nod yes.
He finally maneuvers the mass of the chair to his favor. He leans forward and takes my hands and prays. The words brush my ears, but I don’t absorb them. There’s nothing he says that I haven’t heard a thousand times before. Circles and circles and circles of logic that always eat their own tail.
“Amen,” he says.
“Amen,” I say.
“How about I give you a minute?” he says. He does this every time, with everyone. He prays with you, then lets you have time to pray by yourself. It has happened so many times I’ve lost track.
“Okay,” I say, knowing prayer won’t help and wishing I could leave.
After he goes, I wander around the room, staring at the posters on the wall, at the collection of toys on the table, looking for something to fidget with. There’s Chinese fingercuffs, one of those triangular board games with the pegs, and a handful of bouncy balls. On the shelves is his collection of figurines and toys, each one in pristine condition. Some are even still in the box. There’s a Luke Skywalker, and a plush chipmunk with giant felt teeth. There’s a collection of Pokémon dolls and a stuffed pig.
Something about the pig pricks at a little pocket of my memory. I pick it up and try to remember what it was. The pig is soft and bright pink, its tiny paws a furry white on the bottom.
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