Jackie could still hear their shouts through the closed car window. Wade’s name, bleated over and over in a way that brought to mind zombie movies. She started up the car and felt the heaviness of Wade’s breathing.
Passing the reporters, bloggers, murder fans, whatever the hell they were, these wastes of skin, Jackie nearly put up her middle finger. But that would have made too good a shot, and so she opted instead to stare out her window and pretend they didn’t exist. How dare you, she thought. How dare you.
Wade was shaking. She wanted to talk to him but waited to speak until she was a few blocks away from the police station and she could no longer see puffy jackets in the rearview.
“I don’t want to scare you,” she said. “But this is only going to get worse.”
“What do you mean?”
She kept her voice calm, even. “Your name’s been all over the net. Someone tipped them off that you would be here,” she said. “People are against you, honey. They are actually out to get you, but we can fix this if you meet me halfway.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tell me where you were the night Liam was run down.”
“You asked me that back at school,” Wade said quietly. “You asked me, and you said that if I wanted to, I could say, ‘I can’t answer that question.’ You said that would be a good enough answer. That it’s better than a lie.”
“It could save your life,” she said. “It could save you from getting arrested.”
“Do you want me to lie to you, Mom?”
Jackie stopped at a traffic light. “Wade.”
“Because seriously, that’s like . . . that’s the only option here. You either believe in me, or you don’t.”
“I do.”
“Okay,” he said. “Good.”
“But, Wade . . .”
“What?”
“Me believing in you. That can’t save you.”
He turned away from her and looked out the window, but before he did, she saw the fear in his eyes. The light turned green. They drove in silence until they were a block away from school and then Jackie pulled to the curb and Wade opened the door—a do-over of this morning. Only this time, Wade didn’t kiss her good-bye. “See you tonight, Mom.” He said it with his back turned. She knew he didn’t want her to see his face.
CONNOR WAS TWENTY minutes into English class before he listened to a word Ms. Chastain said (a town’s name, Maycomb) and realized he hadn’t done last night’s reading assignment. He hoped she wouldn’t call on him—for obvious reasons, but also for emotional ones. He kept thinking of that expression: “under the microscope,” how he’d probably heard it a million times in his life, but never really understood what it meant until now. For all of today, he’d felt exactly that way—isolated and watched at the same time, powerless as a germ on a slide.
In homeroom and science, Noah had been by his side, and so he’d been able to ignore the stares, the purposeful bumps in the hallway as they hurried between classes, the stage whispers about Wade and murder and devil worship. If he paid attention only to Noah and his teachers, most of his teachers anyway, Connor could pretend things were normal. But now he was on his own. Please don’t call on me. As it was, Connor could feel most every eye in the classroom on him, even as he sat at his desk quiet and still, his own gaze aimed at his opened book, not a thing about him moving other than his thoughts.
Ms. Chastain must have asked a question, because Julia Feeney, the biggest kiss-ass in the class and the only person in the room who didn’t seem focused on Connor, was working her center seat in the front row, lifting out of her chair, as though her permanently raised hand had a thousand helium balloons attached to it.
Connor’s phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. It had to be Noah. He was the only one who’d been texting Connor since the whole Wade/Tamara thing. His hand moved to the phone.
Ms. Chastain said, “What do you think, Connor?”
The hand dropped. “Um . . .” His face flushed. “I’m sorry. I . . . uh . . . I didn’t hear the first part.”
Someone snickered. Connor heard whispers but couldn’t make out words. Ms. Chastain said, “Boo Radley,” and he felt as though he were underwater, people talking above the surface. He stared at her. What was that? An expression? A name?
“I’m asking about the emotional meaning,” she said patiently. “What does that mean to you, the idea of living a life like Boo Radley, being trapped in your own home?”
Connor swallowed. Nothing, he wanted to say. Connor felt trapped in his own skin, his own family, his own life, and he wished so badly he could say it without getting into trouble. It means nothing to me. He hadn’t started the book yet, true. But right now, being locked in a house sounded like a party. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Why do Scout, Jem, and Dill dare each other to touch Boo Radley’s house?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why is Boo Radley an outcast?”
He exhaled. “I don’t know who Boo Radley is.”
He heard someone snicker again but Ms. Chastain didn’t seem to notice. “You don’t know?”
“I . . . uh . . . wasn’t feeling great last night.”
Disappointment pinched up her features. “So you didn’t do the assignment.”
Connor almost felt like laughing. What was wrong with her? Did she have no idea what had been going on in this town over the past forty-eight hours? Do you care about anything in the world besides this one stupid class? Or maybe she knew everything about Wade. Maybe she thought all of it was true, even the devil-worshipping stuff, and she was asking Connor questions about outcasts for a reason. “I’ve got a bad stomachache,” Connor said. “Can I go to the nurse?”
She didn’t say anything for several seconds, and he felt his face burn deeper, redder.
“All right, Connor.” It felt like an insult, the way she called him by name.
Connor stood up. He walked toward the back of the classroom, his sneakers squeaking on the wood floors, everyone staring at his face, his clothes, the back of his head, each eyeball a gun scope, trained on him.
Once he was outside the door and walking down the empty hall to the nurse’s office, Connor could finally breathe again. He couldn’t stand it, this constant shame. He blamed Wade. This was Wade’s fault. Whether or not he was guilty of killing Liam, people believed he was guilty. That was what mattered, and that was all on him.
THE NURSE GAVE Connor a paper cup full of ginger ale and some saltines wrapped in plastic. She took his temperature, and since he didn’t have one, she told him to lie down on the bed until he felt better. Connor couldn’t imagine ever feeling better, but he did lie down on the bed, which had a screen set up in front of it for privacy. This was as alone as he was going to be all day.
Connor patted his jacket pocket, the buttoned one, just to make sure it was still there—the drawing he’d stolen out of Wade’s room last night, when everyone in the house had been sound asleep. He’d slipped it from beneath Wade’s bed as he snored and brought it back to his room. Afraid that Arnie might wake up and make noise if he turned the lights on, Connor had gotten under the covers with the picture, shined the flashlight from his phone on it: a front and back view of a girl, the face the faintest outline but the body more detailed than he’d ever imagined it would be. Connor had been fascinated. Transfixed as he’d been as a little kid, watching Wade draw pictures of spaceships.
Wade hadn’t copied a picture from a Web site or magazine, Connor could tell. Those pictures were always Photoshopped. In this one, there were freckles and scars and even a tattoo. It was as though Wade had mapped out every inch of this girl’s body, so he could keep it all with him, in his memory.
Connor had planned to put it under Wade’s bed before he woke up, but he’d fallen asleep under the covers with the drawing and slept through his alarm. He’d folded it up and shoved it into his pocket just to hide it, but now he couldn’t imagine ever returning it to Wade, not with the fold marks. Connor
finished the rest of the ginger ale, then touched his pocket again, the paper rectangle under the thin cloth. What would Noah think if he saw this? Connor wondered, which made him remember the text message from English class. He pulled his phone out of his other pocket and opened his texts.
“Connor?” the nurse said from behind the screen. “You want me to call your mom?”
“No thanks.” Connor stared at the text. It was from a number he’d never seen: Your brother is sick and evil, it read. Your whole family should die. “I’ll be fine,” he said.
Twenty-Five
From Aimee En’s Facebook fan page.
October 23 at 2:00 PM
Hello, all. In the early hours of Saturday morning, I was the victim of a carjacking. A young hero by the name of Liam Miller attempted to help me and save my car, but was run down by the car thief, which led to his death. As I aid in the police investigation, I’ve become friends with Liam’s parents, Sheila and Chris Miller. They are kind, spiritual people, just as remarkable as their son. For those of you who don’t know Liam, I’ve posted pictures below, so that you might get a better sense of this very special human being.
A star football player for his high school team, the Havenkill Ravens, Liam was also on the honor roll, student council president, and before this tragic accident, he was excited that he’d gotten a part in the chorus of the school musical, Les Misérables. Sheila also tells me that he played the guitar and sang—a rock star in the making. I wish I could have heard his beautiful angel’s voice. I can’t stand the fact that it has been silenced forever.
On October 29 at the Red Door Tavern in Havenkill, I will be paying tribute to Liam Miller, his music, his voice. For the Love of Liam: A Benefit Concert will take place from 6–9 PM. Proceeds will go toward a football scholarship in Liam’s name—a project that has been in the works since his untimely death. It is a concert for all ages. Children are welcome. Tickets can be purchased by clicking on the link, listed below.
This page has received 7,000 new likes.
Twenty-Six
Parking her rental car across the street from the Havenkill police station, Amy felt like a newer, cleaner version of herself. Her lipstick perfect, she wore a navy vintage dress with white polka dots and a bright red crinoline that matched her lips. And her hair was adorable. This morning, she’d left Vic with Jacinta and driven to a lovely salon in Rhinebeck, where she’d had it snipped into a sleek bob and colored sunset red. No more of that rainbow crap. She was Amy 2.0 now, with a just-announced concert that was already sold out and close to ten thousand new likes on her Facebook page. Even more satisfying, the state detectives were finally treating her like the victim she was. “I hope you don’t mind, but Officer Maze is on patrol so she won’t be there during your questioning,” Detective Kendall “call me Kendall” Wind had said over the phone. I hope you don’t mind. Did Amy say she was a victim? Make that survivor.
And it was all because of Liam Miller’s video. Interesting that while he had been unable to save Baby, Sheila’s son had saved Amy’s image and possibly her life. Already, she’d gotten a call from someone with the New York Times. She’d done a phoner with him, and set up a photo shoot. And she knew that was just the beginning. She would have to look around for a publicist because there would be more newspaper interviews, talk show appearances, and then, almost certainly, a record deal. Amy would manage her fame better this time around, now that she was older, wiser, soberer. She’d milk it and keep the cream, rather than the white powder like before.
If she held out for a good deal and invested it well, Amy would be able to hire a whole staff to take care of Vic. They could move into a larger home—a stately mansion like the Millers’ but with a whole wing for Vic’s junk, a team of housekeepers and landscapers to take care of the rest of it. They could live like royalty—or at least like human beings.
There was a group of people milling around by the police station door, some of them holding expensive-looking cameras. Amy headed straight for them. Though they clearly didn’t recognize her right away, Amy cut such a striking figure that many looked twice. One shouted, “Are you Aimee En?” And when she said yes, they all set upon her, begging for autographs and pictures. In her youth, Amy had often been difficult with fans—a combination of her punk diva image and too much cocaine. But she was gracious now. Could have been Sheila Miller rubbing off on her, come to think of it, for Sheila Miller was the most gracious woman she’d ever met. But whether it was due to Sheila’s influence, or whether it was simply out of gratitude, Amy signed notebooks and rare vintage Dead Enz vinyls and even arms. She made pleasant conversation and posed for pictures, and gave quotes to the ones who identified themselves as reporters. She behaved not like a has-been but like a true celebrity—the type who would live on through fans’ heartwarming stories. Like George Michael. Or, actually, like Liam Miller.
Once she’d posed for her last photo, Amy headed into the police station, where a pretty young thing introduced himself to her as Officer Romero, and led her back to the conference room, where the two detectives sat at the table, across from Sergeant Black. They all shook hands with her, Sergeant Black complimenting her new hair.
“How are you holding up?” Kendall Wind said.
“I’m fine, Kendall,” Amy said, relishing the detective’s first name. “Well . . . as fine as can be expected.”
The sergeant produced a manila folder and set it on the table. “We’d just like you to look through these pictures,” he said. “Let us know if any of them look like the young man who attacked you.”
Amy nodded. There weren’t that many pictures in the folder—maybe twenty. Most of them were mug shots. Some could have easily been class pictures, but something about them seemed mug-shot-like too: the hardness in these boys’ eyes, not a single one of them smiling. Quite a gallery, though none of them jumped out at her immediately.
“Keep in mind, some of these pictures are several months old,” Kendall said. “Try to look past things like hair color, keep in mind that he could have gained or lost weight.”
“Right,” Amy said. But this was harder than she’d thought it would be. A few of them she was able to rule out right away: one with a snake tattoo on his face, another with a Cro-Magnon forehead and unusually deep-set eyes. But the rest . . . “Do you have alternate pictures?” she said. “Profile shots?”
Wind said, “Take your time,” which wasn’t an answer and in fact rather patronizing. Amy glanced up from the folder, prepared for a scowl, but instead she got a smile. Amy had never seen Kendall Wind smile before, and it was surprising how much the smile changed her face, softened it. Her gaze dropped to the pictures, to the half dozen she’d separated from the rest, thinking they might be possibilities. “It would help if I could see their teeth,” she said, the image flashing through her mind, the boy approaching her car. “He was smiling.”
“Just try to imagine,” Wacksman said, fanning out the six pictures in front of her, those grave faces. “It helps to focus on the eyes.”
She nodded, her gaze drawn to the photo his hand was resting on. Those eyes, black as caves. His face was pale, as that boy’s had been, walking toward her car in the glow of the streetlight, that white, sweat-sleeked forehead. That smile as he shook the bag. “You interested?”
And she’d opened her window, the cold air biting her skin. “What have you got?”
“Everything you want, beautiful. Everything you need.”
That smile. The way the dark eyes had crinkled at the corners, the mouth forming that word. Beautiful. Amy’s breath caught. “It’s him.” She tapped the picture with a bright red nail, her garnet ring glittering. “I’m almost positive.”
She looked up. Wind was smiling again, along with Wacksman; Black too. “Great job,” she said.
Amy smiled back, basking in the young detective’s admiration.
PEARL HADN’T EXPECTED to see him. It was early afternoon, and he was supposed to be in school. But when she did see Ryan Gran
t, she knew she had to take action. The streets surrounding the middle and high schools were mortuary-quiet, the way they almost always were when school was in session but even more so now, as though Liam’s death had added an extra layer of stillness. She’d been patrolling the streets for close to an hour on this cloudless, crisp day, her radio silent, the park like a movie set, the half-bare trees motionless props. As she slowly drove past, she saw one woman pushing a stroller along the cement path that ran down the center of the park, another walking a golden retriever on the autumn-brown grass. Pearl was about to turn and make another loop around the schools when she noticed his shaved head in her rearview, his athlete’s stride. She made a snap decision, circling around the park, pulling up behind Ryan Grant as he started along the cement path. She gave him a few quick bleats of the siren, so as to get his attention without scaring him too much. Ryan spun around. His expression shifted from mild annoyance to surprise when he saw Pearl behind the wheel. Must have assumed it was Bobby, she thought, which then made her wonder how often Bobby followed Ryan in his squad car.
Pearl opened the window. “Can I talk to you for a few seconds?”
“I just needed to get some air,” Ryan said. “I’m going right back to school, I swear.”
“Hey, I’m not going to tell on you.”
Ryan stayed quiet, his arms hanging at his sides. His face was flushed, his fingers quivering, though Pearl couldn’t tell whether that was due to nerves or the cold. It was gloves-and-jacket weather, and he was wearing neither, just a sweatshirt, and the shaved head couldn’t have helped. The tips of his ears were red. She worried about frostbite.
“How do I know you won’t tell?” he said.
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