God, I felt so stupid.
“You okay?” Sam gently asked.
No. “Yeah.”
“It’s pretty clear what was going on,” Andi said, pointing to the video.
“Crystal.”
“Anyway, after all the crap that Courtney put me through, I couldn’t wait to expose her for the hypocrite she was.”
“But you didn’t expose her,” Sam pointed out.
Andi shook her head. “No. When I got home and saw the footage, I had a better idea. As you can imagine, I’m a little short on cash these days. Do you have any idea how much a baby costs?” she asked.
Sam and I both shook our heads.
“A million dollars.”
I blinked. Then looked down at the seemingly innocent little pink bundle in her pouch.
“I know, right?” Andi said. “But analysts say that a baby born this year will cost its parents more than a million dollars over the course of their lifetime. I don’t have that kind of money. So, I had a better idea than calling Courtney out.”
“You decided to blackmail her.”
She nodded. “I sent her a few choice moments of the footage I shot and told her that if she didn’t buy me diapers for a year, it would end up all over YouTube.”
My stomach roiled again at the thought of proof of my boyfriend’s cheating plastered all over the internet.
“What did she say?” Sam asked.
“She said she’d pay. Only she died before we could discuss specific terms.” Andi did a wistful sigh, looking down at her baby. “Too bad.”
“Where were you when she was killed?” Sam asked.
Andi’s eyes shot up. “What do you mean?”
“Do you have an alibi?”
I rolled my eyes at the term. Diane Dancy was right. We did sound Nancy Drew. But I had to admit I was curious, too.
“Wait—you don’t think I had anything to do with her death, do you?”
Sam shrugged. “Did you?”
“No! God, no. Why would I want her dead?”
“You weren’t exactly her biggest fan,” I pointed out.
“Neither were you.”
Good point.
“You didn’t answer the question,” Sam pressed.
Andi put her hands on her hips. “I was at the doctor’s, okay? Chloe had her six-month checkup. You can ask anyone there if you don’t believe me. She screamed bloody murder when she got her shots. Besides,” she continued, “if anything, I had every reason to want Courtney alive. Check it—I’m out a year’s supply of diapers because some guy offed her before I could get my due. No way I did this.”
Andi had a point. On Law & Order it was always the blackmailer not the blackmailee that ended up dead. And it didn’t seem like Andi had much of a motive to kill her.
“Now, unless you’re going to buy something, I have work to do,” Andi said, gesturing to her suitcase.
I paused. “You still have cherry lip gloss left?”
She nodded.
“I’ll take two.”
TEN
THE SECOND WE GOT BACK TO THE GREEN MACHINE, I grabbed Sam’s phone and sent an urgent message to Josh’s MySpace account.
Need to c u. 2nite. Window will b open.
Then I spent the rest of the drive back to my place slowly counting to ten, cursing Josh in the most creative way I knew how, then counting to ten again.
“Wow, you know a lot of swear words,” Sam commented at one point. “And here I thought I had a dirty mouth.”
“What can I say? Apparently candid porn starring my boyfriend brings out the best in me.”
“I always knew he was an effing jerk.”
“Thanks.” I appreciated her show of support, censored as it might be.
By the time Sam dropped me off in front of my place, I had almost gotten my roiling stomach under control.
Almost.
Then I saw Detective Raley’s car sitting at the curb.
I took two deep breaths, counted to twenty this time, then walked up to the driver’s-side window of his sedan. It rolled down to reveal the detective himself.
“Good afternoon, Miss Featherstone,” he said.
“It would be.”
He raised an eyebrow. “If?”
“If you were looking for the real killer instead of staking me out.” A ballsy statement. Apparently pervy videos also brought out my honest side.
Unfortunately Raley was way too much of a cool customer to be jarred by my honesty.
“Trust me, Miss Featherstone, our department is using every resource to locate Courtney’s killer. We will find him.” The way he stared straight at me as he said it made it sound more like a threat than a reassurance.
“Which reminds me,” he went on. “Seen Josh today?”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
“Well, I guess I’ll just wait here for a bit and see if he shows up.”
“Great. Have fun with that,” I said with the most sarcasm I could muster. Which was a lot.
While I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of Raley basically cop stalking me at any time, today it was especially annoying. Because as soon as Josh arrived, I planned on killing him. And I didn’t particularly want Raley as a witness.
The minute I walked in the door the aroma of homemade lasagna greeted me, signaling that instead of going to her usual water aerobics class, Mom had opted to work out her anxiety through comfort food again. I had to admit, it did smell kind of good. And I could use a little comfort. Even if it was made of gluten-free noodles and seasoned ground tofu.
Once I’d devoured two big slices, I escaped the grasp of the SMother and headed to my room. I immediately opened my window, checking outside to make sure Josh had a clear path. The last thing I wanted was for him to get hurt on his way to me killing him.
Once I was sure he could arrive for his death unharmed, I halfheartedly did my homework, then flipped on the TV and watched American Idol while keeping one eye on the window. Then watched an episode of Castle On Demand. Then the late news, where Diane showed my clip (wow, I really wish she’d let me pause for lip gloss) and told the Bay Area that while there was still no break in the case of the “Herbert Hoover High killer,” the other members of the Chastity Club were starting a Courtney Cline Memorial Fund to help spread the message of teen abstinence.
I was just slipping on a pair of sweats and crawling into bed, resigned to the idea that Josh had somehow been tipped off to his ultimate doom and chickened out, when I heard a sound outside. Like a squirrel. A really big one.
I ran to the window and saw Josh shimmying up the tree outside. He braced himself on the trunk with his Converses, then swung onto a low-hanging branch like Tarzan. He spotted me, gave a little wave, then scooted out along the branch until he was flush with my windowsill. I stepped back as he lifted one foot, then the other over the sill and fell with a grunt onto my floor.
“Hey,” he said, standing up. He brushed his palms on the seat of his jeans. “Sorry it took me awhile. There’s a car parked in front of your house.”
I crossed to the window on the other side of the room, looking out over the roof toward the street beyond. I could just make out the front fender of Raley’s nondescript sedan.
“That’s Raley.”
“Who?”
“The detective who wants to ‘question’ you.”
“Oh.” Josh’s face paled a shade.
“He didn’t see you, did he?” I asked, taking another glance at the unmarked car.
Josh shook his head. “I cut through the neighbor’s yard at the back.”
“That’s the first smart thing you’ve done,” I said.
Josh’s eyes immediately registered hurt.
I expected to feel satisfied or vindicated by hurting him. But I didn’t. I just felt worse. How come he could be a jerk, but when I was a jerk, stupid guilt took all the fun out of it?
“I deserve that,” he admitted. “And I’m sorry for dragging you into this, Hartley,” he said, t
aking a step toward me.
I took one back.
The last thing I wanted Josh DuPont to be was sorry. I wanted him to be a creep, a jerk, the cheating turd that I now knew without a doubt he was. If he felt sorry, it meant he had a conscience, had feelings. Possibly even for me. Possibly ones I would be tempted to return. And I didn’t want to return them. Last spring my grandma Betty had passed away. It had been really sudden. One day she was fine, the next she went to the doctor for what we thought was a routine checkup and came out with a diagnosis of stage four stomach cancer. Two weeks later she passed away in her sleep. I’d been devastated.
Josh and I had only just started dating at that point, but he had been my rock. He’d held my hand, passed me the tissues, and even gone with me to her funeral. Not once had he flashed that slightly pained look most guys get when the tears come out. Instead, he’d said, “It’s going to be okay,” and gave me the same soft, understanding, compassionate pair of blue eyes he was currently sending me. Ones that said he understood how I felt and wished he could make it better.
Only this time, there was no making it better.
I took a deep breath, conjured up the mental image of that band room video, and reminded myself why I had asked Josh here.
“I have a witness.”
He cocked his head. “A witness to what?”
“You and Courtney. She has video.”
He paused. “Video of what?”
“What do you think?”
He was smart enough not to answer. Instead, he said, “I didn’t kill her.”
“But you slept with her.”
“I—” he started.
But I didn’t let him finish. “Don’t even try denying it. I saw you, Josh. God, how could you?”
He took another step toward me. “Hartley, I’m so sorry—”
“Don’t you dare be sorry!”
He froze.
“Look, it’s not like I wanted things to happen this way, Hartley.”
“How exactly did you want them to happen, Josh?” I asked, my voice rising. “Behind my back?”
“No.” But I could tell that was exactly how he’d wanted them to happen. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“No, you didn’t mean for me to find out.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then tell me, Josh, exactly what is it like?”
He looked down at the floor. “We were at a football game in Walnut Creek. It was after the meet, we’d just won, and we were coming back home on the bus. Courtney sat next to me, and one thing led to another . . .”
“I do not want to hear this.” A truer phrase I have never uttered.
“It just happened.”
“Earthquakes just happen. Tornadoes just happen. Your tongue does not just happen to fall into some other girl’s mouth!” Not to mention certain other body parts that I was not going to think about.
Josh bit his lip. “I’m sorry,” he said for the gazillionth time.
I should have backed away then, licked my wounds, let my pride begin the slow process of recovery. Instead, I asked, “Why?” Because, clearly, I am some sort of masochist.
“Why am I sorry?”
“Why did you sleep with the president of the Chastity Club?!”
He took a deep breath. “Okay, you wanna know the truth?”
“No, I’d prefer to continue hearing the lies fall out of your mouth.”
He sighed, then looked down at the floor. “Look, you and I have been dating for six months, Hartley. Six months. Face it, you were never gonna give it up.”
Oh, he did not just say that.
I don’t know what I’d hoped to hear. Maybe that Courtney was prettier than me, smarter than me, better at crossword puzzles.
But what it came down to was that the chastity queen put out and I didn’t.
“Seriously? That’s your reason? You cheated on me with Courtney Cline—Courtney Cline of all people!—because I wouldn’t sleep with you?”
“I respect that you’re a virgin,” Josh said, “but, Hartley, come on.”
“Come on? Come on?! That’s the best you can do?” My entire relationship with my first true love had come down to two little words.
“I’m sorry.”
I felt hot tears backing up behind my eyes but refused to give him the satisfaction of shedding even one.
“You are such a jerk.”
“It didn’t mean anything.”
“It meant something to me.”
“Hartley—”
He reached out a hand toward me.
“Don’t you dare touch me. You do not get to touch me. Just go.”
He opened his mouth to speak but must have thought better of it.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. Then he turned and slipped out the window the way he’d come.
I had the fleeting idea to run out front and tell Detective Raley just where he could find Josh DuPont. I had the feeling I’d find immense satisfaction in seeing him haul my ex-boyfriend away in handcuffs. I might even help them beat a confession out of him.
But the truth was, even through my anger, I knew Josh hadn’t killed Courtney. He was a weasel of the lowest order. Which just served to solidify my theory that he didn’t have the guts to kill Courtney.
So who did?
ELEVEN
I SPENT THE REST OF THE NIGHT ALTERNATING BETWEEN crying, punching my pillows in lieu of Josh’s face, and whining to Sam on the phone. Good friend that she was, not only did she let me keep her up way too late, she ditched the censoring thing long enough to call him a string of names that would have made a sailor blush.
“Thanks, I needed that,” I told her.
“No prob.” She paused. “So, you’re totally through with him, right?”
I nodded at the phone. Then said, “I didn’t call him quite as creative names as you just did, but, yeah, I am. Totally over him.”
I’m proud to say I actually finished that sentence before bursting into tears. Luckily, Sam had unlimited minutes and didn’t mind hearing me blubber incoherently about just how over Josh I was late into the night.
I awoke the next morning groggy, puffy eyed, and generally feeling like I’d been hit by a truck. A big one. That had backed up, hit me again, then shown me a video of my boyfriend doing a perky brunette.
I brushed my teeth twice, trying to get the bad taste of Josh’s confession out of my mouth, washed my face with an apricot scrub that left my skin raw and tingly, then tied my hair back into a no-nonsense ponytail, ready to face the day.
As an eff-you to my crappy mood I put on a pair of skinny jeans, some sparkly silver flats, and a loose T-shirt with silver sequins all over. I capped it off with pair of silver earrings, hoping the dangling hoops would distract from my red-rimmed eyes. Then I added a layer of mascara and eyeliner just to be sure.
I grabbed my book bag and managed to slip out the front door before Mom could shove a bowl of oatmeal with agave syrup at me, instead walking the two blocks over to the nearest Starbucks and ordering a venti latte. Double shot.
By the time I walked the rest of the way to school, I was caffeinated, renewed, and ready to start my day.
Unfortunately, the first person I saw was Mary Bessie, grief counselor extraordinaire.
“Hartley!”
“Hi, Ms. Bessie.”
“Mary. How are you, Hartley?”
“Fine.” I loved that word. It covered all manner of sins. No matter the situation, one could always feign fineness.
“You look like you’ve been crying,” she said, doing her patented head tilt as she scrutinized my eyes.
So much for CoverGirl.
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Very.”
“I’m here if you want to talk about how you’re feeling right now. You know, tears are emotion in motion.”
I did a mental eye roll. “I’m late for English.”
“The warning bell hasn’t even rung yet.”
She stood in the doorway to her office, her head still tilted, annoying sympathy oozing from her polyester-clad frame.
I managed to make it through lit and the next two periods without incident. Today, the sidelong glances from my peers were fewer and farther between, the chatter continuing as I passed instead of immediately ceasing with a hissed, “It’s her!” It had been two whole days since Courtney had been found dead. An eternity. I thanked God for the short attention span that had been electronically bred into my generation. At this rate, by the end of the week no one would remember Courtney at all, let alone the poor clueless chick whose boyfriend had effed her, allegedly killed her, and left her for said chick to find.
In fact, by fourth period, I’d almost forgotten it myself.
It wasn’t until lunch that I was ripped away from my BFF, denial, again.
“Hey, Hart.”
I looked up from my locker to find Chase bearing down on me. He was doing the black-on-denim thing again, his hair looking slightly more spiky than usual, as if he’d spent the morning running his hands through it. In frustration, if the concerned line of his eyebrows was any indication.
“I need to talk to you,” he said.
“So talk,” I said, shoving my chem book into my bag.
He looked past me at the crowded hallway, then lowered his voice. “An anonymous tip came in to the paper. About Courtney.”
I raised one eyebrow. “Anonymous tip? That seems a little melodramatic, doesn’t it?”
“If you like that, you’ll love this. It’s from someone who referred to himself as ‘Deep Blogger.’ He says he saw who killed Courtney Cline.”
“Really?” I asked, skepticism lacing my voice.
“Really.”
“So who killed her?” I asked.
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
“Of course he didn’t.”
“He said he’d only tell you.”
“Me?!”
“Shhhh!”
I lowered my voice. “Why me?”
Chase shrugged. “I guess he saw your TV interview.”
“Fine. Give him my email addy.”
But Chase shook his head. “He said he couldn’t risk sending that sort of information via email. He wants to meet with you in person.”
Deadly Cool Page 9
